“Fuck!” he yelled, his eyes burning with more unshed tears. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he screamed, banging his hands on the wheel and sobbing like a baby.
The car behind him beeped its horn, and Cain bellowed, “Fuck you!” before stepping on the gas and driving the rest of the way to Woodman’s place. He’d seen the little house on Main Street earlier today, on his way to the BBQ—the BBQ where Woodman had been laughing about stupid stories from the Navy, excitedly confiding that he was cleared for duty. Alive. So fucking alive, and now . . .
He stopped in front of his cousin’s house and cut the engine, using the backs of his hands to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks. He didn’t bother looking in the mirror. He was covered in ash and soot. His eyes would be bloodshot, his face streaked with tears. She’d know. She’d know, almost at once, that something was very, very wrong.
“Fuck,” he whispered, opening the car door and stepping onto the curb. He slammed the door behind him and opened the little white picket gate, thinking, Woodman sure keeps this place neat. Then thinking, kept. And another sharp wave of sorrow took his breath away.
Suddenly the front door opened, and Ginger stood in the doorway, a smile on her face. “Woodman, you’re back alrea—wait.” Her eyes dropped to his filthy gear, her expression very troubled but not quite frightened when she met his eyes again. “Cain?”
It hurt like fuck, but he held her gaze as he walked toward her, his feet heavy, booted in cement made of such heavy fucking sorrow, he had no idea how he kept moving forward.
“Princess,” he said softly.
“Cain?” she asked, a wild edge creeping into her voice as her eyes widened.
“Oh God, Gin,” he sobbed as he reached the porch. He climbed the first step and stood before her.
She gasped, her hand fluttering up to rest over her heart. “C-Cain? What happened?”
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, darlin’.”
“For what? For what?” she asked, her voice ratcheting up with panic. “What? What, Cain?” she asked, shrieking a little now. Her breathing became choppy and shallow, her chest jerking with every breath. “What happened?”
Cain shook his head and felt his face collapse as the tears started to fall. “I was too late.”
She lurched at him, nailing his chest with her fists, and he fell backward onto the walkway, grabbing for her arms and pulling her with him.
“NO!” she wailed, beating his chest. “NO! NO! NO!”
He pulled her against him. Hard enough to trap her hands. “He got caught under a beam. Couldn’t . . . couldn’t get him out in time.”
“Nooooo!” she sobbed, keening as she uncurled her fists to cover her face. “No no no no. This isn’t happening. No.” Then, suddenly, she wiped away the tears, lifted her chin, and looked up at Cain, her face determined. “He’s goin’ to be okay. There are such good doctors here, Cain. He’s goin’ to be fine. I know it. We’re just goin’ to drive over to the hospital and—”
“Ginger!” he yelled, shaking her by the shoulders until she stopped talking. “He’s already gone! He’s gone, darlin’.”
She froze, staring up at him for a moment, her face contorted in disbelief and anguish. Her eyes fluttered, then rolled back in her head as her body swayed, then fell limp and heavy against his chest.
“Princess,” he whimpered, the pain in his heart doubling as he watched hers break.
As gently as he could, he lifted her into his arms and carried her inside.
Chapter 22
Ginger
My eyes burn, she thought, blinking them tentatively as the early-morning light flooded her room. And my head hurts.
Sliding one hand over the sheets, she felt for Woodman, but he wasn’t there.
And the sheets were cold.
She opened one eye and looked at his pillow, plump and full.
And then—like an avalanche of horror—her memories from last night returned. Cain. Cain had come to tell her— “No!” she screamed, sitting bolt upright in her bed.
“What?” yelled Cain, from the chair in the corner of her bedroom. He jerked into a sitting position, rubbed his eyes, and looked around the room, on high alert. He was still in the sooty, filthy clothes he was wearing last night, when he came to tell her the terrible, sickening news that Woodman had . . . that Woodman was . . .
“Woodman . . .,” she whispered, her eyes filling with more useless tears, her hands twisting the sheet in her hands.
Cain closed his eyes as if hearing his cousin’s name was almost too painful to bear. He clenched his jaw and leaned forward, raking his hands through the stubble of his hair.
“Oh God,” she said softly. “Oh my God. It’s not true.”
“I wish to Christ it wasn’t, but it is,” he said, his voice low and beaten.
The well of tears burst, streaking down her cheeks, wetting the sheet she still clutched in her hands.
“Cain,” she murmured, his name a supplication, a plea. Cain . . . help. Cain . . . hold me. Cain . . . fix this. Cain . . . take this pain away.