Brave Enough (13 page)

Right?

Then why does it feel that way? Why does it feel as though I'm giving up something rare and precious and wonderful?

The soft pad of shoes across the patio work to pull me out of the miserable vortex I was sinking into. I glance up to see Tag striding toward me, a pleased half smile drawing his lips up at the corners.

God, he's amazing! Everything about him is perfect. At least for me. He appeals to me on a deep, soulful level, not just a physical one.

“You waiting for me, gorgeous?” he asks, bending to set his fists on either side of my hips so he can press his lips to mine. As always, a wildfire is kindled within seconds, leaving me well on my way to breathlessness.

“What if I was?” I ask, torn between the dark cloud of my circumstance and the bright sun of Tag's presence.

“Then wait no more. I've come to save the day,” he says playfully.

I can't help smiling. “You have? And how do you plan to do that?”

“Well, I'd like to start by whisking you away on my four-wheeled chariot. I've got something to show you.”

The temptation to leave trouble and worry and inevitability behind for just a little while longer, just a few hours more, is overwhelming. I reach up to wrap my arms around Tag's neck and bring his face back to mine. “Take me away, kind sir,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his again.

This feels right. It feels like nothing can harm us or affect us when we are together, touching. Tag straightens, pulling me up with him and wraps his arms tight around my waist. I love it when he does this. He holds me like he doesn't ever want to let me go, like he's daring anyone to try and take me from him. So possessive. So thrilling.

“Better stop that now, fair Weatherly,” he says softly when he drags his lips from mine. “Or else the only place we'll be going is upstairs.”

I giggle, feeling like a teenager again. “You aren't supposed to give me choices like that. I might choose the wrong one.”

“Okay, how about come with me now and
then
we'll resume kissing. And go upstairs. If we can make it that far. If not, all I can promise is that I'll try to find some soft grass.”

I grin up at him. He grins down at me. “Deal.”

I squeal when he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me across the patio, around to the front of the house where his four-wheeled chariot awaits. He throws his leg over it and sets me
across his lap in front of him. I lower my arms, winding them around his waist as I lean my head against his strong, wide chest. There's literally no place else in the whole world I'd rather be.

The engine throbs to life beneath us and Tag punches the gas, sending us careening down the path toward our cabin. Since that first night we spent in the half-finished structure, we've both called it “ours.” And considering how many times we've made love there
since then
, it's fitting.

Tag doesn't stop at our cabin, though. He takes a left and heads up the mountain, toward the forest. I close my eyes, not worrying about where we're going. I'm content with the feel of the sun on my face, the wind in my hair and the heartbeat tapping under my ear.

I know when we enter the woods. The temperature drops by about ten degrees and Tag slows considerably. He drives us back to the edge of the drop-off, the one that overlooks the waterfall, where he stops.

The view is not quite as mystical in the daylight, but it's every bit as stunning. The sun pours down into the crease in the mountain face, kissing every treetop and turning the waterfall to a million-sparkling-diamond-fall. Other than the hiss of water on rocks, the only sounds that interrupt the blissful silence are the soft whisper of the breeze teasing the leaves and the distant chirp of some birds.

“I missed something the other night,” Tag says from behind me. I pull my eyes from one miracle of nature to another, equally spellbound when I gaze up into his flawlessly formed face.

“I don't remember you missing
any
thing on
any
night,” I tell
him with a shy smile. Sometimes, I can't believe we are this intimate. Although he never comments on it, I know I still blush occasionally.

“Well I did. And I'm here to correct my oversight.”

Tag eases out from under me, leaving me sitting sideways on the four-wheeler. He pauses for a quick second, his face a breathtaking mask of what looks like anticipation, before he reaches into his pocket for a small box and then drops to one knee in front of me. My heart stutters to a stop in my chest and the backs of my eyes burn like fire.

Ceremoniously, he slowly snaps open the lid to the velvet box, revealing the most incredible ring I've ever laid eyes on. The center stone is an enormous round diamond, cut perfectly to capture every possible facet of light. It's flanked by four small amethyst ovals, slightly offset so that they appear to be wings. Below them are diamonds of a similar shape, which form the body of the butterflies. The stones are graceful, the placement subtle, making the ring simply breathtaking. And my breath is taken.

“Tag, it's . . .” I don't even know what to say. I just follow it with my eyes as he takes it from the tiny cushion and places it on my finger.

“Amethysts for your eyes. Butterflies for your freedom. Diamonds because you're mine,” he says softly, just before he kisses the ring where it rests on my finger. “I'll ask you again, my fair Weatherly. The right way. Will you marry me?”

Tears flood my eyes. I want to say yes more than I've ever wanted anything except Tag Barton himself, but I can't. I just can't do that to the kids that I've worked so hard to help.
Thousands of them depend on Safe Passage for their nourishment, and thousands more depend on us for breakfast at school or food on the weekends.

“Tag, I . . .” I can't bring myself to say no. The word just won't fit past the boulder lodged in my throat. It seems everything I've ever wanted is right here, kneeling before me, asking me to be his, yet my father still manages to stand in the way. He knows me so well. Too well. He knew where to hit me where it would hurt the most. And he did.

My phone bleeps from my pocket. An incoming text. I take the signal as an excuse to gather my composure before I do what must be done. “Pardon me,” I mutter, taking it out and sliding my finger over the screen. It's a message from Deana. Evidently, she got tired of waiting for me to call her back.

Oops.

Deana:
Five million dollars.

Me:
Five million dollars? Am I supposed to know what that means?

Deana:
SOMEONE DONATED FIVE MILLION DOLLARS.

Me:
WHAT? WHO?

Deana:
Maybe this guy I met at a fund-raiser who was looking for a good write-off. But who cares? SOMEONE DONATED FIVE MILLION DOLLARS!

I stare at the screen for several long seconds, my heart pounding as I read and re-read the words. Someone donated five million dollars. We've always had a handful of generous donors, but no
one has ever given an amount substantial enough to allow the charity to function without my help, without my money. Well, technically Dad's money, I guess. And that was never a problem until recently. Maybe Deana's guy came through. Maybe someone else heard of us and felt the need to help. I don't know. I don't know and I don't really care. Whoever it was and whatever the reason, someone donated five million dollars to Safe Passage.

Five. Million. Dollars. Dollars that buy my freedom.

With this money, we'll be okay
without
my trust money. That means that the kids won't suffer no matter what I do. That means that I can marry Tag.

Because, God help me, I want to.

I toss my phone aside, not caring when I hear it drop to the ground on the other side of the four-wheeler, and I throw my arms around Tag's neck. I can't dial back the brightness of the smile that wreaths my face when I give him my answer. “Yes. I'd love to marry you, magnificent Tag.”

I don't think of the kids, the money or the butterflies again for quite some time.

Tag

As much as I wanted to lend Weatherly a hand with her shower, I knew I needed to check on Mom. I haven't seen her since late last night.

The caretaker's quarters is basically a tiny cottage located at the rear of the property, right at the edge of the oldest of the Chiara vines. Its dark, aged brick matches that of the main house, only this structure is about one-sixteenth the size. Although the inside is quaint and functional, consisting of a small kitchen, a sitting room and a good-sized master bed and bath, the wide porch off the back is my favorite part. It overlooks the fields, something that I used to hate, but have since grown to appreciate.

When I was a kid, the sitting room was actually
my
room, but after I left for the military Mom converted it back to its original state and gave my bed to a needy family she knew in town. That's
why I was staying in the guest cabin when I first got back after Dad died. Not that I would've been comfortable sleeping in the room next to my mother. Not with a social life that's as . . .
active
as mine has always been.

It actually worked out perfectly since Mom got sick. She has a place that she can relax in peace and quiet. I have privacy. Well, I
had
privacy. It wasn't until the cabin started renting again that it became a problem. Luckily, since the owners are rarely here, William didn't have a problem with me taking up residence in one of the spare rooms in the main house. It's when he got a complaint about the plumbing that I suggested we remodel. He was agreeable. For the most part, I don't think he gives a shit about this place as long as the wine's good and it continues making him some money.

I knock on Mom's door before I enter the kitchen. It smells like garlic, which leads me to believe she made herself some lunch. Although I've been having the kitchen staff bring her meals as well, I'm glad that she
felt
like cooking and that she
felt
like eating. “Mom?”

No answer, so I go peek in her bedroom door to see if she's sleeping. It's empty. If she's not there, she's out on the porch. It's one of her favorite places, too.

I find her knitting a blanket that she's been working on for a year, it seems. She's humming to herself and I notice that her color looks pretty good today. Less . . . yellowed. My heart twists a little in my chest.

I went on dozens of missions, did things that will haunt me to my dying day, but watching my mother die a slow death in front of me is by far the hardest thing I've ever had to do, ever had to see.
Although her color looks better today, her end will still be the same. It will come, and it will come painfully. And it kills me that there's nothing I can do to change that. That's why, if it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure she can at least spend her last days in the only home she's known for half her life.

“You have to be the slowest knitter in the history of the world,” I tease, bending to kiss her cheek before I take the rocking chair beside hers.

“This is a labor of love. It can't be rushed.”

“A labor of love? Who's it for?”

She reaches over to pat my cheek. “Who else but my boy?”

I eye the soft pastel colors. “You
do
realize that I'm twenty-seven, not seven, right?”

“Maybe you won't be the one using it.”

“Well, if you're making it for me, who else would be using it?”

“Maybe you'll have a baby to wrap it around one day.”

An image of Weatherly rubbing a belly rounded with the child she's carrying—
my
child—rolls swiftly through my mind and I smile.

“Okay, I can see that.”

Mom puts down her knitting and fixes her pale blue eyes on me. “Is it Weatherly?”

“Is what Weatherly?”

“The one you just imagined.”

“Who says I imag—”

“Ah-ta-ta. Answer me.”

She always knew when I was lying.

“What if it is?” I ask good-naturedly.

I thought we were still playing until she reaches over and curls
her fingers urgently around mine. She squeezes them so tightly, her hand trembles.

“Don't you make decisions that will affect the rest of your life because of me. Don't marry her just to get this place.”

“How do you know—”

“I know you tried to buy this place. I know he turned you down. Now I see you running around with Weatherly, and I'm hearing things. I can put two and two together.”

I frown. “That doesn't mean—”

“No, it doesn't. It doesn't
have to mean
anything, but I know you, son. I know how you love—with your whole heart. You won't listen to reason. Won't let anything stop you. Won't let anyone get in your way. But I don't want you doing things like that for me. If you marry that girl, marry her because you love
her
, not because you love
me
.”

I take her thin, cool hand in mine, wondering briefly if it was ever this frail before. It seems that I could crush the bones if I squeezed even a tiny bit tighter. “This is your home, Mom. No one will ever force you out of your home just because you're sick.”

“This place was my home, but it was also my job. You can't expect them to keep me around out of the goodness of their heart. When I'm no longer useful, they'll find someone who is. I knew it all along. But that's life, son. That's business. This is still
just a place.
I can make a home anywhere. As long as you come by and see me from time to time . . .”

“But this is where you lived with Dad. It's where all of my childhood memories are. I'm not going to let anyone take that away from you.”

“Tag, I'm telling you,” she says warningly. “Don't do this for me. Don't. Please.”

I give her my brightest smile and gently pat her hand. “Why don't you worry about finishing that blanket before the second coming and let
me
worry about the rest? I've got this, Mom. I've got this.”