head and gazed back toward the ceiling. “Fires are like people. They show different motivations. Some are set as a demonstration of power, while others are an expression of passion, and many are simply designed for destruction.”
“Did your fires speak to you?”
“You mean the dumpster fires when I was twelve?”
“Of course.”
“They reminded me that I was still in control. That I could do anything I wanted.”
“Those are things a twelve-year-old in a challenging home would need to hear.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have to be the fire’s creator for it to talk to you?”
“No.” He tried to sit forward and reach for the cup and straw, but he winced and lay down. She took the cup and held the straw to his mouth. He raised his gaze to her, wrapped his lips around the straw, and sucked. Once he’d drained the cup, he released the straw and leaned back.
“How is Detective Bailey doing?” he asked. “He’s out there somewhere skulking and worrying, but I like him.”
She smiled. “Do you?”
“Want to hear a secret?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Gideon’s still in love with you.”
She stilled, calculating where this was coming from. “What?”
His eyes lightened with humor. “Don’t look so surprised, Detective.”
She glanced toward the door, wondering if Gideon had heard. Heat rose in her cheeks as she thought about him overhearing this conversation. Would he be angry or embarrassed or accepting? The thought concerned her more than she had expected. “That’s bull.”
The door opened, and Gideon strode in, his hat in hand.
“And now it’s a party,” Elijah said with a grin.
Gideon stood beside Joan. “One of my deputies is going door to door to see if there are any witnesses to your attack.”
“Then they’ll tell you what I told the deputy. Masked man. Worn jeans. Scuffed boots. It could describe many of the males in the area.”
“The officer tells me there was blood at the scene,” Gideon said.
“I have no doubt. We had quite the tussle.”
“You have no idea who did this?” Gideon said.
“No.”
Elijah’s quick answer rang like an alarm bell in Joan’s head. If he knew more than he was saying, then why not tell Gideon who had attacked him? She knew the answer. Elijah was guarding the attacker’s identity for his own reasons.
Gideon left Elijah’s hospital room and waited in the hallway for Joan. She was refilling Elijah’s water cup and making sure the phone and channel selector were close at hand, given his limited mobility.
When she came out, they exchanged glances, and together left the hospital. In the front seat of his car, they sat in silence for a moment.
“What did Elijah say to you?” Gideon asked.
“What do you mean?”
“He said something to you right before I came in. You were pale.”
“I don’t like hospitals.”
Gideon was willing to sit here for as long as it took. “Again, what did he say?”
Joan stared out her window at the clouds hovering over the ring of distant mountains. She turned toward him. “He said you’re still in love with me.”
There were few times in his life when he wanted nothing more than to turn and run. But each and every time, he’d stood his ground, more out of stubbornness than bravery. “He’s trying to get in your head.”
Her expression struggled to remain stoic, but a mixture of relief and disappointment tugged at her features. “You might be right. I get that we’re water under the bridge,” she said carefully.
If he had learned anything about Elijah, it was that he was good at exploiting targets. What had he seen in Joan that prompted him to take aim? “Did he get under your skin?”
“I’m not sure what you’re looking for, Gideon.”
Her lack of an answer suggested an option Gideon had long given up on. Could she still be in love with him? And why did the idea frighten the hell out of him?
Gideon started the engine, turning up the heater to chase away the chill. Cracking the door to their past was a dangerous move he could not afford to make. Joan would find whatever answers she wanted and then leave. He would then get on with his life. And this time their break would be for good.
So why did his gaze drop to her fingers as they moved back and forth on her thigh? Why did he want to take her hand in his and trace the scars she tried to hide? He understood the fire had changed her. It had changed him. Different was not necessarily bad. Good came from change. Maybe they could . . .