Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter
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the home he shared with Brock. Unfortunately, the thousand-square-foot log cabin in the heart of five wooded acres offered no solace. Nor did the winding creek that split the property into two sections. My half, your half, Brock often joked.
The wealth of pecan, hickory and oak trees surrounding the property offered a private, tranquil escape from the rest of the world, yet Jude only felt turmoil.
Granted, he only ever felt turmoil, period. Especially at the Scratching Post. Or anywhere Ryanne Wade happened to be.
She hadn’t dated a man in two and a half years.
The timing wasn’t lost on Jude, and it threw him for a loop. We waited for...each other?
No. Absolutely not.
Why did she want him? He’d done nothing to lead her on.
Idiot! Of course he had. Constantly he watched her. He stared at her lips, riveted, when she spoke. He sought her out, and cock-blocked anyone who flirted with her.
Damn her. The woman had tied him into knots, and he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Soon he would break.
Wrong. He’d already broken. That kiss...
To his utter shock, he hadn’t felt a shred of guilt—until the kiss had ended. Now he knew Ryanne’s sweet taste. The feel of her silken skin, and the little mewling sounds she made when pleasured. How was he supposed to resist her?
Easy. If he couldn’t resist the owner of a bar, he wasn’t a man deserving of Constance’s love.
The bartender who’d served his family’s killer hadn’t been charged for serving an obviously drunk man or for allowing that man to drive away. And really, Frat Boy hadn’t received much of a punishment, either. His ten-year split sentence—five years behind bars, five years on probation—was a joke. Soon the murdering asshole would be out on the streets, ready to murder another family.
How was that okay? The most ridiculous crimes sometimes came with a severe life sentence, but kill a mother and two young girls and you’d only have to push the pause button on your life for five too-short years.
Cursing, Jude slammed his fist into the steering wheel again and again. As his knuckles bled and throbbed, his cell phone buzzed, signaling a text had come in.
If Ryanne had messaged him, expecting to talk about what had happened, he would—what? Say something terrible he could never take back.
Angry, uncertain—hopeful?—he checked the screen. The anger and hope drained as the name Carrie Jones flashed. Constance’s mother.
I found a baby book Coni made for the girls, and I think you should have it. When I saw the pictures inside, well, I laughed through my tears, and I think you will, too. Please, Jude, tell me where you’re living so I can send you the book.
With another curse, he tossed the phone on the floorboard and smashed his fists into his burning eyes. After the car wreck, he’d packed up everything he and Constance owned and shipped the boxes to her parents. When he moved to Strawberry Valley, he’d left his own belongings behind to be sold or tossed, and hadn’t told anyone back home. Too raw to handle anyone else’s grief, he’d simply cut all ties.
Through it all, his love for the Joneses had never faded. He’d never known his biological dad, and his mother had washed her hands of him as soon as he could take care of himself, just as she’d done with his sister and three older brothers, each of whom had moved out or run away by Jude’s thirteenth birthday. Russ and Carrie had welcomed him into their family with open arms and, through example, taught him how to be a good father to his own children.
He’d wanted to be a better parent to his girls than his mother had been to him. And unlike his dad, Jude had planned to be there any time his babies needed him. A monster under the bed? Dad to the rescue. Got a hankering to give a makeover—lipstick, hair bows, nail polish, the works? Dad’s your man, or model. Can’t reach the cookie jar on the kitchen counter? Dad will lift you up so you can pretend to fly.
But in the end, Jude hadn’t been a better parent than his own. He hadn’t been there for the girls when they’d needed him most. No, he’d been in bed, recovering from the bomb blast that had taken his leg.
Not your fault, so many had said. But it had been his fault—he had made the decision to join the army. He had fought to join the Ten against Constance’s wishes. He had wallowed in self-pity, refusing to work harder to leave the hospital sooner.
He was so ashamed. And he was ashamed of his desertion of the Joneses. The past few months, Carrie had contacted him at least once a week. Her grief had eased, he supposed, and she’d found the strength to go through her only daughter’s things, and probably assumed he had the strength, too.
Maybe he should fly to Texas...where his relationship with Constance had begun. Where memories lurked in every corner. He shuddered.
Can’t leave Ryanne. Not with Dushku nearby.
But Jude could reach out.
He swiped up his phone, sent his new address to Carrie and ended with, I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. Thank you for thinking of me.
Send.
What he would do with the baby book when it arrived, he wasn’t sure.
After a moment’s hesitation, he sent a second message. How are you guys?
Her response came quickly. We’re good. As good as can be expected, anyway. We miss you like crazy. We lost Coni and the girls, and feel as if we lost you, too. Come visit us soon?
Rather than reject her offer outright, he opted for radio silence. At least for now.
Next he called a surgeon he’d met while serving, a guy who was now a urologic surgeon for civilians. The first available appointment was a month away—though Jude suspected the good doctor wanted to put him off, thinking time would change his mind. He asked to be notified if an appointment opened up sooner.
When he looked up, he found Brock lazing in a hammock, shaded by a portico they’d built together. His friend appeared relaxed, completely at ease, but Jude knew better, knew the chaos and pain trapped inside his head. Most nights the guy woke up soaked in sweat and screaming. Sometimes he broke down and cried. Other times he hopped on the treadmill and ran until his knees gave out. Jude understood.
During their years of service, they’d killed a lot of men and lost a lot of friends. That kind of loss did things to a man—ruined his ability to live a “normal” life, leaving stain after stain on his soul.
Jude exited the car and closed the distance, his stride long and strong despite the pain in his knee.
“Dude.” Brock rocked back and forth. On every inward swing, Jude saw the fatigue etched into his face. “You look like you could use a good cuddle. What put your panties in such a twist?”
“Everything.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Nothing.”
With his chin, Brock motioned to the cuts on Jude’s knuckles. “In other words, Ryanne Wade. Go on.”
Jackass. “She’s only part of the problem.” He reached over and tipped the hammock, dumping his friend on the wood planks beneath. A heavy thud shook the entire porch.
Sputtering, Brock jumped to his feet. Once steady, he barked out a laugh. “You suck, my man. Big-time.”
“I know. Sadly it’s one of my better qualities.” He pressed a shoulder against a post and crossed his arms. “What are you doing here, anyway?” The guy spent every night with a new woman.
Brock shifted from one booted foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “Today is career day at Scottie’s school, and she asked me to dazzle her class with my occupation. What am I supposed to say when the only thing I did was kill people? I’ve only got an hour to come up with something true but also appropriate for innocent ears.”
“Talk about the