How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Some moments seem to play out in slow motion, each detail of the time and place, air, and emotions so intense, that the event becomes branded on the hard drive of the brain, where it can be accessed whenever, wherever needed.
Such was his early morning, seeing Tillie's house all lit up high on the hill after his long drive, knowing she was awake waiting on him. Coyotes yipped on the far side of the big hill, silhouetted in the bright light, and he relished the welcoming call of a whip-poor-will as he turned off his truck.
Stepping out and stretching his legs, he inhaled the unmistakable blend of mint and sage in her backyard. The screen door flew open, banging against the house and Tillie ran across the stone walkway into his arms. She buried her head in his chest, clutching him, sobbing, and he stroked her hair. Neither spoke. They held each other a long while before he kissed her, the way he wanted to kiss her from the first time he saw her, gently at first, then deeply and she kissed him back. He ran his hands over her body, pulling her off the ground, holding her against him, her fingertips caressing his shoulders and chest.
He pulled away, staring deeply into her eyes. Her gaze was tender, open, adoring, and she whispered, "Make me feel that way again."
***
He awoke to the aroma of bacon frying, the sun streaming through the open bedroom window, and sheer curtains wafting with the morning breeze.
"Good morning." Tillie stood over him, holding out a cup of coffee. "You want anything in it?"
"No, thanks." He sat up in her high, soft bed mounded with covers and pillows. He sipped the coffee, watching her over his cup. Seeing her fresh in the morning, in a low-cut, almost see-through short pink gown, Mendocino smiled. A smile born of contentment. "I have died and gone to heaven," he said.
"You have." She kissed him, her hand on his cheek. "How do you like your eggs?"
"Sunny side up. But first," he held out his hand, "come back to bed. I want to talk."
"I have bacon cooking. I'll be back."
When she returned, her eyes were wide, frightful, standing beside him. Reading them, he said, "It's nothing bad." He patted the mattress beside him. "We didn't talk last night. We need to."
Slowly, her eyes wide, gaze cautious, she walked around, sliding into the bed, under the covers, beside him.
He set the coffee mug on the bedside table, opening his arms and she leaned against him, her head on his chest, her arms around him. He ran his fingers through her hair. "Do the scars bother you? You've never seen my chest or back before. The short hair shows the scar on my face."
She ran her hand over the scar on his temple and kissed the right side of his chest. Her eyes were adoring. "I think you're the most handsome man I've ever seen. You can wear your hair long or short, I don't care. And the scars? They prove you're a survivor."
