Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(113)

Resting her forehead on her bent knees, she cried—for Woodman’s loss and for not being able to give him what he wanted; for his sweetness, which she would miss forever; for his friendship, which she would die grieving. She cried all the tears that hadn’t fallen for three long months, and then she cried some more—tears of guilt, of regret, of loss, and of sorrow, all the while wondering how she would ever feel whole again now that he was gone.

She heard the front door open and felt Cain’s boots vibrate across the hardwood floor before she heard his voice bark, “Ginger?” with so much growly urgency, it made her gasp.

Cain. Her shoulder slumped with relief to hear his voice.

“Here,” she said, raising her head and swiping the back of her hand across her weeping eyes and runny nose. “I’m over here on the stairs.”

In a second he was standing before her, his helmet clutched in his fist, his coveralls covered in grease, with matching smudges on his face. He squatted down and placed his helmet on the floor by her feet.

“How you doin’, princess?”

She tried to take a deep breath, but it was ragged and sobby. “Not good.”

“Let me take you home,” he said, offering her his hand.

She took it without thinking, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the rough, warm skin closed around her cold fingers.

“Stay with me,” she whispered.

She wasn’t looking at his face, so she couldn’t see his expression, only hear the coarse gravel of his voice when he said, “I won’t leave till you’re feelin’ stronger.”

“I hope you have nowhere to be for a while,” she said, opening her burning eyes.

“You underestimate yourself, Gin. Worst step of all was facin’ it. You did that tonight.”

Her face crumpled, and she threaded her fingers through his, clasping them. “You were right. He deserved so much b-better than me, Cain. So much better. So much more.”

With his free hand, Cain cupped her cheek, forcing her eyes to meet his. “I had no right to make that comment. Only you and Woodman know what you had together. All I know is that you made him happy. Really, really happy, Gin. You, well, dreamin’ of you made Woodman who he was—made him strong and good. He wanted to be the best-possible version of himself for you. I know that. You should know it too.”

His words only made her shoulders shake harder as more tears poured from her eyes, and she felt Cain’s hands slip under her arms and pull her up. For a moment he seemed to debate what to do, holding her limp body against his chest before sweeping her into his arms. He walked over the threshold of the little house that had held her future with Woodman, and into a dark and lonely world that felt bearable only with Cain’s arms around her.

“Where’s your car?” he asked close to her ear.

“At Gran’s,” she said, burrowing her forehead into Cain’s neck.

He jerked in a quick breath, as she would if she’d burned herself. “I’ve only got my bike. Can you hold on to me for the ride home?”

I’m so tired. So very tired.

“Yes,” she managed as he set her down on her feet beside the bike, a gentle hand on her shoulder to be sure she was steady.

“I’ll be right back.”

She watched as he ran back inside and returned a second later with his helmet, turning off the light in Woodman’s living room and closing the front door. He strode down the walkway to her, carefully to shut the white gate behind him. Then he placed the helmet on her head, buckled it under her chin, and helped her straddle the bike before swinging his leg over the saddle and turning the key.

“Hold on to me, Gin. Don’t f*ckin’ let go.”

As if he didn’t quite trust her, he covered her small, cold hands with his, then zoomed off into the night toward McHuid’s.

***

When they got to her cottage, he didn’t bother helping her off the bike. He pulled her back into his arms and carried her inside the unlocked house, through the kitchen, down a dark hallway, and up the stairs to the bedroom he’d visited only once, the night he’d found her with Woodman. Once there, he placed her gently on the bed, where she sat listlessly as he pulled her coat off one arm at a time. Underneath she was wearing jeans and a soft fleece top, which seemed as comfortable as anything.

“Lie down, baby.”

As though on autopilot, she twisted her body and leaned back against the pillows, with her feet still on the floor. Cain leaned down, untied and unlaced her boots, pulled them from her feet, and lifted her legs onto the bed.

And as he worked, she stared up at the ceiling, sniffling and weeping, almost in her own world of pain and sorrow, and it just about killed him that he couldn’t take the anguish away and carry it for her.

He’d felt the dead weight of her body when he picked her up off the stairs at Woodman’s house, and the only comparison he could think of was the way a marathon runner feels when she reaches the finish line and falls into the arms of someone waiting for her. Her body was exhausted in that same way—completely spent, boneless, and limp—as though she’d run and run and run for weeks on end, only to fall into his arms in exhaustion tonight, when she had reached the end of her own emotional marathon.

Cain grieved her pain. He wished he could take the ache away from her, take it for her, but he couldn’t. The very stark difference between them was that Cain had gotten a chance to say good-bye to his cousin and a mission by which to serve him after his death. Further, Cain had not only been given permission to love Ginger but encouragement. Cain loved his cousin, and he would mourn him for the rest of his life, but Cain had peace.