Kathleen Creighton - Shooting Starr

“And I’m Jess-C.J.’s sister. One of ’em, anyway.” The hand that claimed hers next was bigger, longer-boned, its touch cool and sure. The voice, with a more muted accent, came from higher up, maybe even a little above Caitlyn’s five foot seven.

So, she thought, his mother is short and his sister is tall. “You’re the nurse,” she said, smiling. She felt a painful little bubble of fear. I wonder what they look like. They’re so kind…I wonder if I’ll ever see their faces. She imagined them both with C.J.’s chocolate eyes and dimples…golden hair for the sister, silver for the mother. She imagined them beautiful, to match their voices.

“Would y’all like to come on out to the kitchen and have some supper?” Betty asked. Her touch was warm on Caitlyn’s elbow. “Eve, you’d better stay and have a bite.”

“Thanks, but I need to be getting home.” Eve’s voice, from somewhere close behind Caitlyn, interrupted by a rustle and a breeze and the brush of a body…the soft murmurs and barely audible grunts people make when they hug “Before my kids forget they’ve even got a mother. I haven’t seen much of them lately. Mmm, thank you so much, Betty…Jess.”

Then it was Caitlyn’s turn to be caught up in a brief but fierce embrace. Eve’s hair, smelling faintly of lemons, tickled her cheek, and her voice said huskily next to her ear, “Caty, honey, you’re going to be fine. You take care, now-I’ll come see you soon…”

Caitlyn’s mumbled thanks were swallowed up in the general babble of goodbyes and you-come-back-nows, and then Eve was gone, her leaving punctuated by the bang of the screen door.

Kind voices haggled good-naturedly over her, discussing her wants and needs as if she weren’t there, the way people do with small children:

“Let’s everybody come on in the kitchen, now, Caitlyn needs to sit down. You all can do with some supper-Calvin, I know you love my squash pie-”

“Momma, she’s tired. She might just want to go to bed.”

“Well, some soup, then. Build up her strength. Some soup, and-oh, I know, how about some hot cocoa? That’s what Granny always used to fix us-”

“I think I would just like to go to bed,” Caitlyn interrupted in a thin, unnatural voice. A child’s voice. “If that’s okay…”

A child was exactly what she felt like-a very small, bewildered child, lost in a vast darkness. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into a corner, curl herself into a terrified ball and howl until her parents came to find her. Surrounded by well-meaning strangers, she wanted only to hear a familiar voice, feel familiar arms around her, the touch of gentle, loving hands.

“Of course it’s okay. Momma, I’ll just help her up-”

“Well, okay then, you go on. I’m going to make her a cup of cocoa. I’ll bring it in a bit.”

“You think you can make it up those stairs, hon’? Here-put your arm around my waist. C.J., if you take-”

“I’ve got her,” C.J. growled.

There was an instant of silence, then the push of air, warm and dense…and there were those arms again, seeming almost familiar now, one around her waist, the other behind her legs. She was lifted, and there was the same sharp, rapid breath blowing puffs at her temple and the same steady heartbeat thumping under her cheek. She caught a whiff of that half-forgotten aftershave, and the other C.J. smells…and somehow those were already familiar to her, too.

The terror receded a little, but not the darkness. And not the urge to cry.

She couldn’t give in to it. Not now. Not here.

She tightened her lips and muttered, “You don’t have to do this.” There was no answer. She could feel his chest and belly bunch and tighten, hear his breathing deepen as he took the stairs at a quick and steady pace. “You’re going to kill yourself,” she said grimly, breathing almost as hard as he was.

He let go a huff of laughter that sounded faintly wounded. “You don’t have a whole lotta faith in me, do you?”

“I don’t mean to insult you, but it’s not like you’re an athlete or something. You drive a truck.”

And yet, all along her side was the unmistakable resilience of firm masculine muscle, and somewhere in the neighborhood of her bottom she could feel the flat, rigid plane of a belly that carried not even a hint of a trucker’s gut. An image rose in her memory…a long, lean form pacing across the barren concrete apron of an abandoned gas station. And the way he’d faced her, the angry-cat tension in him-a hissing, spitting fury one blink away from drawing blood.

Not too lean, though; his arms felt rock solid and steel strong. And-how could she have forgotten?-she remembered the way he’d overpowered her and so easily taken her gun away.

Plus, they’d reached the top of the stairs, and he hadn’t dropped her or keeled over yet.

“I keep in shape,” he muttered. She heard and felt the impact of his foot against a door. Her head reeled as he twisted his body and swung her around to carry her through it.

Before her head had stopped spinning, she heard a faint grunt and felt the bump of a mattress under her bottom…and before she was in any way ready for it, a fearsome emptiness all around her. Panic caught her up like a midsummer Iowa dust devil, taking her breath away. Strange that she should be so terrified at the thought of being left alone when only moments ago she’d thought that was what she wanted most in the world.

“Calvin-” she blurted out, and heard a startled grunt in response. She rushed on, desperate to keep him there if only for a moment longer. “I heard your mother call you that. Okay, so now I know what the C stands for. What about the J?”

“James.” It was gruff and short, but at least he hadn’t withdrawn from her any further. Listening hard, she heard the whisper of a reluctant exhalation. “After my dad. The Calvin comes from my grandaddy-on my momma’s side.”

“Calvin…” Caitlyn murmured it again, drawing it out slowly to divert his attention away from her momentary lapse of poise. The absurd attack of panic was ebbing. Now that she could be reasonably certain she wasn’t going to be abandoned in the next second or two, she felt thoroughly ashamed of her neediness.

I’m only blind, after all, she scolded herself. I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman. I am not helpless. I just can’t see.

C.J. was glad she hadn’t been able to see him wince. His annoyance with her had evaporated. He wasn’t sure where it had come from and was glad to let it go. Ashamed now of caring about which name she chose to call him, he stood looking down at her, thinking how small and hunched she looked-like a sick canary with those feathery tufts of blond hair sticking up out of the bandages around her head. Wishing he knew what to do for her. Wondering if he should go. Wanting to stay.

“I’d rather you didn’t call me that,” he said. “Momma’s about the only one still calls me Calvin.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” Her eyes lifted, searching for him, but only made it as high as his chest. He could feel their touch there, a patch of prickly warmth as if he’d rubbed it with that salve his high school football coach used to use for sore muscles. “I loved that comic strip-what was it called?-the one with the little boy and his make-believe tiger?”

He thought about sitting down beside her on the bed, then decided he’d better not, not with sensory memories of the weight and shape and warmth of her body still burned into his muscles, nerves and sinews. He shifted his weight awkwardly instead. “Yeah, I did, too-used to doodle little cartoon pictures on everything, kind of like my signature, I guess.”

“So?”

“So…I don’t know. What was a pretty cool name when I was a little kid didn’t seem so cool for a grown man.”

She tilted her head to one side while she considered that. While he considered what it was about her and this conversation that was making him feel less like a grown man than he had in years. “So, why didn’t you just shorten it to Cal?”

“I did, for a while in high school. I think I picked up the idea for the C.J. from my brother Jimmy Joe-he’d taken to calling his boy J.J., and well, you know…I thought it was-”

“Cool?”

He gave a little snort of laughter. “Yeah.”

She smiled at him-or at his chest, rather-and he smiled back. And then it came to him that for the first time in his life he was in a situation with a woman where his smile and his dimples weren’t going to be of any advantage to him.

Before he had time to mull that over in his mind, he noticed that Caitlyn was rubbing her hands back and forth over the bedspread she was sitting on, sort of stroking the delicate slipperiness of it, feeling it with her fingers in a way that made his mouth go dry. Her head was tilted to one side and there was an expression on her face he couldn’t read.

“Did I hear you say this room used to be yours?”

Then he realized what the look on her face was. She was teasing him. Unexpected delight gathered in his chest like bubbles in a glass of soda pop.

“Yeah,” he said, letting his grin leak into his voice, “but that was a while ago. The decor now is all Sammi June’s-that’s Jess’s daughter-”

“You told me about her. You said she’s away-in college?”

“That’s right.” C.J. snorted. “Here and I thought you were asleep when I was telling you that.”

There was a pause while he watched a smile hover over her lips, the way he’d once watched, with breath suspended, a butterfly light on his finger. Then, hushed and husky, she asked, “Tell me the truth. Is it pink?”

In the same kind of voice, teetering on the edge of laughter, he intoned, “Oh, yeah.”

“Rosebuds?” It was a horrified whisper.

“Nope. Butterflies-little bitty yellow ones.”