No Mercy Part 38

I waved off his show of pity. "But because I'm Wyatt Gunderson's daughter, people trust me, and expect I can solve their problems. I don't want that trust. You should want it. This"-I gestured to the scant s.p.a.ce separating us-"is just making it worse."

"Worse? How could it be worse? No one trusts me, least of all you. And I'm sick of you thinking I'm inept and I don't give a s.h.i.+t about three dead kids. I am not an insult to the office that your father held for so many years."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but me defending myself isn't what this is about, is it?"

No. "Just leave me alone. Why do you even care what the h.e.l.l I think?"

Dawson locked his soulful eyes to mine. "I care because I saw the strongest woman I know lose it tonight. You're on the edge, Mercy, and I'm part of the reason you're there."

I looked away. d.a.m.n him. The flashes of lighting bounced strobelike around us and made me woozy. I swayed to the ground.

But Dawson followed me. We were on our knees, in the mud, rain pelting us, thunder cras.h.i.+ng around us.

"Hey." He attempted to move my tangled hair from my eyes.

I knocked his hand away. "Take a hint, Dawson. Go."

"No. Why won't you trust me?"

"Give me one reason why I should."

"Because your dad did. And on some gut level you do, too."

He'd said the one thing that guaranteed my emotional reaction. Grief punched me hard and knocked the fight right out of me.

Dawson softened his hold. Evidently he'd made his point.

Tempting, to curl in a ball and weep for everything I'd lost in the last two months, including my dignity. Naturally, I wouldn't give into such a female reaction, especially not in public. I clenched my teeth against the gathering tears, but my protective s.h.i.+elds were worthless.

He hauled me to my feet. "You're in no shape to drive."

"No kidding."

"Where are your keys?"

"I gave them to Muskrat."

"Good. Let me take you home."

I didn't argue. He clasped my hand in his and directed me to his truck.

Silence filled the humid cab. Winds.h.i.+eld wipers slapped ineffectually against the pouring rain. Even with the heater cranked full blast I couldn't keep the bone-rattling chills at bay. Resting my forehead on my knees, I concentrated on breathing.

The truck stopped. My body seized up. Dawson didn't ask; he just picked me up and carried me inside my house.

Two times in less than a week I'd let him treat me like a baby. It'd make my humiliation complete if I started bawling like one.

The house was dark. I shook so hard Dawson almost dropped me going up the stairs. In the bathroom, he sat me on the toilet, shut the door, and flipped on the shower. Steam filled the small s.p.a.ce.

Dawson fell to his knees in front of me, leaving gloppy mud splotches on the fluffy pink bathroom rug. When my fingers wouldn't cooperate, he said, "I'll help you get undressed." He unhooked the b.u.t.tons on my blouse. "Then I'll put you in the shower to warm you up."

The cadence of his voice soothed me, even when my body twitched like he'd zapped me with an electric cattle prod whenever his callused fingers connected with my bare skin.

My soaked boots came off next. Then sodden socks. He made me stand and reached around to undo my bra, slowly dragging the satin straps down my shaking arms. Dawson's eyes never left my face. He popped the b.u.t.tons on my 501s, s.h.i.+mmying the tight, wet jeans and my underwear to the floor. One-handed, he pulled aside the shower curtain and helped me over the steep tub ledge.

The hot water hit my chilled skin and I sighed. "You can go now."

"Huh-uh. I'm not leaving until I know you aren't gonna pa.s.s out and smack your head into the soap dish."

"Suit yourself," I muttered under the spray. When the shakes were under control, I shampooed. As I rinsed, vertigo seized me, I stumbled into the wall.

Dawson wrenched back the shower curtain. "I knew it. You shouldn't be-"

His gaze didn't make it to my face for the longest time.

I noticed he'd taken off his wet s.h.i.+rt and boots. Everything inside me went haywire, seeing him half naked. Without thinking, I trailed my soapy fingers across his smooth, muscled chest. He was so warm. So solid. So . . . here.

He sucked in a harsh breath. "Don't. Unless that was an invitation."

"And if it was?"

Dawson studied me. The muscle in his jaw snapped like chewing gum. "You gonna blame this invite on booze?"

"No."

"You gonna blame this invite on anger, self-pity, or combat stress?"

"No."

"Do you suddenly trust me?"

I thought about it for a minute. "Not really."

He stared. Then that d.a.m.nably appealing cowboy grin appeared, slow, s.e.xy, and hot as sin. "Two out of three works for me." Dawson stripped off his jeans and climbed in.

His mouth and hands were on me before he'd jerked the shower curtain closed.

"Wait," I said, breaking my lips free from his. I hooked my index finger next to my gums to remove the tobacco pouch from my mouth, tossing it toward the sink.

Dawson frowned at it. "Were you chewing?"

"Yeah."

"I quit last year."

"Good for you." My arms circled his neck, and I plastered myself against his slick body.

"G.o.d, I miss that sweet minty taste." He traced my lips with the tip of his tongue. "Give me a taste of what I've been missing, Mercy," he said, and crushed his mouth to mine.

He kissed me until I felt I was drowning. In him. In the shower spray. In my own confusion. But for once I didn't fight the deluge; I just let it carry me away.

EIGHTEEN.

I woke the next morning with a freight train roaring in my ear and pinned beneath a railcar. I squirmed. The snoring stopped. A rough hand dragged up and down my naked back in a sweetly intimate wake-up call.

"How's your head?" he murmured.

I mumbled and hoped he'd take the hint and let me sleep.

Dawson rolled me on my back, gently pus.h.i.+ng away my snarled hair. He stared at me until I worried that warts had popped up on my face overnight. Or was he in shock by how bad I looked in the morning? I hadn't been a fresh-faced, dewy-eyed ingenue for years. "What?"

"You let me stay."

"I wasn't exactly in any position to throw you out."

His left eyebrow winged up. "Complaining about the positions we tried last night?"

My body burned hot as a branding iron remembering the s.e.xual heat and the intensity and the synchronicity between us. "No. Good thing I practice yoga, huh?"

"Very good thing." A shy smile tilted the corners of his mouth, then spread across his rugged face. Not necessarily a movie-star-handsome mug, but well worn. Interesting. A little tough, a little tender.

I smiled back.

"Although I am an old man and I'll probably be feeling it all day."

"Doesn't seem like you'll need to raid Mr. Pawlowski's stash of v.i.a.g.r.a anytime soon."

"Hey, that was almost a compliment, Gunderson."

"It was a compliment, Dawson." I traced the boxy shape of his jawline with my fingertips.

He turned his cheek into my hand and kissed my palm. "Are you gonna throw me out now?"

"I should. But how about if I make breakfast first."

When Dawson headed to the bathroom, I escaped to the kitchen.

Cooking is not my forte. Food might help settle my stomach, although I couldn't blame the way my insides jumped solely on too much liquid fun from the previous night.

While the coffee brewed, I tossed a half stick of b.u.t.ter and frozen hash browns in the cast iron frying pan, microwaved a package of bacon, and scrambled a half-dozen eggs.

I'd never mastered morning-after chitchat. s.e.x has never been a big thing for me, maybe because I'd gotten used to the feast or famine cycle of it. Been a dry spell lately.

The stairs creaked; my heart rate spiked. Christ. I'd had Sunnis shooting at me and I hadn't reacted this skittishly.

Dawson poured himself a cup of coffee. "Want a reheat?"

"Sure." I slid my mug across the counter and flipped the hash browns.

"If I were a gentleman I'd say you didn't have to go to all this trouble, but d.a.m.n, it smells too good to lie."

The grandfather clock chimed seven times. "You proved you aren't a gentleman a couple of times last night."

"Mercy-"

"b.u.t.ter the toast, Dawson. Everything else is almost done."

He mumbled and grabbed the b.u.t.ter dish.

Once we sat down, I couldn't help but watch him devour every morsel. Been a long time since I'd seen a man enjoy a meal with such... gusto. I s.h.i.+vered discreetly, recalling being on the receiving end of such single-minded concentration in another room of the house.

When we finished the meal, I poured more coffee.

He said, "Wanna talk about it?"

"About what? Last night?"

"Yes, but not the slamming, jamming s.e.x. About before. Why you were getting drunk and picking fights at the bar." Dawson held up a hand. "This is not an official interview. I'm asking as your friend."

"Oh. So we're friends now?"

He grinned. "Friends with naked benefits. Who p.i.s.sed you off last night?"

"Geneva."

His smile morphed into a frown. "Haven't you been pals with her since you were both little cowgirls?"

"Yeah. Makes me wonder how long she's been holding off on telling me how she really felt about me."

"What'd she say?"

"That I'm a spoiled jet-setting 'hobby rancher.' It was time for me to grow up and become a responsible member of society. But if I sell my ranch, I'll ruin her life... oh, and the lives of every single person in Eagle River County. A little contradictory, doncha think?" I sighed. "And Kit was sniffing around the other day basically saying the same thing."

"He wants you to sell to him, naturally."

"Naturally."

Dawson's gaze sharpened. "He threaten you?"

"No more than he did the last time."