Deadline (Sandra Brown)

full.”
    She put her hand to her forehead and rubbed it with her fingertips, noting that they were chilled. “He loved me and the boys to distraction. He was devoted to us. I’ll go to my own grave believing that his death was a tragic accident, not a suicide. Jeremy…” She waved her hand. “Everything associated with him was terrible, including the way he died.”
    She glanced at him, thinking he might dispute that point. He didn’t. “But I would gladly go through the whole Jeremy episode of my life again, I would endure anything, if I could have my father back. If only for long enough to ask him if he did it intentionally, and if he did, why ? I’d ask him how he could have abandoned me so cruelly?”
    Dawson’s eyes seemed to be lit by an internal fire that burned through her. After a long moment, he relaxed his intensity, stood up, and extended his hand to help her up. “It’s late, and you must be exhausted.” He left her only long enough to get a drinking glass from the kitchen, then they climbed the stairs together.
    “How’s the knee?”
    “I’ll have a bruise tomorrow.”
    “You need some skid-proof socks.”
    “I’ll put them on my Christmas list.”
    When they reached the bedroom where the boys slept, she opened the door and peeked inside. “I don’t think they’ve moved.”
    “You’re a good mother, Amelia.”
    His tone had the ring of unmitigated sincerity, and when she came back around to face him, she saw that his expression was just as serious.
    “Thank you.”
    “You would never abandon them, would you?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    “What about him? Would he?”
    Jeremy. His murder would have orphaned Hunter and Grant. Faking his death would be abandonment of another sort entirely. As cruel as a suicide.
    Gruffly, she said, “I appreciate your hospitality. Good night.”
    *  *  *
     
    Dawson went into his bedroom, closed the door, and leaned back, gently knocking his head against it as though trying to beat some sense into it. If the door had had a lock, he would have locked himself in. Tonight he’d protected Amelia and her family from the storm, as well as from any unknown perils.
    But who or what was going to protect her from him?
    Her heartbreak over her father’s death had almost broken his determination not to touch her again. He didn’t trust himself to lay a hand on her, even in a comforting gesture.
    He moved to the window. The wind still howled, the rainfall was torrential, and occasional lightning revealed the thick cloud cover. The storm hadn’t yet blown itself out. He looked toward Amelia’s house. No car. No Stef.
    While Amelia had been preparing the boys for bed, he’d slipped back down to the kitchen and retrieved his pills and a bottle of bourbon. Now he sat down on the side of the bed and self-medicated with two tablets and two slugs of whiskey. He undressed and got into bed.
    Lightning flickered across the ceiling. Thunder rumbled. It was a menacing night, but he didn’t have to worry about Amelia, Hunter, and Grant. Tonight they were safe. Which was probably why he was able to fall asleep faster than usual.
    The nightmare left him in peace for the better part of the night. But it was merely stalking the perimeter of his subconscious, biding its time as it gathered momentum, because when it pounced, it did so with renewed ferocity.
    “Dawson! Hey, man, up here!”
    He turned toward the direction of the voice. The sun was blinding, silhouetting one of the soldiers against its glare on the crest of the ridge. Dawson raised his hand to shield his eyes and, making out Hawkins, waved.
    “Dawson?”
    “Dawson, get up here.”
    “Be right there.”
    “I ain’t gonna wait forever. You want a story, haul your ass up here.”
    “Let me grab my laptop.”
    “Fucking now, man!”
    “Dawson.”
    As he made his way up the unforgiving incline, time and again he lost his footing in the loose sand and rock. It seemed an endless climb. Hawkins became increasingly impatient, urging him to hurry. He was out of breath by the time he reached the ridge. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, stinging them. He tried to wipe it away, but the salty film remained, so it was through blurred vision that he saw Hawkins grinning at him.
    Then—“No!”
    “Dawson.”
    As always the noise ricocheting inside his skull woke him. He sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, futilely trying to wipe it from his eyes with a hand that was bathed in the brine of his own terror,