He rinsed her hair, then just stood there under the spray with her. Jesus. Just fucking do it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her naked before. “I’m going to take off your sundress now and get you cleaned up. You tell me if you’ve got any problems with this and I’ll stop.”
Slowly, he reached down behind her and gathered her dress up, then pulled it up over her waist to her arms. “Baby, raise your arms for me.” She did, and he slipped the material over her head and tossed it in a soggy pile on the shower floor. With even more care, he slid her panties down her thighs until they fell and caught on her ankles. Throughout the entire process, she full-body leaned against him, shifting herself in response to his movements. At least she was aware of him, comfortable with him, and responsive to him—to a certain extent anyway.
He squirted his body wash on a rag and began at her shoulders, rubbing the cloth over her skin. Scars and cuts and still-fading yellow bruises marred her flesh. The sight of her skin reinforced his conviction never to allow anyone to control her life. Or hurt her ever again. If there was anything—anything at all—he could do to take away the pain of her grandmother’s death, he’d do it. He’d happily carry the burden for her.
After the shower, he toweled her off, dressed her, and helped her lie down on the bed so he could get his own shower and get dressed for what was to come.
Twenty minutes later, he led her down the stairs and out his front door. Her grip on his hand was firm, too firm to be normal, but it was something.
A bruised sky hung over them. A low rumble of thunder sounded from the west, threatening to rip open the clouds and pour grief over them. Xander’s guts began trembling. He fucking hated storms. But for her, to give her the opportunity to be at Gale’s funeral, he would suck it up.
He guided her across to the meadow of his yard to a path between two old trees. Green forest engulfed them the moment they entered. The sound of their feet treading on the moss-covered trail was the only noise. When had he ever heard things so quiet? He hadn’t. Ever. Cemetery Hill rose before them. “It’s only a bit farther, but it’s all up hill. You tell me if you get tired. Okay?” He waited for her to answer, but she didn’t, just kept walking beside him, her eyes straight forward.
Isleen’s breath quickened from the exertion of walking uphill so he wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her tight next to his body, hoping to take some of the effort from her steps. Part of him was tempted to carry her, but maybe the exertion would be good for her and allow her to actually sleep tonight.
The path ended abruptly at the bald hilltop. White slabs of stone jutted out of the earth at crazy angles. The men, women, children, and babies buried underneath those markers were the first settlers of the area. Dad stood at the head of an open grave, staring down into the pit as if he himself were about to be buried alive. Roweena and Matt were together on one side of the grave.
It was no surprise Dad wanted Gale buried on the property. The guy was probably going to erect a tent and live on top of her grave. Even as the thought crossed Xander’s mind, he realized he might do the same thing if the roles had been reversed and something had happened to Isleen.
He led Isleen to the open grave, stopping across from Row and Matt. If ever a coffin could be called beautiful, it was this one. The polished wood had been carved with flowing swirls of flowers and birds. It was ornate enough for royalty, but pretty enough for a princess.
Isleen’s breath caught, and Xander heard her heart banging around inside her chest like it wanted to escape and jump in the grave with Gale. She was seeing this. No more zoned out. He wrapped both arms around her, holding her tight, wishing he had words to make this easier on her, but she had to feel the grief. Needed to feel it in order to heal. She clung to him, twisting his shirt in her grip.
“I’m here,” he whispered against the top of her still-damp head. “I’m with you.”
Dad looked up at them, his face haggard from the destructive power of grief. Only this time, he didn’t look through Xander. For the first time in decades, his gaze remained. Flames of the old rejection and shame heated Xander’s skin and dampened his pits. He slammed a lid on those emotions, shifted his attention from Dad to Isleen, and refused to look at his father. This was about Isleen’s need for closure, not his dad randomly deciding Xander existed.
“I owe you an explanation.” Dad’s words were spoken more calmly than Xander had expected, but then silence followed. Only when it became as uncomfortable as a virulent case of jock itch did Xander finally look at Dad. His father’s eyes softened, his face crumpled, and moisture slicked his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought—”