Blackstone Ranger Guardian: Blackstone Rangers Book 5 Page 9

  “It’s because of me,” he said adamantly. “I broke her. And she hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you,” Daniel said. “And neither does her fox.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “Besides, even if she did, it’s not the worst thing,” Gabriel added. “Hate isn’t the opposite of love, you know. It’s indifference.”

  “She’s just mad and hurt,” Anders pointed out. “And it’s understandable. Rejection is hard to get over.”

  “I didn’t reject her … well, I did at first. Fuck, why didn’t I see it?” He gnashed his teeth together. That day he told her to go. No, he didn’t just do that. He left her on the side of the mountain. “You’re right.” But where to begin?

  “You guys must have talked some, right?” Anders said. “Even a little.”

  “Yeah.” Of course they did. Every single thing Dutchy said in that short span of time was burned into his mind. How could he forget?

  “Also, sometimes it’s not about what a woman says or does.” Gabriel said. “It’s about what she doesn’t say.”

  “What—” Gabriel’s words gave him an idea. Actually, everything they all said was beginning to make sense now. It was time he fully got to know who Dutchy was, and from there, figure out how he was going to heal her.

  Breaking and entering into her home was probably not the best way to get to know Dutchy, but he would do anything to get her back. Damon knew where it was as Dutchy had designed Anna Victoria’s gown, and he’d picked her up there once. So, before Krieger went back to his cabin, he decided to stop by for a visit.

  The small, single-story home was located just at the edge of town. It looked ordinary enough, painted blue and white with a small lawn outside that sadly had seen better days. He crept around to the backyard and approached the back door. Jiggling it experimentally, he applied his shifter strength and broke the handle, then pulled it open.

  The first thing that hit him was the powerful stench of garbage. Jesus. Well, it had been two weeks since she was home, so her trash was probably just sitting inside, rotting in the bin. Still, the pile of dishes in the sink, boxes of takeout containers on the table, and growing stack of mail on the counter looked like they had been weeks old.

  Striding out of the kitchen, he walked down the narrow hallway. The first door he passed by was ajar, so he peeked inside. From the scent in the air, he knew it was her bedroom, and he stepped inside.

  The queen-sized bed was unmade, and clothes were left in a pile in the corner, but it wasn’t in as bad a state as the kitchen. Before leaving, he reached for the silk robe hanging from a hook behind the door and pressed it to his nose. Dutchy. Her scent had long faded from his uniform shirt and his sheets, but he would sometimes imagine it was still there, only the memory of it burned in his mind.

  Forcing himself to leave her most private den, he continued his exploration of her house, glad to see that at least the living room looked in order. It was homey, not overly feminine, but comfortable and lived-in, for sure. One wall held a shelf of books. Half were big glossy coffee table books about fashion and photography, but the rest were novels. He pulled one out, noting the well-worn spine, and raised a brow at the cover featuring a man clad in nothing but a kilt, well-built chest bared, holding a woman whose breasts threatened to spill out of her top. He put it back and did a cursory scan of the other spines noting the titles and author names. All romance novels, a fact he filed away in his brain before turning to inspect the rest of the room.

  There were various photos and knickknacks on the wall. Pictures of her with friends. Parties. Weddings. But the one of her wearing a graduation cap and a red robe, her arms around an older woman, caught his eye. The woman looked so much like Dutchy that he concluded it was probably her mother.

  He was about to turn back when he saw another door on the other side of the living room, so he approached it. It was closed, but not locked, so he pushed it open.

  Stepping inside, he deduced this was her work space. Two sewing machines were pushed against one of the windows. Several bolts of fabric were propped up against the corner while three torso mannequins stood like soldiers along one wall. Two were completely bare, a pool of fabric at the foot, as if they had been hastily torn off. The last mannequin’s dress was barely clinging on with one of its shoulders ripped down. Pinned up on the wall behind it was what looked like an illustration of the same dress. Or half of an illustration anyway. It was torn, ripped down the middle. Taking the corner hanging down, he pushed it up, the jagged edges meeting perfectly to form a whole picture.

  Krieger wasn’t a fashion expert by any means, but his breath caught at the beauty of the work—the colors, the masterful strokes of the pen, and the sheer talent it took to transform pen and ink into something real. The gown on the mannequin looked like dragonfly wings layered across the torso, the gorgeous blue and green iridescent fabric like gossamer, fanning out into a full skirt. It didn’t really hit him until now how talented his mate was and how humble she had been. To say she only designed gowns was like saying Michelangelo only painted ceilings.

  Walking past the mannequins, he padded over to the large wooden desk next to a drafting table. There was a lamp and a laptop computer, and a magazine that was left open on a spread with a beautiful woman wearing a stunning bronze and gold gown as she stood atop a grand staircase. “Royal Wedding of the Century” the headline proclaimed. But he didn’t bother reading the article, because what caught his eye was the photo inset at the bottom right. It was of Dutchy, wearing a pale blue gown, on the arm of a handsome, dark-haired man in a black doublet and kilt. The caption underneath read, Gown designer and bridesmaid Duchess Forrester with groomsman Ian MacGregor, Duke of Rothschilde.

  He wanted to tear that page out and shred it to a million pieces with his claws. His bear agreed, but he reined it in. This magazine was obviously important to Dutchy, and though he hated seeing her next to another male, he had to remind himself it was only a photo.

  Closing the magazine, he turned to her drafting table, but nearly tripped over the several dozen colored pencils, markers, and brushes scattered across the floor, as if someone had tipped over a container full of them and forgot to clean up. On top of the table was a large ring bound sketchbook. Unable to stop himself, he flipped the top open.

  The front page was clean, as was the one after it. Strange, as the torn pieces still stuck on the ring indicated this wasn’t a new sketchbook. As he shuffled closer to inspect the table, he kicked at something. Bending down, he picked up a balled-up piece of paper. And another. Inspecting the underside of her table, he found several more, made from the same heavy-duty stock as the sketchbook.

  He gathered about a dozen of them, finding more underneath her oak desk and unfolded each one, frowning as he saw what was on them. Half-finished sketches. Some just had naked figures. Others were wavy lines and colored pencil strokes. His eyes darted back to the empty sketchbook, noting the layer of dust he didn’t notice before on the drafting table and the art supplies.

  When she had told him that she couldn’t work and couldn’t see color, it had been an abstract idea. But now, seeing her gowns across the room and the pages of scrawls, unfinished sketches, and empty pages, it struck him like lightning. He was seeing her devolve. This was what she meant when she said she couldn’t work or see color.

  This was how broken she was.

  He balled up one of the pages and grit his teeth. Her work, her talent—he couldn’t let it disappear. But surely, it didn’t just evaporate into thin air. No, this ability was innate in Dutchy, carefully cultivated with years of hard work, even before they met. She had it in her, he knew it. He wasn’t just going to stand by and let her brilliance be extinguished, not because of a mistake he’d made.

  Her world was turning drab, gray, and lifeless? Well then, it was up to him to show her the colors again.

  Chapter Ten

  “Anything else I can get you?” J.D. McNamara asked as she sat down on
the sectional sofa in Angela’s living room.

  “I’m fine,” Dutchy said, scratching at her cast. “Thanks for coming over again. Sorry to bother you.”

  J.D., Anna Victoria, and her other friends had been taking turns coming over every morning to help her clean up, dress, and prepare her some food for the day until Angela arrived after work.

  “Dutch—”

  “I know you’re busy at work,” she interrupted. J.D.’s phone hadn’t stopped ringing since she arrived, and from the snippets of conversation she heard, it sounded like they were in the weeds back in her garage.

  “One of my guys has gone AWOL,” she said, a frown marring her pretty face. “No one’s seen the old birdbrain in days. But … that’s nothing you need to concern yourself about. I can handle it. And I told you, it’s no bother, Dutch.” The blonde mechanic plopped herself down across from her. “We promised we’d take good care of you. You scared us, you know.”

  Her gaze dropped down to her lap. “I don’t know if I deserve that, after how I’ve been acting the last few months. Flaking out on plans. Ignoring calls and messages. Not to mention, I almost ruined Anna Victoria’s wedding—”

  “Stop it.” J.D. held a hand up. “You didn’t ruin anything. The wedding pushed through; you were just a little late.”

  Actually, she had been a few hours late. She was supposed to be at J.D.’s place at nine the morning of the wedding to deliver the wedding dress, but she’d slept through her alarm. When she woke up at eleven, she had a ton of missed calls from J.D., Anna Victoria, and her other friends. She raced to get to them on time, but she hadn’t finished making the adjustments she was supposed to do since the last fitting, so it took another couple of hours for her to hand sew everything.

  “How are you feeling?” J.D. asked.

  “Okay, I guess.” It was the same answer she gave every time anyone asked her. Her body was healing, but at a glacially slow pace. Her arm and shoulder felt stiff, her ribs still stung when she overexerted herself, and doing something as simple as going to the bathroom left her exhausted. At least the stitches had come out. The puckered scar on her torso was a reminder of her weakness and her current state. Why? she asked her vixen. Why are you doing this? But no matter how many times she asked, it wouldn’t answer her.

  “No, no, no.” Tendrils of messy blonde hair escaped from under the trucker hat as J.D. shook her head vehemently. “I mean, how are you feeling? And don’t give me these bullshit answers, Dutch. I know something’s wrong.”

  Her head snapped up to meet luminous light hazel eyes. Being a shifter, J.D. could read her and her fox and could probably sense there was something not quite right.

  The loud and boisterous tomboy hadn’t been one of her original friends when she moved to Blackstone, but the two of them had been roped into many a girls’ night with Sybil, Kate, Amelia, and the rest of their close-knit family. Being the only two single girls, they had gravitated toward each other, especially when everyone became busy with their lives.

  “I just—” A knock on the door saved her from having to evade the question or outright lie to her friend.

  J.D. blew a breath out. “I’ll go see who that is.”

  “Thanks,” she said, relief pouring through her. Her ribs were starting to hurt again, so she leaned back and closed her eyes. Her hearing could pick up the sounds of J.D. opening the door, talking to someone, and then shutting the door.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Delivery.” J.D. held up a small box wrapped in brown paper. “You expecting something?”

  “No.”

  J.D. set the package on her lap gently. “Is there a card?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be one.” Curious, she tore away the packaging, then opened the box and peered inside. Huh?

  “What is it?”

  She took out the object from within—a glass snow globe, the size of a grapefruit. Holding it up, she waited for the white flakes to settle, revealing a small log cabin nestled between pine trees covered in snow. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “A snow globe?” J.D. wrinkled her nose. “Who is it from?”

  She knew who it was from, of course. But why send this?

  “It’s from him, right?” the mechanic said smugly. “I can tell from the look on your face. It’s true then? That guy … is your mate?”

  Not like she could lie now. “How did you guess?”

  “It’s obvious. At least, Anna Victoria said so. The way he wouldn’t leave you while you were recovering from surgery. Even when you woke up and threw him out, he hung around the hospital every day. When Anna Victoria and I came to visit, he would ask us how you were doing.”

  “And you told him?”

  “No, no. Not like that. He just wanted to make sure you were okay. What happened?” J.D. continued. “With you and Krieger?”

  Her fox hissed at the mention of the name, and her gaze dropped back to the snow globe. What was this about? He was obviously trying to remind her of their short time together. A little flare of heat sparked in her core at the reminder of those two nights they spent wrapped up in each other’s arms. The feel of him on top of her. His hard body and—

  “You all right, Dutch?” J.D. peered at her curiously.

  “Um. Yeah.” She shoved the snow globe back in the box. “I’m fine.” But what was Krieger up to?

  The following day, another package arrived, this time in the form of a food delivery—toast, and bacon and eggs from the local diner. Like the breakfast he made. The meal itself hadn’t been memorable, but what they’d done on that table after sure was.

  In the next few days, more gifts came to her aunt’s doorstep. He sent her a basket of bath bombs, salts, and candles. She smiled, thinking about how she had told him she loved long baths. Then a teddy bear wearing a Blackstone Rangers uniform shirt, similar to his uniform that she wore around the cabin.

  The gifts didn’t stop with just her, either. No, Krieger sent flowers to both her aunts. And Rosie said he stopped by to eat at the pie shop, devouring an entire pie by himself—cherry with extra whipped cream.

  It had been so long ago … how did he remember such details in their brief time together? What was he trying to say?

  A few more packages and food deliveries came in the following week. Takeout from her favorite Chinese place. Pizza from Giorgio’s, the local Italian restaurant. Greek food from a new restaurant on Main Street. Thai food from the food court in South Blackstone. She and Angela didn’t have to cook for the next two weeks as lunches and dinners would just magically show up on their doorstep.

  Then one day, the strangest gift of all arrived—a box of romance novels, delivered by Isla, who introduced herself as the owner of the local bookshop that had just opened up on Main Street. She couldn’t stop from smiling when the bespectacled young woman told her that a huge scary man came in asking for all her latest romance titles, except anything where the man on the cover wears a kilt.

  What are you up to, Krieger?

  And more important, where was he?

  It had been over three weeks since she’d seen him outside the hospital. Her vixen did not like her train of thought. In fact, it didn’t like any of the gifts. But Dutchy couldn’t stop the butterflies in her stomach from fluttering or her heart hammering in anticipation as she waited and wondered what the day’s gift would be.

  So, when the doorbell rang the next afternoon, she raced to the front door—well, walked briskly anyway, as even though she was feeling better, her arm and shoulder were still sore.

  She yanked the door open, expecting a deliveryman on the other side. However, her heart slammed into her rib cage as she stared up at the man himself.

  From the look on his face, he wasn’t expecting to see her up close either. “I—” He took a few steps back from the door. “Is this okay?”

  For a moment, she was distracted by his presence and aura. The dark T-shirt he wore stretched over his powerful shoulders, molding to them like they’d been painted
on. “Huh?

  “Am I far away enough?”

  “Oh.” He was still concerned about her fox hurting her. “Yes, it’s fine.” Funny enough, though her animal seethed at the sight of him, his presence didn’t trigger any violent reactions. “Um, thank you for the gifts.”

  “You got them all?”

  “Yeah.” She bit her lip as she shuffled her feet. “I don’t get it though.” Slowly, she lifted her head to meet his gaze. Her heart ached, wishing she could see that indescribable blue of his eyes again. “Why?”

  He paused. “I told you why.”

  I’m going to fix you. I’m going to fix us.

  Those words haunted her every day, lurking in the back of her mind. Yet, she didn’t know how the gifts fit in except to remind her of what they’d shared in the past. Her fox yipped in protest, reminding her that that’s all it was—things that happened in the past. He left you on the side of that mountain. Tossed you aside like you meant nothing and now—

  “Will you come with me?”

  “What?”

  He jerked his thumb behind him toward a pickup truck sitting in the driveway. “I’d like to take you out.”

  “Out?”

  “For a drive, that’s all,” he said. “You must be bored, being cooped up inside. But only if your animal isn’t hurting you.”

  His concern for her and her animal caught her off guard. The vixen too, paused in its protest. “No. I mean it’s not … so, yes.” Oh God, did she really say yes? I should tell him no.

  “Really?” An elated, boyish expression briefly crossed his face, and she realized she couldn’t take it back now. “Thank you.”

  “Let me get my purse and coat.” Turning on her heel, she headed to the living room and typed out a brief text message to Angela, explaining that she was going out with a friend, but not specifying who. This whole bizarre turn of events was hard to explain, even to herself. But anticipation thrummed in her veins as she headed back to the door. Maybe it was just the excitement of actually being able to leave the house. “Okay, I’m ready.”