Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) (18 page)

When her mom had been alive, Roger had been funny and focused and driven and so incredibly meticulous he could juggle several projects at once. It was what had made him such a great vineyard manager. Then he’d lost his true love and it was as if he couldn’t concentrate through the loss.

“What’s the news, Dad?”

“I officially got the job at the tasting room,” Roger said, and it took everything Emerson had not to cry. She felt her eyes burn and her throat close up, but she held strong. If she started crying now, she might not stop. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing. “I start Saturday. I know it’s your crazy day, but they want to train me and—”

“We’ll work it out.” Emerson leaned in and kissed his jaw. “Whatever the schedule is, we’ll work it out. I am so proud of you.”

“It’s just a job,” Roger said but everyone there knew it was more than that. It was his first real attempt to move on. To put the loss behind him and find a new start—just like Dax had promised.

“Congrats, Mr. Blake,” Dax said as though he had nothing to do with making this moment possible. “I’ll go make those floats now.”

He sent Emerson a wink, and before she could thank him properly, he disappeared behind the swinging doors and into the kitchen. Emerson pulled out her phone and swiped a text.

Thank you for everything.

It was just four little words, but they seemed to mean so much more. Simple, and from the heart. Her cell immediately buzzed back. She looked at the screen and laughed.

Stop being weird.

Emerson had promised herself nothing would change after their night, but that had been before today. Before Dax made her sister feel special and helped her dad find his way. Before the hug by the mailbox and before Emerson realized that, in fact, everything had changed.

And it wasn’t weird at all.

W
ere you aiming for my nuts or was it a lucky shot?” Dax said after the initial body-jolting impact and feeling of WTF? passed. Grimacing through the shooting pain in his inner thigh, and knowing it was going to last days, he looked at the casing on the floor. Had it been an inch higher Dax would be singing soprano instead of chewing off Fucking New Guy’s head.

Assuming, of course, that each deputy was carrying real ammo instead of Simunition, a nonlethal training ammunition that all of the guns had been loaded with for today’s CQB training.

“No, sir, I saw the shot and took it,” FNG’s voice came through the headset seconds after his team had gotten in position and were awaiting their superior’s command.

“And shot the hostage in the dick?”

“I didn’t know you were the hostage, sir,” he said, breaking what was supposed to be radio silence.

Dax wasn’t the hostage. In this training scenario he was the kidnapper, but in real life, it wasn’t always clear who was who, which was why waiting for orders was imperative. Instead, the kid had taken an unsanctioned shot, ignored a direct order, and was too busy playing hero to play by the rules.

Dax looked out the window of the one-story, nondescript house that sat in the middle of the Napa Valley Public Safety Training Center and pinpointed the little shit’s location on a rooftop a few buildings away. “Why, because I wasn’t tied up and was holding a gun?”

“At the sheriff’s head, sir. You were holding a gun at the sheriff’s head.”

“He isn’t the sheriff today, now is he? This is a drill.” Dax looked over his shoulder at Jonah, who was tied to the chair and wearing a bright-ass hostage shirt. He gave a
Who is this guy?
look, to which Jonah responded,
FNG. What do you expect?

Uh, not to be shot.

Jonah gave a
Sorry, bro
shrug. That was it. His nuts were nearly shot off and all he got was a
Sorry, bro
? And yeah, the kid was an FNG, so it was expected that he’d be a little jumpy and a lot hyped on his first training—everyone was. But to shoot the possible hostage ten minutes into the exercise?

“That’s a pretty big misshot, Gomer,” Dax said into his headset. His name wasn’t Gomer, but it would do until the kid learned how to control his premature trigger problem. “Your hostage is dead.”

“Dead, sir?”

Dax pointed dramatically to his package, knowing the kid could see him through the rifle’s scope. “Yeah, you shot his goods off, so I imagine he won’t be of much value to the captors, who now know your location, by the way. And your team? They’re pissed because it’s game over. So want to come down here and bring me an ice pack so you can tell me what you’re going to do to ensure you never misshoot again, and I can make sure I don’t swell up to the size of a grapefruit?” There was a long pause, just static on the line. “Gomer?”

“Uh, yes, sir?”

“I can see your mirror of a forehead puckered at my two o’clock. Did you misunderstand my command?”

“No, sir.” But he still didn’t move.

“Just making sure because ‘We need the hostage alive’ seemed like a pretty clear order to me. Almost as clear as ‘Bring me a damn ice pack,’ yet I still don’t see your freckles moving toward me.” Another moment of hesitation and Dax allowed himself to smile—a little. Maybe the kid wasn’t as stupid as he thought. “We were playing Rescue the Hostage and you killed the hostage,” he lied, seeing how the kid would respond. “Game over. Now be a man and bring me ice.”

Dax watched as Gomer stood and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “On my way, sir.”

“Aw, Jesus. Is he serious?” Jonah mumbled and Dax muted their headpiece so Gomer wouldn’t hear.

“I can’t believe this.” Jonah saw the kid tackle the external ladder, and he jerked back and forth in the chair, because the only thing that had been made clearer than that the hostage was to be rescued alive was that the game was not over until the commanding officer said so.

And Dax, although their training officer, was not their commanding officer. Jonah was, and that kid had just made a tactical error that in a real-life situation could have cost him his life.

Today, it might cost him his job. This training op was a mix of deputies and rookies, a way to increase training skills while creating an environment to see who would move up the ranks. Gomer started out with a strong showing at the range, then went lone wolf the second he saw the shot.

Dax would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered the same thing a hundred times before, only he knew that when in a situation where the information was constantly changing, deferring to the person with the widest vantage point was critical.

“Just cut me loose,” Jonah said, tugging on his hands. “Can’t make him piss his pants if I’m yelling while zip-tied to a chair.”

“As far as I’m concerned the game is still on.” Dax gave him the
Sorry, bro
shrug and Jonah liked it about as much as Dax liked getting shot in the goods. “And don’t count Gomer out just yet.” Jonah stopped rocking in the chair long enough to lift a brow. “What? The kid’s got something. That shot was impressive, a hundred yards with Simunition is a damn fine shot. Had I not stood when I did he would have caught me in the chest.”

Dax patted his Kevlar vest.

“But he didn’t,” Jonah said. “He shot without having clearance or a clear shot.”

“But he saw a shot and didn’t hesitate.” Something that Dax couldn’t say.

He’d had a shot, was given clearance, then looked through the scope . . . and knew the target. It was more recognition, really, a familiar face Dax had seen in the neighboring village walking with his kid, holding his hand. And surely a guy who loved his kid that much couldn’t be the right target.

That was it. A simple thread of connection and Dax had hesitated long enough to give away his position and put a group of guys he considered family, who were counting on him to have their backs, in the middle of a seriously screwed-up situation. And the guy who swung hands with his kid had launched the mortar that took out Dax’s knee.

“He took the shot,” Dax repeated.

“And hit the hostage.”

“I’m not the hostage,” Dax reminded Jonah, loving to see his older brother squirm. “I’m the captor.”

“Yeah, I’m tied to a chair with hostage written across my chest in neon yellow, you had a gun at my head. All it took was saying to him, ‘Hey, man, I’m the good guy,’ and he buys it,” Jonah said, and Dax could hear the frustration in his voice.

He could also hear the regret. Jonah didn’t want to let this kid go. He saw in him the same potential Dax did, but overlooking a mistake this epic would be difficult. Because as team leader, Jonah decided who made the cut and who worked the desk. And if he put his faith in the wrong person, someone would die—and he’d have to live with that.

“Trust your gut,” Dax said.

“My gut says he ignored direct orders and broke radio silence and,
Jesus
,” Jonah said. “There he is all sweaty and winded, running with his rifle and a freaking ice pack.”

“The rest of your guys are still in position,” Dax pointed out. “And yeah, he messed up. But he did it in a training situation. In front of his team. He won’t make that mistake again.”

Once upon a time, he’d been that same pumped-up, high-strung soldier jonesing for his first real combat situation to prove he was a hero. Then he’d met Sergeant Conley, who corralled all of that anger and energy and turned Dax into an elite soldier who knew that heroes were saved for comic books and action flicks, and he was being trained to do a job. “The kid just needs a mentor.”

“You’re applying,” Jonah said and Dax couldn’t help but notice that the question mark at the end was missing.

He shook his head. “Not happening.”

“What I meant was that you already applied,” Jonah said, smiling. “I wrote your résumé last week and sent it in. Congratulations, the job is yours. Now untie me before I kick you in the nuts.”

Dax wasn’t going to untie his brother, just like he wasn’t going to take that job. If someone had to make the hard calls, it wasn’t going to be him. Ever again. Although the thought of staying in St. Helena didn’t make his chest itch as badly anymore, the idea of playing judge and jury for another fifteen years was enough to take him under—and he’d just remembered how to breathe again.

“Until I hear you say ‘game over,’ this training is still a go.” When Jonah just smiled, Dax cleared his throat. “And thanks for the endorsement,” he said truthfully, because a guy like Jonah having enough faith in Dax to send in his résumé meant a lot. “But I heard back from Fallon. The job is mine. I can start as soon as Kyle gives me the all-clear.”

Something he needed to talk to the doc about at his post-op appointment that Adam was taking him to tomorrow.

“Congrats,” Jonah said with equal emotion. “Fallon runs a tight ship and they’ll be lucky to have you.” Jonah smiled, but his tone was dead serious. “Any team would be lucky to have you, Dax. Including mine.”

Dax wasn’t so sure about that. In San Jose he would be hired muscle with some serious skills behind him. No connections, no shared history, just a former sniper with a reputation and a job to do. Here, surrounded by family and friends, he was afraid he’d hesitate. Connections did that to a person, screwed with their head and contributed to making crap decisions.

He thought of Emerson and the way she’d leaned into him the other day, as if he were the only thing keeping her standing. How good it had felt to be the sole grounding force in her vortex of chaos. And how instead of pulling back like he should have, he’d pulled her closer, encouraged her to lean on him as if he was applying to be her own personal hero—then agreed to do the CQB training knowing he was going to leave.

Yeah, crap decisions.

“This one is delish,” Harper moaned around bits of homemade pita. “It’s so juicy and spicy.”

“It’s my Greek twist on a slider. I use ground lamb and short ribs for the patty, like my mom did, but then put my secret roasted red pepper and caviar aioli on top,” Emerson said, knowing it was a
front-runner. The dish was complex and rich without being snooty, and walked that fine line between sophistication and street food.

“This is a definite menu must-have,” Harper said, shoving the rest of her slider in her mouth, then licking her fingers clean. “I could eat this every day.”

That was exactly what Emerson was going for. A menu that could
win over the judges but remain approachable to the locals. Delectable
without pretentiousness. And if she was being honest, it had heart too.

Smiling, she took a sip of wine and leaned back on the lounge chair, content to just sit by and watch the trees blow in the breeze.

It was Sunday afternoon and Emerson had a rare day off, so she’d decided to spend it sharing a bottle of wine with Harper on her balcony, sampling a few ideas she had for Street Eats. They were also celebrating Emerson’s Blow Your Cork earnings—which after the last event put her just two grand shy of her goal. She still hadn’t found a truck, but with her menu taking shape and the RSVP in the hands of the committee, she was feeling hopeful.

Something she hadn’t felt in years.

“Speaking of delish,” Harper said with a secret smile. “What’s up with you and the beefcake?”

“Nothing,” Emerson said.

Harper snorted. “Nothing, huh? Then why are you flushed?”

“I am not.” She touched her cheek and—this was becoming ridiculous.

First the flutters, then the hoping, and now flushing? It was like she was turning into one of
those
girls. And she had worked her entire life not to be one of
those
girls. “It’s because he hugged me.”

Harper froze, second slider halfway to her lips. “Hugged? You let him hug you? As in putting his arms around you and sharing an embrace?”

“I hugged him back.” And it was a fantastic hug too, all sweet and gentle and warm and—
oh God
, there went the flutters.

“Is he okay?” Harper leaned forward, shock and a little smart-ass lacing her features. “Are you okay?”