Forgiven (21 page)

Beck sagged against the couch. ‘Thanks. I’ll call ya both in the mornin’ if I need anything.’

Riley and the doctor traded looks.

‘Nice try,’ Riley said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Ya don’t need –’ Seconds later Beck needed the big bowl, his body quaking violently. Once he’d stopped heaving, he leaned back. ‘OK, y’all win,’ he said weakly. ‘Ya can stay.’

‘That was too easy,’ Carmela replied. Drawing Riley aside, she explained: ‘Every two hours I need you to do neurological checks. These will determine if something’s going wrong inside his skull. If the test results change, or he gets drowsy or you think something’s not right, get him to the hospital immediately, then call me.’

‘OK . . .’ The doctor gave her the instructions, but they were so involved she had to take notes on a grocery receipt she found on the table.

‘You got all that?’ Carmela asked. ‘If not, we’ll woman-handle him into my car and take him to ER.’

‘I got this.’

The doc knelt next to Beck. ‘No pain pills until I’m sure you don’t have a concussion. It’s going to be a rough night, for both of you. I’ll be back in the morning unless I get a call before then.’

‘Thanks,’ Beck said.

‘You owe me a beer when you’re better. And Thai food.’ The doctor paused. ‘This is the second injury this week, Den. You’re pushing too hard. Back off and give yourself time to heal.’ She rose. ‘And next time, don’t take a civilian on a trapping run. That was damned dumb, no matter what National says.’

Having delivered her broadside, Carmela sailed out of the door, medical bag in hand, off to treat the next casualty.

Civilian?
Trappers didn’t take regular folks on the runs. It was too dangerous. Who would want to be where they could get clawed up or eaten? Who would be that crazy . . .

A reporter.
Maybe like the one Backwoods Boy was dating.

Now it all made sense: Justine had been on the run. Beck was naturally protective of women; it was hardwired into him. He was that way with Riley and he’d be doubly so with someone he was hooking up with. Something had gone wrong and he’d been the one to get hurt.

Riley knelt next to Beck to ask the question, then changed her mind. He was in too much pain.

If this is the stick chick’s fault, she is so dead.

To keep herself out of ranting mode, she hurried to the restroom with the bowl and dumped it into the toilet, wrinkling her nose at the smell. After rinsing it out, she wet a facecloth with cold water: it’d feel good on his forehead.

As she wrung out the cloth, her hands shook.
He could have died tonight.
Simi had warned her – maybe she didn’t have that much time to make things right with Beck.

She replaced the bowl at his feet, then began to clean the blood off his face with gentle strokes.

Beck roused. ‘Is the doc gone?’

‘Yes.’
Unless you go really bad on me, which you better not do, mister.

‘I need ya to do somethin’.’ There was a long pause and then he sighed. ‘Lock the door.’

That was a weird request, but she did as he asked.

‘Ya can’t tell anyone about this,’ he said. ‘It won’t look right.’

‘Got that. What can I do for you?’ she asked, her exasperation rising.

‘In the small bedroom. Ya’ll know what I mean.’

As she moved down the hallway, Riley chose the first door she came to, hoping it was the right one. She cautiously pushed it open, then felt around for a light switch, unsure of what she’d find. Who knew with a guy like Beck? The light came on, illuminating a big poster on the far wall. A beautiful blonde woman, totally clothed, beamed a wholesome smile in Riley’s direction. It was Taylor Swift, Beck’s favourite country western singer.

‘You’re such a fanboy,’ Riley said, shaking her head. She half expected a shrine underneath the poster, but instead there was a desk with a laptop computer, a chequebook and a stack of what looked like bills. As she studied the space, movement in the corner of the room caught her notice. She stared, the sight taking a few seconds to register.

Something small and furry sat inside a huge cage on the floor, something that was really cute.

‘Oh, wow!’ Riley said, breaking out in a wide smile. She knelt in front of a rabbit cage so big it could have housed at least three bunnies. The metal alone would have been way expensive, and the resident even had a special floor mat.

Beck has a rabbit?
Riley would have expected a dog, a poisonous snake or maybe a tarantula to go with his tough-guy image, not something fluffy and adorable.

It was a small bunny, maybe all of two pounds, with gorgeous fawn-coloured fur and expressive dark eyes. The critter studied her, nose twitching.

‘You want to come out?’

The bunny executed an energetic bounce, which Riley took as a
yes
. She bent over the enclosure and removed the occupant as carefully as possible. When she was a kid, she’d played with the one at school, though its teeth and claws had always scared her. Not now. Not after tangling with a Three.

When she returned to the living room, she found Beck sitting up, the icepack on the back of his neck. He looked a bit better, which gave her hope that maybe nothing was going wrong in that brain of his.

After she set the rabbit on the couch, it promptly hopped over and settled next to him like it knew exactly what he wanted. Beck scratched it, then looked up at her, eyes wary.

‘Don’t start,’ he warned.

‘What?’ she said, grinning. ‘I’m sure all the big, bad trappers have a bun-bun in their house.’

His cheeks spotted crimson. ‘She’s not mine, not really.’

‘Then why is she here?’

He sighed. ‘I was hookin’ up with this girl . . . and she was movin’ away and she asked me to turn Rennie loose in one of the parks.’ He sucked in a deep breath. ‘I thought that wouldn’t be right because somethin’ would eat her so I . . . never got around to it.’

In Beck’s world, the longer the explanation the more he was embarrassed.

‘Ya can’t tell any of the trappers,’ he said, genuinely worried now. ‘None of them.’

That was the truth: the others would give him tons of grief over this little bundle of cuddly fur. Wouldn’t be
guy
enough for them.

‘Did the hunters see her?’

‘No. She was at the neighbour’s that mornin’. Mrs Merton watches over her sometimes.’

That’s why he was so hot to get home last night.
He was worried about his rabbit.

‘Did Dad know?’ Beck slowly nodded, a tremendous effort given his injury. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep it our secret,’ she said.

He sagged in relief. This really did mean a lot to him.

‘Why name her Rennie?’

‘It’s Renwick,’ he said. ‘I shortened it.’

Renwick? Now there’s a name.
‘Why keep a bunny?’

‘She’s real quiet and doesn’t nag at me. I like that.’

Riley took the hint and stopped asking questions. The rabbit was still sitting next to Beck, absolutely content as he petted it. His eyes drifted closed and for the moment her patient seemed at peace, despite what had to be a raging headache.

Even Superman had his kryptonite.

*

Later, after she’d fed his furry companion and played with her, she tucked Rennie back into her cage. Beck gave her a long list of detailed instructions to make sure the rabbit was comfortable, including running a line of Holy Water around the floor and dabbing some on the cage wires in case they got a visit from a hungry demon. Clearly he adored the critter.

Backwoods Boy had surprised her.
Again.

As Riley rose from the cage, something caught her notice on the desk: a box of text-to-speech software.
Oops.
She was supposed to ask Peter about that but she’d forgotten. Somehow Beck had found it on his own. Curious, Riley jiggled the mouse and an article from the local newspaper came up on the computer screen. He’d been reading along as the voice spoke the words.

If he kept this up, he’d be able to read anything he wanted.

‘You’re amazing,’ Riley whispered. Not that she was going to tell him that or anything.

Beck objected to her help, but needed it to make it to his bed. More griping as she unlaced his boots and helped him out of his shirt. He’d made her turn round as he stripped off his blue jeans.

‘I’m not going to faint at the sight of your butt,’ she said.

‘Ya might, and I don’t want that on my conscience,’ he said, tossing the jeans aside.

He was in the bed when she turned round. She’d seen him without a shirt before, but this time he seemed different. His arms were muscled and his chest well defined, evidence of a regular weight-lifting regime. He had the classic six-pack abs, now visible just above the bedcovers. Beck might drink beer, but it certainly didn’t show.

‘That’s one wicked bruise,’ she said, pointing at his left shoulder.

‘It’ll heal.’

After a fresh icepack on his forehead, he was good to go.

Once Beck was settled, she headed towards the front of the house and dialled Stewart’s number to deliver an update.

‘How’s he doin’?’ the master asked.

Riley gave him a rundown, minus the rabbit.

‘He’s got the hardest head I’ve ever seen,’ was the reply. ‘Do ya need any help watchin’ over the lad?’

‘Ah, no. It’ll be OK.’ Riley ran a bluff. ‘What was Justine doing on the run?’

Stewart didn’t miss a beat. ‘The red-haired vixen wheedled the National Guild into allowin’ her ta be embedded with a trappin’ team. Harper and I had no choice in the matter. She insisted on joinin’ up with Beck and Jackson tonight.’

Riley’s hunch had been right. ‘How’d he get hurt?’ she asked, pacing from wall to wall in the front room in agitation.

‘Jackson said the reporter snapped a photo and the camera’s flash made the Three go mad. It charged towards her and Beck got in the way.’

Of course he did.
‘Is the stick chick still alive?’ Riley asked.

‘Aye. And unharmed.’

‘Then why isn’t she here watching over Beck? She got him hurt. It’s her responsibility to help him out. No, let me guess, Justine’s too busy filing her nails.’

‘Lord, lass, that’s a load of jealousy I’m hearin’.’

‘Yeah, it is,’ she said as her insides boiled with righteous anger. ‘He’s hurting bad and she’s nowhere to be seen. That sucks.’

‘I agree. Yer there instead of her because Beck refused to allow the woman in his house. Said he’d only let Paul’s daughter take care of him.’

Riley stumbled in mid-pace. ‘You’re just saying that.’

‘Ya wouldn’t be callin’ me a liar, now would ya?’

Oh crap. Not good.
‘Ah, no. Sorry.’

‘I swear, the pair of ya are gonna be the death of me yet,’ Stewart grumbled. ‘Like two pissed-off cats in a barrel clawin’ at each other.’

‘I’ll watch over him, don’t worry.’

‘Good. That’s what I wanted ta hear. Call if ya need me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Riley ended the call, wondering what had come over her. Calling a Grand Master a liar was a dumb move, even on her worst day. She tapped the phone against her cheek. Beck had specifically asked for her, not Justine or anyone else. He’d told the woman he was hooking up with that he didn’t want her to care for him,
or
be in his house. Was he that mad at the reporter for screwing things up? Or was it something else?

When Riley returned to the bedroom, her patient seemed to be sleeping, but it wasn’t deep and restful. She took up her post in the chair near the bed, caught by how roles had reversed. Usually it was him watching over her after she’d done some blazingly stupid stunt.

For a time she monitored every breath, in and out. When Beck paused for a moment, she panicked, then he issued a light snore and resumed his natural rhythm.

What if he got really bad when she was asleep and she didn’t know it? Then when she went to wake him he’d have gone into a deep coma . . .

Will you quit already?
She was psyching herself out.
Just keep an eye on him. It’ll be OK.

In an effort to remain awake, Riley checked out his bedroom by the light from the hallway. It was a guy room. Navy blue comforter, curtains and sheets, like he’d bought one of those bed-in-a-bag kits. It suited him – tidy in a manly sort of way. No fuss needed.

Like Beck.

Not wanting to drift off to sleep, she snagged up the book laying on the night stand. Unable to read it in the dim room, she moved into the hallway, curious about what Beck was reading. It was a kid’s book and the back cover said it was a story about a wolf cub named Runt who really wanted to prove himself to his father. The choice of the reading material was telling: Beck had tried to prove himself to Riley’s father ever since he’d returned from the army. Now he was doing the same with Stewart.

Inside the book was a paper, a vocabulary list written in her dad’s sprawling handwriting. After every word was its pronunciation and what it meant.