Free Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie by J.T. Ellison

her food, ply her with wine. He had gotten her drunk one night and made love to her, and she’d said his name at the end, softly, but there, full in her mouth, and he’d held her so tight she could barely breathe.
    Things weren’t right between them, not at all, but she needed him. He was a part of her soul, as important to her as her hands. But she needed him to understand her hurt, to understand her desire for a little time apart. She loved him desperately, but looking at him just reminded her of his betrayal. If she hadn’t been shot, hadn’t been through the horror of the surgeries and the dysphonia, she would have cut off her nose to spite her face and stopped talking to him. This seemed a better punishment, forcing him to watch her struggle.
    She had faced the abyss, and turned away, not accepting its lure, and yet here she was, still being penalized.
    Two words. That’s all she really needed to hear from him. Two words that he danced around.
    God, if he would just say I’m sorry.

CHAPTER TEN
     
    Baldwin watched Taylor walking down the street toward the drive. Why she was on foot, he didn’t know, unless she and Sam had words and Taylor bolted from the car. Which was entirely possible. Taylor was a cactus with everyone these days.
    He thoughtfully chewed the end of a pencil. She was truly struggling, and he’d tried everything. She wasn’t letting him in, and after four weeks of begging and pleading to let him help her, he was still getting the big brush-off. He was getting tired of her obstinacy, but didn’t know what else to do. And he had his own demons to wrestle.
    He watched her stop and glance up at the window. He waved and she waved back. She looked almost happy for the first time in weeks. Maybe things would be all right tonight. He smiled at her, then went back to his desk. Felt like he was turning his back on her. Maybe he was.
    His chest was heavy. He was losing her. And after watching her get shot, going down on the floor in a bloody heap, then praying for days that she’d wake up, that she’d be normal, then the constant fighting…all the tension had drained him. She wasn’t exactly giving him a lot to work with—the occasional smile, a laugh here or there. Some emails and handwritten notes.
    She’d pulled into herself, shut him out. He knew she was angry and upset. Hell, he didn’t blame her. But he also felt like she was being unfair. She was fighting her own battle, and not giving him any consideration. He was beginning to have his doubts that she loved him enough to forgive him. He should have told her, yes. But she was carrying the grudge like a mantle, swinging it from end to end with bull’s horns.
    She couldn’t experience the emotions he was feeling. How could she? It was his son that was missing.
    His son. He’d only found out about him last year, when the child had just turned four years old. The boy’s mother, Charlotte Douglas, was dead. Their affair was a momentary fling during a high-pressure case, and when she’d gotten pregnant, she told him she’d aborted their child.
    And he, damn himself, had believed her. Stopped speaking to her, fled to Nashville. He hadn’t seen her in years.
    Charlotte had carried and delivered the child in secret, gotten him adopted out, and never told Baldwin of the boy’s existence. All Baldwin wanted was to find his son and bring him home.
    Charlotte hadn’t named the boy on the birth certificate. Another slap. Baldwin knew he shouldn’t be getting so emotionally involved—this was the kind of situation that often ended badly, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d never wanted kids, but suddenly felt the need for family. For permanence. For marriage. Three kids and a dog, no. But something to anchor him to an otherwise elusive world.
    He thought Taylor wanted that, too, but the shooting seemed to shake something loose inside her.
    Baldwin needed to let that all go for the time being. He had an emergency meeting to attend. Atlantic