CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Amber~
As soon as the noise of gunfire reached them, Lance dragged her away from the window and down to the floor. He covered her with his body.
“Lie still.” His voice was hard, cold, and pitched only for her ears.
She lay perfectly still beneath him listening. His breathing was even and mysteriously, while her pulse had kicked up, his had slowed. He was motionless and intent.
There were two more blasts and then silence. After a long wait, Lance pushed down on her head to signal she should keep it on the floor, rolled off her, and crawled to the front door on elbows and knees. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.
He pulled himself erect against the wall and turned out the overhead light. The room dimmed, but of course she had excellent night vision. She could see his hand turning the doorknob and opening the door a crack. He was now holding her rifle, ready to fire.
Steve Holden’s voice barked. “Get inside.”
Lance slammed the door, dropped to the floor and crept back to her, still gripping the rifle. “I think Holden has backup,” he said. “But we better stay low until we get an all clear.”
Outside a female voice spoke to Steve. The words were clear. At least they were to her with every sense on high alert. “They shot someone,” she whispered to Lance.
“Sounds like it.”
Holden was giving orders. Probably into his phone. The woman spoke again. Mentioned another casualty.
“Think they shot Blondie?” she asked.
“You made someone else mad?”
“I didn’t make him mad. He was born that way.”
“True enough.” Lance sounded amused. “But I think the bad guys got Calvin.”
“Calvin?”
“He’s the only weekend soldier around here.”
“If he’s hurt, that’s not in the least bit funny!”
“Always funny when someone is goosed.” Contemptuous, masculine amusement thickened his drawl.
“All’s clear,” announced Steve. He rapped on the cabin door. “Stay inside. But you can turn the lights back on.”
Amber got to her feet and assessed her bruises. Lance had not been gentle about getting her down. “Don’t you make fun of me,” she told Lance. “Or Calvin.” Now that her terror had passed she felt twitchy and irritable.
Lance flicked the light switch. She watched him straighten his clothes and tuck his shirt back into his jeans. In seconds he looked respectable again. She was pretty sure she looked like she had been brawling.
“Are we having our first fight?” he asked.
They were. Lance remained standing four-square and alert. Protective, despite the all clear. His easy breathing and calm demeanor annoyed the hell out of her.
“I’m angry enough to bite,” she said. “But I don’t think it’s your fault that Calvin got shot.”
“It’s the adrenaline,” he told her.
“Don’t patronize me!”
“When you’ve had a fright, your body makes a ton of hormones to get you through the crisis. Mostly so you can run or fight or lift heavy objects without attending to normal bodily functions. Just lying on the floor doesn’t use them up. That’s why you get cranky and mean.” His voice was as calm as his posture.
“How come you’re not bothered?” she demanded. Because he wasn’t.
He shrugged. “You don’t last long in Recon if you get in a flap when battle commences.”
“You were in Recon?” Awe temporarily lessened her wrath.
“Four years. And I save my reactions for my dreams.”
“Oh.” She looked around. “Is that why I don’t feel tired anymore? Or sleepy? I want to go climb a tree or something.”
“It’s one of the side effects. If we were in my kitchen, I’d offer you some of my special sleeping medicine.”
“I don’t like to take drugs.” Drugs had unpredictable effects on shifter physiology.
“Bourbon.”
“Oh. I have a jug of applejack that Uncle Pierre gave me. For medicinal purposes.”
“Applejack?”
“Apple brandy.”
“Does your uncle make it himself, by any chance?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always assumed so. It comes in a stoneware jar without a label. I’d guess it’s homemade.”
“And you took it across state lines?”
“Yup.”
He grinned. “Transporting moonshine is a crime. We better drink the evidence.”
She found the applejack under the sink and looked for her two smallest glasses, poured them each half a finger with hands that shook.
“Here, let me help.” His hands were steady as he hefted the heavy jug. He chuckled. “You don’t drink, and you have a half-gallon jug of hooch? Your Uncle Pierre must think you are liable to get sick unto death.” He held up the buff-colored jug to the light and admired the faint blue marks around the belly. “They make the jugs too?”
“Yeah. Are you making fun of my family?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He raised his glass. “To the health of the Duprés, young and old.”
She sipped her applejack. It was fiery and burned on the way down, and then her whole mouth filled with the delicious fragrance of apples. “Uncle Pierre isn’t a Dupré, he’s a Benoit.”
“Like your Willie?”
“He was Willie’s uncle too. Or maybe a fifth cousin or something.” She sipped again. The alcohol was settling her rattled nerves. “On the Ridge, everyone is related to everyone else – one way or another.”
“This is good.” He rolled it around in his mouth like he was savoring a fine wine. She had seen Patrick do that. “Smooth. Mellow. He must age it in whiskey barrels.”
“I don’t know. Making applejack isn’t something that’s discussed around females. And this is only my second taste ever.”
“Hmm.” He took another appreciative sip. “Well, it’s better than good. This wasn’t anyone’s first rodeo.” He cocked his head. “Listen.”
“Sheriff’s department. And EMS,” Amber confirmed. Her cell pinged. “I have a text from Steve. The cops have Blondie and Dog in custody. The scene is still taped off.”
“Yeah? I can probably go home in a bit, if I stick to the roads.”
“Stay.”
“That’s the applejack talking,” he said. “Or your fright.”
“Maybe. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to die without making love to you even once.”
He took her into his arms and rocked her against his chest. His heart beat slowly and reassuringly. “That’s the best offer I’ve had in years,” he crooned. “Maybe ever. But I don’t want to take advantage of your fright.” He kissed her forehead.
She was suddenly certain. “Stay.” She put her face up for his kiss.
He stiffened. “I’m not the man I used to be, Amber.” Her ears picked up on something anxious in his drawl.
“What do you mean?”
“You know that tat I told you about?”
“The bear with a rose in her mouth?”
“Not much left except her head.”
“Oh, Lance.” She spread her hands across his chest. “You must have been badly injured.”
He snorted. “You could say that.” He held her hands still. “My wife left me because she couldn’t stand to look at me.”
“If you’re shy, we can turn out the lights.” No need to tell him she could see perfectly well without them.
“You’re very sweet.” He kissed her properly this time.
His mouth took hers in one of those languorous, delicious kisses she was learning to appreciate. She always felt when Lance kissed her that he wasn’t just humoring her so they could get to the main event. He kissed her as if he wanted to stretch out the moment. As if he liked kissing as much as she did.