"We were kids," Dalton says. "I was seventeen, Jacob fourteen. You can't see the other point of view then."
So their early relationship had been fractious. They'd go months without seeing one another. That changed as they got older.
"What you heard the other day?" he says. "He hasn't said those things in ten years. He hasn't acted like he felt them in ten years."
They came to accept each other's lifestyle, if not fully understand it. For Jacob, it seemed more selfish--he wanted his brother out there with him as a companion in his solitary life. With Dalton, well, it was exactly what I'd expect. He wanted to help his brother. Not bring him into Rockton--he got that now--but smooth out the rough edges of his life.
"He doesn't need to live in town," he says. "I just want ... I want more for him. More options. Steady trading, a place to stay when the weather gets bad or the game dries up."
It reminds me of what Beth said about Dalton and her quest to get him to go south, lead what she considered a fuller life. The difference is that Dalton realizes it isn't fear or timidity holding Jacob back, so he has stopped asking and accepts that this is his brother's chosen life. He re-channels that frustrated urge toward those in Rockton who need and accept his help. Like Anders. Like me.
In those few hours in the forest, I'm not sure whom I get to know better: Jacob or Dalton. Once he starts talking about his brother, his fears and his frustrations pour out, and I don't think he's ever told anyone else this, and I appreciate it all the more for that.
We don't find Jacob, and after a couple of hours I'm clearly flagging. We head back to town. Dalton will go back out with Anders after he's eaten and grabbed flashlights. Which means he'll have to tell Anders about Jacob, but he's decided he needs to take that step. For his brother's safety, he must bring someone else in on the secret, and the person he trusts most is his deputy. He'll just say Jacob is his brother and let Anders conclude that Jacob voluntarily left Rockton years ago.
Talking about his brother hasn't put Dalton in the lightest of moods. Not finding him makes it worse. So after we grab my bag from the hangar, I tell him I'll just head home, but he stops me with, "Can you come to my place?"
"In the morning?"
He shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Now. I should get something to eat. Would you come back with me?"
"Of course."
I haven't been in Dalton's house. We hang out at my place, and he seems to spend relatively little time at his. I've seen it, of course. It looks exactly like mine, also on the edge of town. The first thing I notice are the books. It's hard not to. The only living room wall that isn't a bookcase is the one with the fireplace, and even it has shelves on either side. They're arranged by subject, and I swear there's something on every topic imaginable.
"I like to read," he says as he comes up behind me.
I look back at him and smile. "I know."
"You're welcome to borrow anything. There are more upstairs."
"I will. Thank you."
A moment of silence as I run my finger over a few titles. Then he says, "And thank you."
"For what?" I glance over my shoulder and he's standing there, hands in his pockets again, looking uncomfortable and a little bit lost.
"Everything," he says. "Understanding and just ... everything."
I rise onto my tiptoes to kiss him. I just intend a quick kiss-- I know this isn't the time--but it's like that's the sign he was waiting for.
His arms go around me, pulling me into a kiss that's careful at first, slow and cautious, his body held tight, waiting for any indication, that first signal that this isn't where I was heading. It wasn't, but it sure as hell can be, and I put my arms around his neck, my fingers in his hair, and that's all he needs to stomp that accelerator, and I swear it's not five seconds before we're on the floor and he's tugging off my shirt.
Then he stops. He blinks hard, breathing ragged, struggling to get it under control as he says, "Too fast?" and I want to laugh. I really do, because there's this note in his voice, the one that says he knows he's moving at the speed of light but he really, really wants me to say I see absolutely nothing wrong with disrobing five seconds after the kissing starts. So, yes, I want to laugh. Which would, of course, be the entirely wrong response. Instead, when he says, "Too fast?" I grin for him, reply, "Hell, no," and reach for his belt buckle, and he hits the gas again.
SIXTY-TWO
We're lying on the floor, naked. Or mostly naked, because given the speed, we didn't quite manage to get our clothing all the way off. My shirt is still hooked around one elbow and I'm pretty sure he only bothered getting one leg out of his jeans. But despite the practically non-existent foreplay, he made up for it where it counted, and damn ... I'm stretched out, happy and sated, and he's looking down at me, grinning, obviously very pleased with himself, and when I say so, he chuckles and says, "I just liked hearing you say my name."
"You mean saying your name while I'm coming."
"Uh-huh."
I laugh, and he tugs my shirt the rest of the way off and shoves it aside. Then he pulls me against him and says, "Didn't think I had a shot."
"With what?"
"You. Didn't like me very much."