Tribute

“Cilla’s here. She’s all right.”
    “What do you mean she’s—”
    “Can’t go into it now.”
    “Okay.”
    “Her truck’s about a half mile down, headed toward town. I need you to send somebody down to get whatever she picked up today out of it. Hennessy was at her, and now the cops have him.”
    “Holy sh—”
    “I’ll call you back later when I can talk about it.”
    He clicked off, glanced at his hand and saw he’d pounded it often and hard enough to draw some blood. Oddly, it helped.
    Deciding he was calm enough, Ford stepped back inside. Because she lay quiet, eyes closed, one arm over the dog, he opened the window seat to take out one of the throws stored inside. Her eyes opened when he draped it over her.
    “I’m not asleep. I was trying to remember how to meditate.”
    “Meditate?”
    “California, remember? Anyone living in California over a year must meet minimum meditation requirements. Unfortunately, I always sucked at it. Empty your mind? If I empty part of mine, something jumps right in to fill the void. And I know I’m babbling.”
    “It’s okay.” He sat on the edge of the couch, turned the bag of peas over to lay the colder side on her temple.
    “Ford, he really wanted to kill me.” Her eyes clung to his, and he saw the shadow of pain in them as she pushed herself up to sit. “It’s not like doing grand jetés through the woods while the reanimated psycho killer chases you. I’ve had people dislike me. My own mother from time to time. I’ve even had people try to hurt me. I dated this guy once who slapped me around good one night. One night,” she repeated. “He never got the chance to do it again. But even he didn’t hate me. He didn’t want me dead.
    “I don’t know how to resolve that someone does. I don’t know how to fit that into my life and deal with it.”
    “You don’t resolve it. You don’t resolve something that has no sanity or logic. And, Cilla, you are dealing with it. You did. You stopped him.”
    “A really lucky kick into seventy-, maybe eighty-year-old balls. I was so pissed , Ford, that I didn’t think. Do I stay in the truck, lock the doors, call nine-one-one, or you, or the half a dozen guys a half mile away like a rational person? No, I jump out and confront this . . . this lunatic who’s just tried to run me off the road, like he’s going to fear the sharp lash of my tongue. And I’m still so pissed when he starts shoving me, I don’t take off. Like I couldn’t outrun a man old enough to be my grandfather?”
    “You’re not a runner.” He laid his finger over her lips when she started to speak. “You’re not. Do I wish it had occurred to you to lock yourself in the truck and call me? Maybe. Because then I could’ve come speeding to the rescue. I could’ve kicked him in the balls. But the fact is, I feel some better knowing that when somebody tries to hurt you, you know how to take care of yourself.”
    “I could go a long time without having to take care of myself like that again.”
    “Me too.” He stroked her hair when she laid her head on his shoulder. “Me too.”
    And maybe he could’ve gone a little while longer without realizing he was in love with her. He could’ve strolled into that, the way he strolled across the road to her house. Casual and easy. Instead, he’d had it slammed into him, clutched in the meaty fist of fear and rage, in one hard and painful punch when he’d seen her sitting on the side of the road.
    Nothing to do about it now, he told himself. Bad, bad timing. What she needed now was a shoulder to lean on, somebody to get her a bag of frozen peas and offer a quiet place to . . . collect herself.
    "How’s the head?”
    “Strangely, it feels like I bashed it against a window.”
    “Will you take some aspirin?”
    “Yeah. And maybe a session in your hot tub. I’m a little stiff and sore. I got jostled around pretty good.”
    He had to fight to keep his grip on her from tightening, to stop himself from squeezing her against him. “I’ll set you up.”
    “Thanks.” She turned her head to brush her lips against his throat. “Thanks especially for helping me stay calm. You too,” she said, and kissed Spock.
    “All part of our post-trauma service here at the House of Sawyer.”
    He helped her downstairs. He flipped back the lid of the hot tub, hit the jets, while she took off her shirt. “Want the iPod?”
    “No, thanks. Maybe I’ll give meditation another shot.” She winced as