Captured(28)

Off limits, Derek, I tell myself. Off limits.





*





REAGAN





He’s off limits, stupid woman, I berate myself. You can’t think about him like that.

He’d shut the door to the bathroom before getting in the shower, but he didn’t realize that the door has a tendency to come unlatched and swing open a few inches. I only meant to put the clothes on the bed and leave again, but I was arrested by the glimpse of him I got through the partly open door. The shower curtain is clear plastic, hiding nothing, meant only to stop the water from spattering on the floor. For one brief moment, I got a look at all of him. He was facing me; eyes closed, head back, running his hands over his head to rinse off the shampoo. I couldn’t swallow past the lump lodged in my throat, couldn’t think and couldn’t look away.

Derek West is gorgeous. I can admit that much. The weight he lost and is slowly regaining only serves to heighten the angular beauty of his features. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a man.

Four years, I think. The last time I saw a naked man was the night before Tom shipped out for what would be his final tour. Since then, it’s been just me, Tommy, and Hank and Ida. I waited for Tom, and then waited for news, for official word. And then when I got it, I mourned. Long, and deeply. I grieved for my dead husband. Keeping the farm going, staying out of debt, keeping food on the table and my son cared for takes everything I have, takes every spare moment of my life, and then some. Other men never even crossed my mind.

And then Derek West shows up, and shakes my whole world.

His help is so gratefully appreciated; I’ve been running this farm by myself for a long, long time. I drive the tractor, bale the hay, plow the rows, plant, harvest, weed, spray. Fix fences and feed the horses, keep their hooves trimmed, and worm them and ride them—not as often as I’d like, but every once in a while—as well as mow the little patch of grass behind the house.

I’m a strong, capable, independent woman. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want and appreciate the help of a man.

I blush as I precede Derek to the pickup, trying my best and failing to erase the image of his naked body from my mind.

Derek is a lot of man.

Again I shake myself, forcing those thoughts from my mind. Think of my shopping list. Eggs. Bread. Milk. Juice. Cinnamon. Vanilla extract. Bacon. Sausage. Ground beef. Fresh veggies. Pasta.

It doesn’t help. He’s in the passenger seat, smelling clean. I steal a glance. The skin around the back of his neck is still beaded with moisture. His hair is darker when it’s wet, long enough now to curl at the edges. It sweeps across his forehead, blown by the wind coming in through the open window.

His left hand rests on his thigh, on the dark-wash jeans. Those were Tom’s favorite pair. They’re just clothes, I tell myself. I glance at Derek’s hand, at the crooked ring finger. “What happened to your finger?” I ask, by way of conversation.

Okay, so that’s a shitty opening gambit.

Derek tenses, and I know I’ve asked a bad question. “It was…broken. A couple of times.”

I twist at the leather of the steering wheel. “Shit, Derek. I’m sorry.” I can tell by his reaction that it’s something that was done to him, something he doesn’t want to talk about.

He shrugs. “You couldn’t know.” He laughs sardonically. “Talking to me is kind of like walking though a minefield. You never know which step will cause an explosion.”

“And I seem to have a knack for missteps, I guess.”

“Not your fault. There are a lot of land mines, I guess.” He is silent a moment, curling and straightening that finger. “It won’t close all the way. They broke it, and then every couple days, they’d break it again. Keep me in pain, I guess. Never really knew why — they never wanted any information from me. Not that I really had any to give. They did it just to do it, I guess. They kept it broken for…I don’t know. I lost the ability to track time after a while. A couple of weeks, probably. Eventually they lost interest in the game and left the finger alone. But it was so f*cked up I had to re-break it myself and try to set it. Of course, I didn’t have a splint or anything, so it didn’t set right.”

I cover my mouth with my hand. “God, Derek. That’s…that’s horrible.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t fun.”

I trace the crooked path of his knuckles with my index finger. “Does it still bother you?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, sometimes. The usual broken-bone stuff. Aches when it rains, that kind of thing.”

I shouldn’t have looked at his hand, shouldn’t have touched him. Now that I’m looking, I see other scars. Shiny burn scars, smooth to the touch in contrast to his strong, weathered hands. Some are round, some oblong and misshapen. Something tells me they’re not accidental burns. I glance at him, see that he’s watching me touch his various scars. I withdraw my hand; turn my attention back to the road.

“Those weren’t accidental, were they?” I can’t help asking.

“Nope.” He clams up after that, and I’m not about to ask any more questions. A few minutes of silence, and then: “You know, you’ve done an incredible job, keeping that massive f*cking farm going on your own.”

I attempt a half-hearted smile. “Thanks. It’s been hard — I’m not gonna lie.” It feels good to say that out loud.