Chapter 43

Every instinct told him to run, to get as far away from the pain as fast as possible. But he'd given his word, had made a promise, and he'd keep it. Though it wouldn't be right under her nose on the ranch, Nate would protect Olivia just the same. Pain be damned.

On his Hog, he tore down the road, heading for town with two goals to accomplish by day's endto find a way to stay in Meadowlark and to make sure he'd never be in a position to hurt Olivia again.

He'd barely made it out of the Cattenach Ranch gate and his chest pinched from missing her. And he'd better get used to it. Not that he ever would. Christ, he never should've touched her, never should've let her try to...heal him. His own misery was something he'd grown familiar with eons ago, but this particular level went beyond that to an amplified version of hell.

The look on her face, the hurt in her voice, the way she'd tried to justify...

No. No, no, no.

Pulling off the main road a few minutes later, he parked in front of the white brick police station and dismounted. Mission one.

He opened the exterior door to the stench of burnt coffee and Lysol. The semi-spacious room had brown and white checkered linoleum, yellow walls stained with what he hoped was time, and four empty desks in a square facing each other. Off to the right was a hallway. Next to it, a counter with a coffeemaker circa turn-of-the-century. To the left was an office.

He went that way and stopped in the doorway. Pictures of family andbears?hung on the walls. Behind an enormous desk teetering with manila folders was a window facing east, the blinds closed.

Rip glanced up from behind a pile of folders, his Fu Manchu twitching. "Look what the cat dragged in. What can I do you for, son?"

Nate crossed his arms and leaned on the jamb. "Did you check my references?"

"Yep."

"Is the job still open?"

"Yep."

He nodded. "I'll take it."

Rip paused. "Good. You can start on Monday."

Nate didn't think there was anything more frightening than finding Olivia face-down in a creek, but Rip's grin might do it. His slightly crooked yellow teeth flashed for a fraction of a second longer than was comfortable, then disappeared behind a frown.

The sheriff stood. "Come on. I'll show you around."

He took Nate down the hall, showing him two cells and a closet, then pointed to a door, claiming that it led to a basement for storage. Next to it was a flight of stairs to a second floor. Rip jerked his chin at the bathroom on the way back to main reception.

"That'll be it." He adjusted his brown hat that matched his uniform. "The board up there's got the schedule rotation and anything Casper County sends us. We can hold arrests overnight for booking, but no longer. Shifts are twelve hours, four days a week. Three men on at night, three during the day, including me. Be here at seven a.m. Monday morning. We'll get you registered with a badge and weapon." He gave Nate a once-over. "And uniform. Anything else?"

Easy enough. "Know of a place where I can crash for a while?" Mission two.

Rip frowned. "Thought you were staying with Olivia." When Nate said nothing, Rip's brows rose. "Gotcha. Whelp, no motels in town. However," he jerked a thumb at the ceiling, "there's an apartment upstairs. Can't even walk up there it's so cluttered. Years of files. If you're willing to haul it all to the basement, it's yours."

Done and done. "Mind if I get started?"

"Have at it. Coffee's over there." Rip lumbered back into his office.

Grateful to have something to do to keep his mind off a certain redhead, Nate went outside, pulled his Harley around the back, and brought his bag inside. He climbed the stairs next to the basement door to the second floor andstepped into a clusterfuck. A flick of the wall switch had florescent lights humming and confirming said clusterfuck.

What looked like a twelve-by-twelve studio apartment was covered floor to rafters with boxes. Hundreds of them. Hoarders weren't even this talented.

Easing around one stack, he wormed his way to the center of the room. Kitchenette to the left, bed and dresser to the right, and a bathroom straight ahead. Blocking it was a red plaid couch.

Heaving a sigh, he dropped his bag and grabbed the box closest to the doorway, then carried it to an area of the basement that appeared unused. And repeated the mind-numbing task until dark descended and his back complained. At least he'd made a path to the bed.

Deciding to call it, he mounted the stairs for the last time and came face-to-face with Nakos. Perfect. Just...perfect.

He eyed the foreman's flannel, jeans, and cowboy hat. "Hi."

"Nice digs. You might have more room in one of the holding cells." Nakos held up a six pack. "Want one?"

"Hell yes." Nate issued the foreman inside and removed the crates covering the couch. "I can't promise this is clean."

Nakos shrugged and plopped down, anyway. A plume of dust rose around him.

Nate accepted a beer and sat with a cushion between them, laying his head back. The material smelled like moth balls. "If you're going to kick my ass, you don't need to get me drunk. I'll let you win without putting up a fight."

In response, Nakos studied him out of the corner of his eye and took a sip from his bottle. "Haven't heard your side yet."

"Olivia's is the only side that matters."

Up went Nakos's brows. "What kind of friend would that make me if I didn't hear you out?"

Nate did a double-take.

"What? We're not friends? You wound my delicate sensibilities." Another sip of beer. "Do you need a hug to prove it? You won't get one."

Unsure what to think, Nate glanced away. Sighed. "I repeat, Olivia's is the only side that matters."

"Interesting you should say that. Wouldn't that make her right?"

Nate bit his tongue, but curiosity got the better of him. "Right about what, exactly?" He was worried sick about herwondering if she was handling the truth okay or not, if she was still crying in the way that ripped his very soul from his body...

"She refused to get specific, but she insists you think you did something unforgivable." Nakos picked at the label on his bottle. "Did you?"

"Yes." No. Hell, he didn't know anymore.

Retelling what went down in Iraq had triggered some facts he'd forgotten. Like how Nate had instructed Justin not to go inside the structure alone. And part of Justin's sputtered, pain-filled last declaration that forever played in a loop in Nate's mind.

"Shit, it hurts, Nate. I'm so...cold. Take care of my sister. Promise me you'll...take care of...Olivia."

He heard it in his sleep. While awake. Randomly and all the time.

Except, when he'd hashed out the specifics to Olivia, he'd remembered something else.

"Notyour fault. Go, Nate. She'lltake care ofyou, too."

It was the last thing the sweet bastard had said. His dying thoughts had been to absolve Nate. To send him straight into the arms of the person Justin loved most.

Whether Nate had chosen to ignore the statement until now or whether the pain from his injuries had rendered his ears mute at the time, he didn't know. But watching the life drain out of his friend had been ten times more agonizing than the shrapnel embedded in his leg. It rippled through him, even almost a year later.

"She's crawling out of her skin." Nakos looked from the bottle to Nate. "She scoured the town, the ranch, everywhere looking for you. She assumed you went back to Chicago and was ready to hop a plane until Rip finally told her you were okay. Wouldn't say where you were, though." He sighed, gaze roaming over Nate. "I thought she was two feet in the madhouse, but you're not faring any better, are you?"

Shit. She wasn't supposed to be trying to find him. Thinking about him at all, in fact. She should be pissed off and glad to be rid of him. He'd lied to her. Had hurt her in unimaginable ways. Right?

Doubt reared in his head. Whatever. Regardless of fault, Nate still should've had Justin's back. Paid better attention. And Olivia should hate him for failing.

Thing was, Justin and Olivia were too close to him. At every pass, they had Nate second-guessing his share of blame. Nakos, however, had always played it straight and told Nate exactly what was on his mind. What Nate really needed was guidance from an unbiased outside party.

"Let me tell you a story." He took a long pull of beer for courage, and then laid it on the foreman. All of it, leaving out no details or sugarcoating the particulars.

Born to a junkie four weeks premature. The abandonment. How no one had wanted to adopt a crack baby. Foster care. The sometimes neglect and random beatings. The gang. Juvie. The Army and meeting Justin. AndNate's role in his friend's death.

For almost an hour, they sat on the foul-smelling couch. Nakos listened, not once interrupting. Nate's throat and chest were raw as he relived it all. And when he was done, he slumped on the cushion and closed his eyes.

Exhaustion and confusion gripped him, but he felt suddenly...lighter.

"No wonder." Nakos, eyes sober and mouth downcast in sympathetic understanding, looked at Nate. "It's no wonder your walls have walls and you're reluctant to accept anything resembling kindness. Honestly, before I knew you better, I just figured it was PTSD or that you were a bonafide asshole."

He turned on the sofa to face Nate. "I can't pretend to comprehend what you've been through. I have two loving parents and Mae, not to mention Olivia and Amy. I never had to question whether they gave a damn."

"I don't want your pity."

"Good. You won't get it. Pity is for those who are too dumb to rise above the past." The foreman's eyes narrowed. "You do have my sympathy. What you had to deal with was wrong. Flat out, wrong. But if what you said about Iraq is true, I'm not getting how you were at fault. You want to blame someone, blame the people who made the bomb in the first place, the very ones who used a little kid to get their fanatical point across."

Nakos rubbed his neck, his olive skin growing ashen as if disgusted. "Having said that, I did know Justin very well, and if he were here right now to see how you were beating yourself up, it would kill him a second time."