Tangled Up in Blue Page 20

  After about 20 minutes at a gallop, Keegan slows to a trot and turns east toward the river, following it for a couple of miles until she comes to a spot where the water’s shallow. She urges her horse across, and I follow, squinting into the rising sun. On the other side, Keegan breaks into a gallop again, racing up a heavily wooded hill. And again, I follow.

  When we reach the ridge, she slows, turning back to smile at me. “We're going down there.” She points about 100 yards down, where I see a rocky bluff jutting out beyond the trees. Way below the bluff, I can see sun-speckled water.

  “Is that the same river we just crossed?” My voice sounds heavy, froggy. I've barely spoken since I got up with what felt like a lump of concrete pressing on my chest and bile in my throat. All fucking night, I kept hearing Keegan's voice: Blue, you're my hero. She has no idea how horribly wrong she is.

  “Yep, it sure is. The Illinois. It curves back around and runs under the bluff. See that old cabin down there?” She points at a weathered A-frame that faces the bluff and is just visible through the trees. “That's where we're going.” She kicks her gelding's sides, and he starts down a steep, rocky path toward the cabin.

  There’s a hitching post next to the cabin. We tie up our horses, then use the two log steps to reach the front porch.

  Keegan lifts her face into the sun with a happy smile. “My great grandfather built this cabin. Virginia's father. He told everyone he needed it to get away from his wife.” She snorts. “If Virginia's mother was anything like her, I understand why.”

  I’ve got my face raised to the early-morning sun too. “Yeah, Virginia is pretty intense.”

  Keegan puts her arms around me and tucks her face into my neck. My arms tighten around her body. If I could only shake the sensation that I can’t breathe. I know it’s psychosomatic, but I feel like a fucking elephant is sitting on my chest.

  “I saw the way Virginia was looking at you yesterday.” Keegan's voice is muffled by my shirt. She raises her head and looks into my face. “The disgusting thing is that if I'd told her who you are—and who your father was—she'd have treated you completely different. Which is why I didn't tell her. She's the world's biggest snob.” She is studying me. “You okay? You look a little. . .off.”

  Don't fucking cry. I twist my face to the side so she can’t see it. “I'm fine, bar girl. Any time I'm with you, I'm always going to be fine.”

  We stand there for a moment, my chin pressed against her forehead, our eyes closed. When I open my eyes, I see a pair of bald eagles circling lazily above the bluff. “Hey look, two bald eagles.” I point them out.

  Keegan shades her eyes and watches the pair plunge toward the river, then soar back up and sweep over us again. “Yeah, we see them every winter here. Aren't they beautiful?”

  She gives me the soft sweet smile that’s now imprinted on my soul. “Did you know bald eagles mate for life?”

  It should be a precious moment. I should say something romantic. She’s practically begging me to say something worthy of a hero, of the knight in shining armor she thinks I am. But I can’t speak because of the acid guilt choking my throat. So I just stand there.

  After a moment, Keegan grabs my hand. “Come on, I want to show you the inside of the cabin. And then I'm going to really make your day.”

  The door opens with a creak, and she pulls me inside. It’s chilly but quaint, full of hand-carved furniture and quilts. In one corner is an old-fashioned, wood-burning stove. In the middle of the combination living room/kitchen, a staircase made out of logs rises to a loft. I can see a quilt-covered bed up there and a wooden dresser.

  “Wow,” I say, “This is really cool.”

  “Yeah. I used to come here all the time when we were living at the ranch. It's my favorite place to be. I used to sit up in the loft or out on the front porch and write everything down in my journal. Typical girl stuff.” She blushes. “Only drawback is there's no bathroom, just an outhouse in the back. I always worried about snakes in there. Don't know why they never added on a bathroom.”

  Keegan sighs and walks around the room, running her fingers over old photographs hung on the log walls. “That's Virginia as a little girl, with her parents.” She taps on a black and white picture of a somber-looking girl with a long brown braid. I step closer to the picture and stare at it in amazement.

  “She looks exactly like you. Or you look exactly like her, I guess would be more accurate.”

  Keegan groans. “Everybody says that. I hate hearing it.” She touches the picture again. “Apparently, Virginia had a pretty awful childhood even though she was rich and privileged. Still. . .it's not an excuse.” She shakes her head and moves away from the picture.

  I spot another one, a close-up of a blond teenager with a Farrah Fawcett hairstyle and haunting blue eyes. She’s on a horse. Next to her is what looks like a much younger Mark Crenshaw, also on a horse. “Is that your mother?” I touch the photo. It’s hard not to react to the blonde's tender expression.

  Keegan nods and swallows hard, then puts her hand over mine so that our intermingled fingers rest on the picture. “Yeah. Wasn't she beautiful? My dad says he fell in love with her the first moment he saw her. They met at a rodeo when my mom was still in high school. My dad used to be a bull rider. 'Til he broke his back. And his leg in two places. And a bunch of other bones.”

  I'd noticed when Mark Crenshaw got up from the table that he walked slowly, with a limp. I let my arm drop from the photograph, but Keegan's fingers continue to trace her mother's face. Her brows knit in a pained frown, and her eyes fill with tears. “God, I miss her so much.”

  I run my hand down her back, but I don’t say anything. After a moment, Keegan wipes her eyes. “Virginia never forgave my dad for talking my mom into getting married right out of high school. She never went to college, never got a chance to meet the 'right' kind of husband, at least in Virginia's mind.” She piles her hair on top of her head before letting it cascade around her shoulders again. That's all it takes to make the crotch area of my pants tighter than a duck's ass in a windstorm, as Monti used to say.

  Unbelievable, Blue.

  “Virginia cut her off, and neither one of my parents was very good at keeping a job, so we kept having to move.” She takes a deep breath in and blows it out slowly. “They'd make up with Virginia, and she'd let us all move back here to the ranch. Then they'd get in another huge fight, and we'd move out again. It was ridiculous.”

  Keegan shifts her gaze again to the picture of her grandmother as a little girl. “Then my mom got sick, and they had no health insurance. You know what it costs to get cancer treatment in this country if you have no health insurance?” Her mouth twists bitterly. “Too fucking much.” She puts her hands over her face.

  “Keegan. . .” I try to load her name with compassion, love, understanding. My voice still sounds weird.

  She takes my arm. “Anyway, they waited way too long to tell Virginia about it. 'Til we were about to be evicted from the trailer park we were living in. 'Til my mom was beyond saving. Virginia paid all the medical bills and let me and Buick move back to the ranch. But not my dad. She was so angry at him. That's why I'm still shocked she invited him here for Thanksgiving.”

  “Maybe she's not as bad as you think she is.”

  She gave me a look. “Maybe. Anyway, I don't want to think about that right now. Look at this picture.” She pulls me toward the back wall, where a faded black and white, clearly much older than the others, hangs in an elaborate frame. “These are my great-great-great grandparents, who founded the ranch back in 1893. Funny how no one smiled in pictures back then, huh?”

  I peer at the woman in the photo, clothed head to toe in some god-awful black dress. Even in the blurry picture, I can still see the family resemblance. “She looks like you, too.” I twirl a strand of Keegan's hair around my finger. “A long line of strong, beautiful women. Too bad about the clothes they had to wear back then.”

  That makes her smile, and then she shive
rs. “I wish we had time to light the stove. It really makes it cozy in here.” She tugs on my arm, guiding me toward the log stairs that lead to the loft, and throws a seductive smile over her shoulder. “We'll have to think of another way to stay warm.”

  More quilts hang on the loft railing. You can look out a circular window cut high up in the front wall and see over the bluff to the gleaming river below. Beyond that are winter-brown pastures, dotted with hundreds of cattle. “This place really is something,” I mutter.

  Keegan wraps her arms around me from behind and pulls me to the four-poster log bed, feverishly unbuttoning my flannel shirt and yanking off my undershirt. And naturally, I reciprocate, lifting the three layers she's wrapped herself in with one swift gesture. Then she climbs into my lap and closes her eyes as I take my time removing her bra, easing each strap down her shoulders slowly with my teeth and sliding my hand around her to release the clasp.

  “Blue.” I will never get tired of hearing her say my name like that. I toss the bra on the floor and roll my entire face over her breasts. I’ll never get tired of this either. I’ve just taken one nipple in my mouth when she says it.

  “Blue, you're my hero.” She means to be kind and loving. She means to build me up, make me feel good. But the word is like a lit match thrown into a bucket of gasoline. It sends me jolting to my feet.

  I've been able to tamp down my fury, my self-hatred, in the last few weeks. Things have been good. The asshole stalking Keegan has apparently moved on. I’m doing great with my music and at least not failing any of my other classes. And Keegan has been on fire, at the newspaper and in her classes. I’ve loved just watching the joy she gets out of succeeding. She’s so unbelievably fucking smart and passionate. I am in awe of her.

  I think about her all day long. I can’t wait to curl up with her at night. I am crazy about her. But I’ve also been worrying that I’m dragging Keegan down. I have certainly been lying to her. It’s clear she’s falling for me too. At least, for the person she thinks I am. I need to tell her the truth. But what happens when I do?

  In that one split second, with that one word, all my raging emotions detonate inside me.

  At least I don’t dump Keegan on the floor. I bring her up with me and stand there holding her, staring at the red mark around her nipple where I ripped my mouth away. Then, without even thinking, my body rushes toward the wall and slams us both into it. Not hard enough to hurt, really, but hard enough to scare the shit out of me, anyway.

  Keegan seems to think I am being all alpha male and passionate. And she seems to like it. She grabs my face and kisses the hell out of me, wrapping her legs tight around my waist and using her thighs to pull me against her. She still has her jeans and boots on.

  I can still do this. I can still act the way she wants me to act. I kiss her back, hard, pressing my lips into hers 'til I can feel the ridges of her teeth through her lips. I let her slide down the wall til her feet touch the floor. Then I grind into her, my whole body pushing into hers as if it can disappear inside her. I pull her hands above her head and run my tongue from her collarbone up her throat, tasting the cold air and the wind-swept plains on her skin. Then I kiss her again, a little softer this time.

  But then she says it again. “Blue. You are my hero.” She makes this sweet little moan right in my mouth and then turns her face to the side, her eyes closed.

  Shit. Shut the fuck up. And suddenly, I am furious. Not at her, not really. But that word, it just fucks with me every time I hear it. That word sets off a fucking flash bang in my head, filling it with memories, one after another: Cunny's tore-up body, his chest heaving with a final breath; Monti and Hud, burned and lifeless; Acrid, black smoke stinging my eyes and throat as I screamed and cried. That word makes me nuts.

  I hold Keegan's face between my hands, squeezing it, squeezing her mouth closed. “Don't call me that. Just don't call me that!” I don’t mean to sound so harsh. Her eyes widen with shock. I release her face, run my knuckle down her cheek. “I'm sorry, Keegan. I'm sorry. It’s just that. . .I just. . .”

  The images are still crashing into my brain: The CASEVAC chopper ride where my seared back had me in agony; the debriefing on base where I realized everyone thought I was the lone survivor of yet another insurgent attack. Where I realized they didn't know I'd been AWOL, didn't know what the Buffalo was really doing near the village when it was hit. Where I kept my mouth shut so they'd go on thinking I was a fucking hero.

  I keep seeing my face that first night after the guys died, when I stood hunched over a sink, staring into the mirror at a bruised, haggard bastard I didn't even recognize. A lying bastard.

  Tell her, you lying bastard. Tell her the truth.

  Keegan is staring at me with the same frightened expression she had the first morning we woke up together. I slump down on the bed and bury my face in my hands. I can’t stop shaking. The bile is back, inching up my throat, dripping acid into my stomach. I’m about to be sick in Keegan's favorite place.

  I bend over, willing myself not to lose control. Keegan puts her soft hands on my face and I close my eyes.

  “Blue.” Her voice trembles. “Blue, what is it? What's wrong?”

  “I can't do this anymore, Keegan.” I open my eyes, not even trying to keep the tears away now. “Not unless you know the truth about me. I've never told anyone this. Not even my mother. Especially not my mother. But I need to tell you. We can't go any further until I tell you the truth.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Show Me a Hero

  Keegan

  Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.

  That F. Scott Fitzgerald quote slithers across my memory as Blue grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles show white. I read the quote somewhere a few years ago and wrote it down in my journal, liking the irony and poignancy of it, but not really understanding what it means. But now, staring at Blue’s tense face as he drives away from his mother’s house, the words swirl around my brain with new meaning. I’ve had a sick feeling in my stomach ever since Blue told me what happened while he was a soldier. Over there.

  Afghanistan. I’m not even sure I can find it on a map. I’ve never given the place, the war that’s kind of sat on the back burner most of the time I was growing up, much thought. I’m a privileged little shit, self-righteously skewering politicians in my blog, keeping the campus powers that be honest―or so I like to think―from the safety of my newspaper office. And all the while, people like Blue are being shipped halfway around the world to fight and die in a strange, hostile landscape, doing things I can’t even imagine having to do, making decisions I will never have to make.

  There are girls over in Afghanistan too, girls with the same hopes and dreams I have, girls―like the 14-year-old Blue tried to help―who will never get to make the choices I take for granted. Like who to love, who to marry. Or whether to get married at all. Blue tried to be a hero, to come to the rescue of one of those girls, just like he did for me. And it’s cost him everything.

  Things have changed between us, been weird ever since Blue choked out the story of how the guys in his patrol died. Why they died. And how he lied about it. He’d twisted the old quilt on the bed in the cabin with his fists until I thought it might rip apart, and he sobbed the words with a self-loathing tone that broke my heart. I reached out to comfort him, running my hands down his heaving shoulders and then up to his lips, trying to stifle what was coming out.

  But he’d yanked away from me, stumbling off the bed and leaning against the loft railing. For a moment, I thought he was going to hurl himself over it. Instead, he spoke quietly, not looking at me. “So now you know, Keegan. You know what I did. What I am.”

  I wanted to rush to him, throw my arms around him and hold on for dear life. But I wasn’t sure how he’d react. So I sat there and searched for the perfect words, the just-right sentences that would take away his pain. I wasn’t judging him. I knew I might have done the same. I wasn’t horrified by what he’d done.
I was horrified by what he’d been forced to do.

  Ever since he told me, I’ve been trying to imagine the agony and guilt and fear that must have saturated Blue’s every second. He’d tried to help a girl over there. He'd said her name was Aziza. He meant to get her back to the base, back to the aid worker who’d promised to smuggle her to a sympathetic uncle in the capital city. He meant to be a hero.

  No good deed goes unpunished. My dad says that a lot.

  Hot, stinging tears fill my eyes. I shudder, afraid of what might happen to Blue if anyone else finds out. He could get into serious trouble, that much I know. I could lose him, just when I am realizing how important he is to me. Just when I am certain I cannot lose him.

  I should have said something deep, something comforting there in the cabin. But I had nothing to say. So we rode the horses back in silence and said a solemn goodbye to Virginia, my dad, Buick and Kendra. They must have wondered what was wrong, but no one asked any questions. Kendra and Buick were probably too starry-eyed over each other to even notice. Buick offered to bring Kendra back to The Embassy on Sunday, so she was staying on at the ranch. She squeezed my arm and smiled as we left, her eyes bright and happy.

  “Now that’s something I would never have seen coming,” I muttered in the car as we pulled away from the ranch, Kendra and Buick pressed together, waving from the front porch.

  “Huh?” Blue didn’t seem to notice.

  “Nothing.”