Page 40 of Love Bound

There, set in a beautiful teak frame, is the picture of a petite woman with straight brown hair curing over one shoulder, a wide smile to match her eyes, and a summer dress kissing her knees. She’s clearly about six months pregnant.

I glance at him then turn it back over and shut the drawer.

A sister?

Who has a picture of their pregnant sister?

Past lover, pregnant with his child?

Did he dump them and move here? Then why keep a picture?

I can feel that wall coming down, the one that always slams shut, separating me from what I’m capable of giving.

He must have abandoned them.

He abandoned them and doesn’t even have it in him to display their picture. If the photo was taken this summer, that baby would be a few months old.

I open the drawer again to scan for a date on the back. There, in curving script—probably hers—is June twenty-third, two thousand seventeen. Two years ago. So, the kid's two. Give or take a few months.

Then I catch myself. Laurel always says I expect the worst from people, that I don't give everyone a chance, and I know she's right. I've learned to trust my intuition, but sometimes that gets clouded with suspicion. I adjust my thinking slightly and arrive at another scenario.

I shiver, but not from the cold.

Maybe they lost the baby.

Focus. Just stay focused.

You don't know anything.

I rummage around in his closet, the old shelves my dad used for paperwork repurposed for clothing. I find two pairs of jeans and several wool sweaters neatly folded. After tossing them to the ground, I finally find a dark green turtleneck and soft bomber jacket lined with shearling. A real bomber jacket, with a heavy zipper—weathered and scarred.

But having to push back my confusion over who he is and who that woman is makes me unable to care why he has it and why it looks like it's been through a war.

"Hey," I say, not wanting to startle him. I rub his shoulder slightly and at my touch, his eyes snap open and simultaneously, he tries to sit up. "Woah! Finn, stop." I wrestle with him a bit, trying to get him to lie back.

"Shit," he hisses between clenched teeth, and I'm immediately sorry I had to bring him back into his world of pain.

"Yeah, take a breath."

Leaning into the pillows, he flicks a series of quick glances in my direction, his grimace slowly dissolving into a small smile. "I love your hair," he says.

I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror. Going to bed with your hair wet, when it's thick and curly with a tendency to frizz, is not a good idea. "Oh." I grab it into a tight hand-held ponytail and step into the bathroom for my hairband. "Listen, we've got to move to my place,” I call. “The power's still out and I've got a generator. You think you can walk over there with my help?"

I'm worried about him slipping, about me unable to hold him upright and pulling on the clots. But in the time I'm back out, he's standing, with his fly open and the top of his jeans unbuttoned.

"Shirt," he commands, pointing to a gray T-shirt on the dresser.

I grab it and he pulls it over himself, worming his way into it. Next, I hand him the lighter sweater and try not to stare as he pulls that one on. I slip on my boots and shove the bomber jacket under my arm. Then I walk to the foot of the stairs and toss it to the bottom. I'll pick it up again on our way out.

"Let's go," I say. By now the fire has little life left and we really need to get going.

The walk across the two hundred yards to my side door doesn’t take too long, but that's mostly because he doesn’t need me.

When we get to the bottom of the stairs, he doesn't even pause. I hand him the jacket, help him shrug it on, and though we walk slowly—mostly to check our footing—he moves under his own steam. Only once, on the little culvert heading up to my yard, near the corral, does he slip slightly. I hear that sharp intake of breath and I know he's torqued himself. He reaches for my arm to steady himself just as Salty nickers from the stall.

Reaching for the clinic door, a blast of warm air greets us as I pull it open.

Inside, Finn leans against the wall by the coat hooks as I try to tug his massive boots off. Other than not being able to lean over too far, he seems able to negotiate space well. Even my staircase doesn’t seem to daunt him. We take it one step at a time.