Deadline

“One of the men I hoped to interview was a corporal named Hawkins. Good-looking ranching kid from North Dakota. Smart. Natural leader. Everybody’s friend. He’d come through the mission without a scratch. He’d consoled those who’d lost a particularly close buddy. He wrote letters to the kin of those who’d died, commending their valor.

“One morning, I was on my way back to the barracks after breakfast. Hawkins was sitting on the crest of this rise, his back to the mountains, which were about two miles away. The sun had just topped them. He was in silhouette, and I had to shade my eyes to see who had called out to me.

“He said if I wanted a story, to come up and join him. I started up. But the ground was loose sand and rock—I mean, this is the most desolate, lifeless, godforsaken place on the planet. The climb was a struggle. I kept losing purchase and slipping back down. He was laughing, deriding me, telling me to hurry my ass along.”

He clasped his hands between his knees and studied the ridge of his knuckles. “I finally made it to the top. The sun was blinding. Sweat was stinging my eyes. I shaded them so I could see Hawkins against the glare. He gave me his homespun smile.

“‘Want a story, Dawson?’ I said, ‘That’s what I’m here for.’ God’s truth, I can feel how idiotic my grin must have looked. I was blinking sweat out of my eyes, wishing he’d given me time to get my laptop, fishing in the pocket of my vest for a pencil and pad.”

He placed his elbows on his knees, bent from the waist, and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. “Hawkins put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

Overwhelmed with sorrow for him, Amelia remained unmoving until he lowered his hands from his face and looked across at her. His lips formed a bitter line. “I got my story.”

Quietly she said, “That’s your nightmare.”

“Last thing I hear before my own scream is the gunshot.”

Mournfully, she whispered his name.

“Don’t feel sorry for me.”

She left the chair and walked toward him. “You’re pushing me away again. Or trying to.” When she got closer, she reached out to stroke his cheek.

He yanked his head away from her touch. “Thanks anyway, but a pity fuck isn’t going to rid me of the nightmare.”

“Another push, that one more like a hard shove.” She moved between his wide-spread legs. “But not hard enough, Dawson. I’m still here.”

He placed his hands on her hips as though to forcibly push her away. But upon contact, his fingers reflexively curled inward, digging in to hold her tighter. One heartbeat later, his head dropped forward. Grinding the crown of it into her middle, he rasped, “Yes, you are.”

She held his head close, her fingers moving through his hair. “Thank you for telling me.”

He looked up at her. “You’re thanking me?”

“Who else has heard that story?”

“No one.”

“Headly?”

“No one.”

“But you entrusted me with it. That makes me special.”

“You were already special,” he said gruffly.

“Don’t push me away again.”

He rubbed his face against her breasts. “I don’t want to, God knows.”

She tipped his head up. “Then why do you? The reason this time.”

Before he could speak, there was a knock on the door.

She threw a glance toward it. “Room service.”

“About bloody time.”

Another knock. “Mr. Scott?”