He shuddered, and Sam said, “Okay. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
Jason closed his eyes.
He didn’t think he had fallen asleep, but suddenly he was meeting Mrs. Kennedy all over again—only this time Ethan was waiting there too.
“Who are you?” Ethan frowned, reaching his hands out to touch Jason’s face. His eyes stared past Jason, and Jason realized with a jolt that Ethan was blind.
“Jason?” Sam said quietly.
Jason’s eyes jerked open.
He was lying on a strange bed in a strange, brightly lit bedroom. Sam sat beside him, stroking his forehead, which was the strangest part of all. Maybe he was still dreaming. Dreaming about a guy he’d never met. A guy who had died before Jason had reached his teens.
Sam said, “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”
“Gah.” Jason sat up and scrubbed his face. “You were a while.”
“She made you hot milk
.” Sam’s tone was resigned. He nodded at a vintage Hazel Atlas aqua and white Dutch Treat mug sitting on one of the white oak night tables.
“Hot milk? Really?” Jason wasn’t sure if he was touched or repulsed. “I didn’t know people still drank hot milk. Is that a Wyoming thing?”
“It’s not a Wyoming thing,” Sam said. “It’s a mother thing. There’s probably a slug of booze in there, given that it’s my mother we’re talking about.”
What did that mean? Maybe Sam’s mom had worked as a bartender as well as a waitress? Maybe trying to raise Sam had driven her to drink? Either way…what the hell. Jason reached for the mug and sipped the hot liquid cautiously.
“Hm. Not bad.” Sam was right. There was definitely brandy in there. There was also honey, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg. It was unexpectedly delicious. His gaze wandered as he drained half the mug in one long, hungry gulp. A framed photo of a dark-haired man sat on the bureau.
Without looking at Sam, Jason said, “Do I look that much like him?”
The dream had been disturbingly vivid, even without the physical reminder that Ethan—or at least his death—continued to be a prime motivator in Sam’s life.
He could tell by the small sigh Sam gave that Sam followed his thoughts easily. “No, not really. More like he looked in photographs than in real life.”
Jason met Sam’s eyes, and Sam added, “I didn’t even see it at first. That’s the truth.”
That ought to be a relief—except Sam had disliked him when they’d met.
“Am I like him in other ways?”
“No.” Sam was adamant. “You’re very different types. Not least of all, Ethan was twenty-three when he died. He was practically still a kid. You’re a grown man.”
Who was probably acting like an insecure teenager? Jason winced inwardly. Sam’s mother’s reaction had thrown him a little, that was all.
He looks like a ghost.
Jason drained the mug and pushed to his feet—nearly toppling over. If he’d thought he was stiff after the drive from Cheyenne, he was nearly crippled now.
Sam steadied him, helping him undress and pull on his sleep pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was managed with a comforting minimum of fuss, and in a couple of minutes Jason was in bed with his injured foot resting on a stack of pillows.
“Before you get too comfortable…” Sam dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out an ancient-looking white jar, and unscrewed the lid. The scent of wintergreen, juniper berry, and something peculiarly reminiscent of horse liniment wafted out.
“What the hell’s that?” Jason asked suspiciously.
“I have no idea, but it works. Trust me.”
“Uh, yeah, but…”