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Fiona smiles at how I have an answer to everything she says. Taking another step, she seems so wiped out.
“I should have had you park closer,” Eagle says, thinking the short walk wore her out.
“That was me.”
“No, I should have told you to pull right up to the steps.”
“I need to rest,” Fiona says and leans against the railing. “The Xanax is making me sleepy.”
“We can take our time.”
Eagle studies us before shrugging. “Or I can just carry her up the steps.”
“I’m not a baby,” Fiona mutters.
“You look pretty small. I bet I could bench-press you and the dog.”
Fiona grins before laughing. “That would be funny but don’t pick up my dog. He doesn’t like that.”
“How about just you?”
Eagle lifts Fiona into his arms like she’s a damsel in distress. Gatsby growls instantly until I stroke his head. He doesn’t understand why the world is suddenly full of large men. Back in Vermont, we remained secluded. He might go weeks without encountering anyone new, let alone a large, tatted man.
Fiona whimpers, “I’m going to fall.”
“No, it’s fine,” Eagle says, walking up the stairs. “I work out every day.”
“So, you’ll be ready to beat up people?” she asks.
“Sure. Well, not many people want to fight us anymore. We used to throw down every damn day. Now, people give us lots of space. I guess maybe I don’t have to work out so much.”
As soon as the front doors open, I assume we’re being watched. Eagle rests Fiona in a large recliner in the corner of the family room.
“Are you winded?” Fiona asks Eagle. “Should you rest?”
“I feel like you’re fucking with me.”
Fiona grins. “You turned me into a baby.”
“No, I carry grown chicks, too. Didn’t Irina tell you about the time I carried her?”
I look around to find everyone watching us. Even the small children seem curious as they chew on their peanut butter-covered celery sticks.
“Hello,” I mumble.
Eagle notices everyone looking and whips out his scowl. “This is Irina,” he grumbles at them and wraps an arm around me. “This is her friend, Fiona. And their dog.”
“Gatsby,” I explain as if anyone cares what the dog’s name might be.
“Can I play?” asks a blonde girl, instantly joined by two dark-haired children.
The sight of them steals my ability to speak. Their little faces and hands remind me of Owen. A little blond boy joins them. His hair is slicked down to fight the power of his cowlick. I think of how messy Owen’s hair could get.
Spiraling into a den of bad memories, I just stare at Eagle.
“He’s a working dog,” he explains to the kids. “You can’t bug him when he’s on the clock.”
“Play with Yazmin’s dog,” Wynonna says. “Havana hasn’t been fawned over in nearly five minutes. She might need a fainting couch soon.”
