“You’ve been busy,” he observed. He wasn’t certain he liked the idea that she’d been out shopping while the enemy was in the same area, but he kept his opinions to himself.
“I thought you’d be hungry and thirsty after lying in the sun all day.”
He was already drinking. The water cooled his throat as it went down. He was parched. He’d left the canteen with Dahlia and, although the river kept him reasonably cool, he was dehydrated. “You were right.” He felt hot and muddy and a mess.
“If you want to wash up, I discovered a little potting shed just on the other side of the grove, and it actually has a sink and running water.” Dahlia jumped up. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“I’ll find it.” Looking at her hurt, he could clearly see he was beyond all help when it came to Dahlia Le Blanc. He caught up his pack and took off in the direction she’d pointed. Even his lungs didn’t work right around her. Somewhere along the line they seemed to have reversed roles. He’d always been the calm, in control of his feelings type, and Dahlia had been the opposite. Now, he swore she’d done something to change all that. He’d gone off into the field and everything had worked exactly as it was supposed to, but then he’d come back, taken one look at her, and everything went berserk in him. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling looking at her and not knowing what to do. It was her eyes that haunted him.
Deep in the depths of her eyes, when he met her gaze, he caught a glimpse of scars, terrible wounds that had never quite healed, but were still raw and painful and hidden from the rest of the world. But he saw those wounds when no one else could, and he knew he was born for her. He was born to heal her. He had been told, assured over and over, that he had the talent buried within him, yet when he looked at her, when he touched her, there was no lessening of her pain from her past. If anything, he seemed to add to that silent burden.
Nicolas found the small shed behind another, larger workshop. He stripped off his filthy shirt but didn’t bother changing his trousers. He and Dahlia would be in the water part of the time and he didn’t want all of his clothes wet. He washed up carefully, even rinsing his hair. For the first time it mattered to him what he looked like to someone.
She wore the same determined smile as before when he returned. “Come and eat, Nicolas. You can’t go after Jesse until it’s dark so you may as well take a short nap.”
Dahlia waited for him to settle onto the sheet she’d “borrowed” from a clothesline. He looked so good she was afraid she might blurt out something all too revealing, so she kept quiet and just watched him as he devoured the chicken and rice and beans she’d acquired from a small deli a few miles up the road. It had been a hike, and she’d had to be in a small crowd while she sorted out what Nicolas might want to eat, but it was well worth it when he was so obviously enjoying the meal. She felt proud of herself and maybe even a little bit wifely, which was really silly and annoyed the hell out of her. But she couldn’t stop smiling like a goofball. The sleep had done her good, and she felt much better and able to cope once again. She was ashamed of her anger earlier and hoped her gesture made up for it.
“I didn’t see any sign of Calhoun,” Nicolas admitted as he mopped the last of the beans off the plate. “But they had the place heavily guarded, and they wouldn’t need to do that if he were dead or if they were holding him somewhere else. I think we have a good chance of finding him alive, Dahlia.”
“Do you think any of those men are like us? GhostWalkers?” She used his definition deliberately to try it on. To see if it fit her. To be part of something when she had nothing. “Because Jesse is telepathic. I can’t reach him, but maybe you can.”