Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(78)

She threw the blanket back and sat up. “I have to get Violet ready for school.”

“Violet’s ready,” her sister said, plopping down on the cushion next to her. She was in a light green dress, pigtails with coordinating bows, and cute white flats—which couldn’t have taken a fairy tour of the yard this morning. She looked showered, school ready, and adorable.

“Did you get dressed by yourself?”

“Dad helped me pick out the dress and stuff,” she said, swinging her legs. “But I showered myself. And washed my hair.”

“I can tell.” Her hair was crunchy from the residual shampoo.

“Violet and I had a long talk the other day and decided that girls who were old enough to go win ribbons and go to Disneyland were old enough to dress appropriately for school and use their real name.” He handed Emerson a steaming mug of coffee. “Breakfast is on the table, toast and eggs, nothing fancy but it’s edible. Violet, go grab your lunch so we can head out.”

Violet kissed Emerson on the cheek, then hopped down, her flats slapping the wood floors as she ran.

Emerson looked at Roger, who was looking smart and business ready in his loafers, slacks, button-up shirt, and . . . Emerson rubbed her eyes. “What happened to your hair?”

“Mary at the Prune and Clip cleaned it up a bit and a lady at the winery said I look like George Clooney.” He beamed and Emerson felt her chest squeeze.

“You look good, Dad,” she said quietly.

“Ah, like George Clooney,” he corrected, grabbing his laptop bag off the chair and car keys off the wall hook. “I get off early today so I can pick up Violet.” Who was magically waiting by the front door—lunch and school bag in hand. “We’ll be home early to help with the prep work. Oh, and the guy at the auto body shop called while you were asleep. The truck will be done this afternoon. I told him we’d pick it up by four, then I figured maybe the three of us could get some root beer floats on the way home.”

Emerson’s throat tightened at the memory of the last time they’d had floats. “That sounds fun, but you don’t have to do all this.”

Roger leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “Yeah, kiddo, I do. And I want to. You’ve been taking care of us for so long, let us take care of you this time.”

“But I’m . . .” She trailed off before she could say fine. It had been four days since Dax left and she was so far from fine she didn’t even know what direction to move in. Other than one that led her to the backup tray of baklava her dad had helped her make last night.

“Fine. I know you are,” he said, setting his bag on the floor. “But your mom always said that it was our job to make it magical.” He sat next to her, his expression sad yet hopeful. “Let me make it magical for you, Fairy Bug.”

“Okay,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder, desperately wanting to be that same little girl who believed in magic and fairies and happily ever after. Her dad pulled her in tight and gave her the kind of hug that made her feel safe, loved, and gave her hope that maybe there was still some magic left out there for her.

“Love you, kiddo,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “To the moon and back.”

“And every star in between.”



“You’ve got one shot. You can either sit there all day, staring a hole through that scope, knowing the target isn’t going to get any clearer, and waiting for the sun to set. Which really makes things difficult.” Dax looked at Gomer through the binoculars. The kid was twenty feet up, wedged into the side of a cliff, and contemplating if he had the shot. Same position he’d been in over an hour ago. “Or you can take the shot.”

“Yes, sir,” Gomer’s voice came through the headset.

“Was that a ‘yes, I’ll take the shot, sir’? Or you’re still thinking about it?”

“If he doesn’t take the shot, I’ll shoot him,” Jonah said. He sat next to Dax in the bunker at the county shooting range, sipping on his coffee. The rest of the team had been tested and cleared, passing the long-range field exercise with ease.

All except Gomer, who was still on the ledge, waiting for the wind to blow his direction. Hitting an orange-sized target at five hundred yards was impressive, but Dax knew that Gomer had the chops. FNG issues aside, the kid had something—and Dax needed him to figure that out.

“And I only get one shot, sir?” Gomer asked.

Dax closed his eyes. “How many bullets were you given?”

“Two.”

“Good, so if you were given two and missed the first shot, how many remain?”

“One shot,” Gomer said.

“And now that we all know how to subtract, take the shot, and soon, or I am going to grab a beer and you’ll have to walk home. Understood, Deputy?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dax set the headset down and looked at Jonah, who was looking back all kinds of amused. “The kid just psyched himself out. He didn’t think the first shot through, rushed it, then scrambled around to find a better angle and now he’s hesitating.”

Jonah leaned back in his chair. “Is that what you’re doing? You rushed the first shot and now you’re hesitating?”

“I already cleared the entire field.” And he’d done it in record time. Six bullets, six targets, in under six seconds. Jonah’s little army of deputies had practically pissed themselves.