WILD MEN OF ALASKA

chapter SEVENTEEN

Gemma glanced up as Callista rounded the corner of the bookcase where she and Tern were hiding.

“Hate to interrupt, but Cub is here.” Callista had trouble keeping the delight out of her voice.

“What’s he doing here?” Tern asked, her hands going to her hips.

“They’re dating,” Callista filled her in. “Gemma, he’s waiting for you at the customer service desk. That is one man I sure wouldn’t make wait long.” Callista swiveled on her clogs and headed back to the register.

“You’re dating Cub,” Tern said. “And sleeping with Lucky.”

She made that sound really bad. “Yes. No.” A growl of frustration escaped her.

“You can’t do this to Lucky.”

“What about Cub? You were the one who told me to have sex with Cub.”

That tied Tern’s tongue for a second, but not for long. “That was before. We need to find a way to get Lucky back here.”

“I don’t know the whole story between you two, and I don’t know if I want to. But I’m freaking confused, Tern. Cub’s alive. He’s here.” Oh God, he was here waiting for her, and she was debating whether or not she was cheating on Lucky with him. “I need to go and see what he wants. Most likely he heard how unbalanced I am and is breaking off our date for tomorrow.”

“If he doesn’t, you should.”

She was beginning to think the same thing. She wasn’t any good for him if she didn’t have a clue what she wanted.

Gemma tried to get herself mentally put back together while she walked the short distance from Travel to the customer service desk. A cold breeze blew into the store, and her step faltered. It was strong enough to blow her hair back from her face.

She turned the corner of Mystery, and there was Cub waiting for her, standing tall and golden at the desk. He was in jeans and t-shirt the same color of his ice blue eyes. His unzipped Columbia jacket gave him the look of an Olympic Norwegian cross country skier. A dozen red roses were clutched in his hand.

“Hey,” he greeted, looking uncomfortable as he glanced around the bookstore.

Gemma felt all eyes on them, especially the ones boring into her back from Tern. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. He had come to see her. She owned a business. People came and saw her every day. Bought books, coffee, sometimes just popped in to say hi.

“Hi,” she responded. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I, uh, wanted to bring you these, and let you know—”

Here it came. He was here to break off their date. Relief and regret warred inside her.

“—how much I’m looking forward to our date tomorrow.” Cub held out the flowers to her. “I was passing by Forget-Me-Not and saw these.” He shrugged self-consciously. “And, well, I thought of you.”

Oooh. She slowly took the flowers. A swirl of cold air twisted around her.

Her movements froze, and her heart raced.

Lucky?

She glanced to the side to see if she could pick up any details in her peripheral vision. Nothing. No mirage, no vague outline. Lucky hadn’t answered her mental question either. Was she just imagining him here?

The bell on the door rang as it closed behind a few café customers. Well, that explained the draft.

“I hope you like roses.” Cub stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I know most women do. They smell nice but are kind of clichéd these days, aren’t they. The flower shop didn’t have a good selection. These were the best of the lot, and I’m talking too much.”

Gemma laughed, pushing aside all the crazy things floating around in her head. “Cub, I love them.” She took the flowers and buried her nose in the center of the bouquet. They smelled sweet and spicy, and while they wouldn’t live long, she’d enjoy them while they did. “Let me put these in some water. Oh, thank you, Callista.” She took the vase of water from Callista—ignoring the knowing twinkle in her eyes—and arranged the flowers on the desk. They were a promise of spring, brightening up the dry, always dusty, bookstore. She smiled for real this time. “Thank you, Cub. They’re beautiful.”

He seemed to blush, and dipped his head in a slight bow of acknowledgment. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” Then he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be thinking of you until then,” he whispered.

Nice move. The skin on her cheek tingled, and she badly wanted to cover the spot with her hand.

Tern sidled up next to her, her arms folded across her chest as the two of them admired Cub’s confident stride as he exited the bookstore. “You are in so much trouble,” she murmured.

Yes, she was.

Lucky slammed into Limbo. The thread he’d chased to Gemma flung him back like a broken rubber band.

He lay there breathing heavy, his body stinging as his soul absorbed the abrupt shift from one plane to the next. A few moments passed while the pearlescent clouds drifted lazily over his head.

Why the hell couldn’t it rain? He wanted thunderstorms, lightning. A goddamn squall.

Seeing Gemma with Cub, taking his flowers, letting him kiss her had torn his heart out of his chest. Lucky hadn’t missed the slight flush to her skin as Cub’s lips had grazed her cheek.

He leapt to his feet and ran for the rocky cliffs. The facts of his existence pursued him like arrows.

He hadn’t done anything that bad in his previous life other than his part in Hansen’s death, though Hansen didn’t seem to hold any grievances toward Lucky. It had been a tragic accident when they’d been climbing the north face of Mont Blanc and the rope snapped. Lucky had blamed himself for a long time. After all, he’d been the one who’d checked the gear. He should have seen that the rope had been compromised. But being here with Hansen had reassured him that it had been just that, an accident. A byproduct of living life on the edge.

He started to free climb his way up the sheer rock face of granite that he’d tackled many times before. He raced, not being careful of his handholds, until he’d slid down the cliff one too many times. Even though he didn’t have a body to bleed, his soul ripped and burned with each cut of the rock. He needed that now. Needed the physical pain, or as close to it as he could come, to dim the bleeding of his heart.

Oh, God in Heaven, why was he being tortured this way?

He’d spent his life working hard and playing harder. Hell, he’d turned play into his livelihood. While he hadn’t gone to church as often as he should—believing that God didn’t exist in a building—he’d given thanks. God was in nature. And Lucky had shown his appreciation in all the things that God had created. Including many women, and a few too many beers.

It hadn’t even been his fault he’d been killed. At least the killer hadn’t been after him, just using him as tool of vengeance against Tern. Boy, had that worked. He’d had his head so far up his ass he hadn’t seen that knife before it was too late. But the knife that had ended his life hadn’t hurt nearly as much as the blade of truth slicing through him now.

The muscles in his arms burned and bunched as he struggled to free climb, searching for tiny edges and footholds in his ascent to the top.

He couldn’t ask Gemma to be his. It was unfair to her. His life was over, hers still in progress. She had a chance to find happiness. Be with a man who could hold her, love her, give her children. Be with her the way a man and a woman were supposed to be together. Not in the spirit of the sense. How could he provide like a man should provide for the woman he loved? It wasn’t as if a spirit, ghost—or hell—Dreamweaver could get a f*cking job.

By all appearances, Gemma would be alone for the rest of her life if she choose to share her life with him. She had Siri and Rosie and many friends, including Tern, but they would pass on or moved on with their lives and she would have no one tangible.

It was the ultimate act of selfishness to ask of her.

He struggled to reach the top of the cliff, his fingers slipping before he clasped the thin cracks within the smooth face of granite. He heaved himself up, his legs shaky, and looked over the wide cosmic landscape below him, his spirit in tatters.

Filling his lungs, he threw his head back, clenched his fists at his sides, and howled out his heartache until his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees. His heartache echoed back at him, the sound distorted by the rocky precipice into a cruel, mocking laugh.

He bowed his head to his chest, drained. There was only one choice he could make.