“PERFECT,” I murmured to myself.
Six new T-shirts for Boner, washed and ready to be worn. Three black and three charcoal-gray T-shirts, each one bearing a different graphic design—discreet, hip, nothing too crazy trendy. One had Johnny Cash’s name and guitar on it in a faded print. Two of them sported Harley-Davidson graphics that I’d picked up from the store in Rapid. One was from his favorite local craft brewery. The other two were simple V-necks that were a fitted cut, close to the torso, a little sexier than the usual boxy, loose fit. I folded them, smoothing out the fabric on each one, and made a neat square pile on his bed.
Boner had given me a key to his house so that I could drop off a few things, if I wanted, to make life easier for us. Being able to spend time together was a last-minute thing usually. I’d brought over a small package of diapers, a toothbrush, underwear, the baby-doll nightie, and a pair of comfy leggings and a T-shirt to keep handy here in his room.
I went through the drawer with his T-shirts and took out the really old, faded, and worn ones. At least ten of them. I planned on putting these in a corner of another drawer, just in case he didn’t want to part with them. I knew better than to dictate fashion to a man like Boner who seemed only comfortable in a certain zone. I wanted him to find the new ones in the morning when he went to get dressed, and hopefully, he’d enjoy the surprise.
On the whole, his clothes were arranged neatly. It was pretty darn impressive. I kept all the things I’d brought over tucked in a tote bag in his closet. I didn’t want to make any sort of mess or create visual disorder in here.
Something hard slid against the wood of the drawer, and I peeked over the edge of it. A small photograph in a simple brass frame. A woman and a boy with very short hair. Oh, those eyes. They both had the same incredible large, luminescent green eyes.
Boner and his mother. It had to be.
She was beautiful. Dark hair, slender face, pale skin. She stood behind him, her arms wrapped over his chest, her face pressed against his. Same heart-stopping, sincere smile. A huge smile. Boner’s arms were raised and wrapped around his mother’s neck. Eager for her touch, delighting in her affection. He was gloriously happy.
My ribs squeezed. What had happened to this boy?
It wasn’t that Boner didn’t smile or laugh or enjoy himself, he did. Outwardly, he seemed very content with his life, but this sort of beaming, excited joy was not the man I knew. The man I knew was careful, guarded, his soul reined in, not on display. Here, the joy was positively electric.
I chewed on my lip. I was supposed to be putting clothes in his drawers, not inspecting his personal items.
I put the frame back in the bottom of the drawer, and my fingertips brushed soft suede. I pushed back the shirts, and pulled out a black suede pouch with small round bead-like shapes inside it. I tugged opened the silken drawstrings on the pouch and drew out a long necklace with a series of dark red stones. I held it up, and two chains dangled in the air before me. It was broken. This was a Roman Catholic rosary. But there was no cross pendant hanging from it. The cross was missing.
I fingered the end of the rosary. Was it his mother’s?
There was a violence in the missing cross and the broken chain. My imagination was running away with me. Maybe this was just some trinket he’d picked up somewhere?
But no. I’d seen his house. There were no frivolous or sentimental objects, no decorations anywhere. Boner wore jewelry, but it was always silver chains or leather cords with small charms like a snake or his One-Eyed Jack skull. This was an authentic rosary, too, not one of those trendy-necklace type ones.
I tucked the rosary back into the pouch.
“What are you doing?”
I pivoted at the sound of his voice, my lungs pinching in my chest.
“Oh! I was—I did some laundry, and I was just putting it away for you.”
He filled the doorway, staring at me, his hair full around his face ending just past his shoulders, his dark brows forming a ridge over those green eyes, his lips pursed under his mustache.
Heart-stoppingly beautiful. Heart-stoppingly threatening.
“Laundry?” His deep voice snapped at me. “I don’t want you doing my laundry. You don’t have to do that shit for me. Been doing it all my life. Don’t have to have a woman do it for me.”
“Actually, I, uh, went shopping, and I got you a few new T-shirts. I washed them, and I was just putting them away for you. I wanted you to be surprised when you got dressed.”
“Oh. ” His lips twisted, his jaw set. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What’s in your hand, Jill?”
Shit. The suede pouch was in my grip. I held it up. “I found this. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He quickly closed the distance between us and plucked the pouch from my hands.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“Bone, it’s obviously not fine. You’re—”