The crisp sea air stung her cheeks as she crested the driveway and hid behind a tree, scanning the grounds in case the other ninja had sensed her coming. The coast was clear. She ducked low and ran toward the screened porch. One of the trash bins was lying sideways on the ground, its contents scattered on the sand. Darn raccoons. She set the mat down, quickly gathering the trash. As she righted the bin, she saw two of the canvases she’d left for him at the bottom, and her heart sank.
Oh, Grant, you’re not even going to try?
She reached in to retrieve them. That sinking feeling intensified as she looked at one of the canvases and saw an angry mix of greens, blues, black, and bloodred brushstrokes. It took a moment for her to mentally piece the image together. She sank down to the porch step, taking in the tortured, angry eyes peering out from between those dark, dismal colors that she now realized were dirty bandages around a forehead. One eye was barely visible in the shadows, and the whites of the other eye gave the painting an eerie feeling of life, warily watching the world from behind its bandage. At the edges of those haunting eyes were smears of bloodred and black, with only hints of flesh in between. Jagged shards of what looked like metal covered the mouth and lower half of the face, as if the person he’d painted was silenced like a hostage. The neck was also covered with shards of textured hues of green and black metal poking out at different angles and smeared with red. Scattered slashes and drips of bloodred and black mixed with hues of blues and greens where the shoulders should be, smeared and dragged to the bottom of the canvas like mangled pieces of flesh. Jules’s chest constricted. She closed her eyes, trying to grasp the magnitude of what she was seeing—what Grant must be feeling. His paintings had always been a little abstract and very emotional, but they’d never made her heart hurt like this one did.
She opened her eyes, a little afraid to see what else he’d painted but needing to at the same time. If she was going to try to get through to him, or help him at all, she needed to know what he was feeling. She lifted the other canvas with a shaky hand and was met with a gorgeous seashore set against an evening sky, with ribbons of pinks, oranges, and about half a dozen other colors melded together. Varying hues of blue, pale green, and soft yellows defined waves rushing forward, crashing over boulders, and rippling along the pebbled shore, reminiscent of Grant’s old paintings. But the meticulously painted chains tethering a man to the right side of the shore was nothing like any of his paintings she’d ever seen before. Heavy chains came in from the sides of the canvas and belted around the man’s waist. The man was painted from behind in finite details. His feet were bare, one knee bent, his torso straining forward, muscular arms and torso in motion, hands fisted, as if caught trying to escape the chains and run into the sea. His jeans were soaked, clinging to thick hamstrings and one bulbous calf. Where his other calf should be, wet denim clung to a thick straight line. Your prosthesis. She realized the left foot wasn’t real after all. It was rigid and looked wooden. Her heart ached for him. She studied the man in the painting. His gray T-shirt clung to his muscular body, sweat marks staining the center of his back and armpits. His hair was short like Grant used to wear his. The muscles in his neck strained. Sweat dripped down the side of his face, so real she was tempted to try to wipe it away. The sea roared up in front of him. In the center of the wall of water there was gaping darkness, and in the middle of that, a battlefield, painted so exquisitely Jules could feel the energy of the images calling out to her.
Oh, Grant. What are you going through? How had he completed two paintings since Monday? Didn’t he ever sleep? Was this PTSD? Anger? Depression? Weren’t they all intertwined? Or was she missing the point altogether?
She didn’t know about all of that, but she knew one thing for sure. All of this darkness was a part of him, and she couldn’t let him throw the paintings away, even if they were upsetting. It would be like throwing away pieces of him. She wanted to scoop up all of his painful, unhappy parts and cradle them in her arms, nurture them until one by one they found the strength to heal, until Grant felt happy and whole once again.
The world around her brightened, snapping her out of her trance. How long had she been sitting there? She pushed to her feet, relieved that there were no lights on in the bungalow yet, and set the paintings down to throw the trash into the bin. She picked up the welcome mat and opened the screen door as carefully and quietly as she could and tiptoed across the porch to place it by the door. She quickly pulled the note she’d written out of her pocket and set it on the mat, hurrying off the porch. She scooped up the paintings and ran down to her Jeep, even more determined to figure out how to help Grant.
What was that military saying? Don’t leave anyone behind? No man forgotten?
She stashed the paintings in her Jeep, and as she drove away, she made up her own saying—No surly Silver left behind—and vowed to stand by it.
AFTER ANOTHER FITFUL night, Grant went through his usual morning routine, hating the way dealing with his residual limb slowed him down. He’d worked his ass off through physical therapy and rehab and was about as quick as a guy could be in his situation. But that was nowhere near as fast as his pre-amputation days, when he’d bolt out of bed, race through a shower, and be dressed and out the door in under ten minutes. Now everything was a process that took forethought, even putting on his fucking jeans.
He pulled on his coat, glancing at the painting drying on the counter and the other on the easel he’d built late Monday night. Goddamn Jules. He hadn’t even thought about picking up a paintbrush in the last couple of years, and then she flitted in, talking about art therapy and getting crap out of his head, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about it or about her.
Crash walked lazily out of the bedroom with that freaking bow in his mouth and stretched. He’d slept all night with that bow beneath his paw like it was laced with a sleeping potion.
Maybe I ought to carry it around in my mouth.
Grant had slept like shit since he’d lost his leg. The doctors had tried to give him sleeping pills, but he wasn’t about to touch that poison. He’d gotten off the pain pills they’d given him as soon as he was able after surgery. He liked to be in control of his life, his thoughts, and his emotions. What a laugh that was. He used to stay up all night trying to figure out what to do with his life. But hell if that perky pixie hadn’t been right about painting to get the anger out of his head. He’d spent hours painting this week, and it had definitely taken the edge off. He’d even managed to catch a few hours of shut-eye, but sexy Jules had haunted every minute of them, starring front and center in his fantasies about taking her six ways to Sunday, leaving him hot, hard, and forced to get handsy with himself to relieve the pressure.
Talk about giving Archer a reason to bust his ass…
Grant grabbed his keys and headed out the door. The sinking of his step had him stopping and looking down. Beneath his foot was a rust-colored doormat with I’LL MISS YOU! printed on the lower half, facing him. On the upper half, upside down from where he stood, had YAY, IT’S YOU! emblazoned across it, and beside his foot was a familiar pink envelope with his name written in glittery gold ink and swirly handwriting.
A soft laugh tumbled out as he picked up the envelope and read the note. You might like being alone, but you should still feel welcomed when you get home and missed when you leave.