Had he?
In truth, she couldn’t be sure. Her gray matter was mush, unable to hold on to thoughts much less measure time.
Maybe it’s my colleagues.
Weren’t they supposed to be headed to the Carlsons? Hadn’t Hunter said as much? She blinked and tried to recall the conversation they’d had after Sam’s last call and couldn’t grab on to more than bits and pieces.
Then she saw a single headlight coming down the long drive and her heart leapt so high she was surprised it didn’t lift her out of the doorway.
Hunter!
She didn’t realize tears were pouring down her cheeks until she saw them plop onto the wooden porch slats in front of her. The drops had mixed with the blood on her cheeks to turn a strange pinkish hue.
She tried to push to a stand, but her legs refused to cooperate. Instead, she simply pasted on the biggest grin she could muster as Hunter—big, beautiful, brave Hunter—came to a stop in the drive. He cut Canteen Green’s growling engine, toed out his kickstand, and swung his leg over the bike’s leather seat.
Even in her cloudy state, she noted how the front fender was bent up at an odd angle and how the sparkling green paint along the side was scratched down to the primer. It was clear there’d been a wreck. But, thankfully, it hadn’t been bad enough to keep him from walking away from it.
Her relief was so intense, she felt dizzy.
Or maybe that’s the head wound.
“Hunter…” His name was a whispered prayer as she watched him walk up the front porch steps.
No. Not walk.Limp.Was there something wrong with his leg? And where was all that blood on his arm coming from? Had he been shot?
She thought maybe she remembered—
“Grace.” He was down on one knee in front of her, his big, warm hand gently cupping her cheek.
He had the best face. So serious. So concerned. So very dear to her.
She lifted a hand to cuphisdusty cheek, loving the scratchy feel of his beard against her palm.
We must look the pair. Both dirty and bloody and the worse for wear.
“You came back.” She hadn’t realized there’d been a sob perched at the back of her throat until it erupted out of her mouth.
Ithurtto cry. Made the steel spike in her head twist. But she couldn’t stop the tears any more than she could stop loving the man kneeling in front of her.
“Of course I came back. Did you doubt it?”
She didn’t want to admit it, but the Russian had terrified her. He’d attained nearly godlike status in her imagination.
Instead of answering, she asked, “Is it done?”
“Orpheus is dead.” The words were full of meaning and menace.
The hand that cupped his cheek shook with the enormity of the relief that crashed over her. “Thank the lord. No.” She shook her head when she realized her mistake. “No. Thankyou, Hunter.”
Words of appreciation seemed so trite compared to what he’d actually done. To the danger he’d been in because of her. To the risks he’d taken to put an end to the nightmare that’d become her life. And so she did the only thing she could to show him how grateful she was.
She pulled him into a hug.
Another sob burst from her tight throat when he didn’t hesitate to wrap his big, warm arms around her. And even in her muddled state she realized holding him felt like more than a show of gratitude or an act of comfort.
It felt like coming home.
Which brought to mind something her father had said once when she’d caught him staring at her mother as if June Beacham was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her mother hadn’t been wearing makeup or a flattering dress. She’d been in a pair of paint-splattered overalls, and a big wicker sunhat had been plopped atop her head as she dug in the flowerbed with a trowel.
