“You are coming back, aren’t you?” Maddy’s volume increased frantically. She looked at her dad, then back at Abigail. “Aren’t you?” Her eyes filled.
“Maddy, I—” The words caught in her throat. What could she say? She couldn’t admit Wade was making her leave, wouldn’t let her come back. What good would it do to turn the child against her father? Better that she thought it was Abigail’s fault.
After all, it really was, wasn’t it?
“I hate you!” Maddy fled from the barn.
The words cut into her. She couldn’t leave Maddy feeling that way. Abigail started after her.
Wade blocked her path, stared down at her with those cold, hard eyes. “You’ve done enough.”
She wanted to comfort Maddy, tell her she loved her, that she hadn’t meant to hurt them. But maybe Wade was right. Maybe that was best left for him to handle.
Abigail met his eyes and felt them slice clean through her heart. He was right. She’d done way more than enough.
34
Abigail woke early the next morning, her eyes swollen, her heart heavy. She showered, returned her belongings to her suitcase, then crept into her aunt’s kitchen where she forced down a slice of toast. Her new flight to Chicago left in three hours from Bozeman, and the cab would be arriving soon.
She couldn’t believe her time in Montana had come to this. She wanted to collapse onto the sofa, pull the quilt over her head, and stay there. She glanced out the kitchen window toward Wade’s ranch. She wanted to go see him, wanted to set things right between them. But the memory of that cold look in his eyes was enough to shatter that fantasy.
She’d been a wreck when she’d shown up on her aunt’s doorstep the previous day. Aunt Lucy had listened patiently as she’d poured out the whole story, from the article to her feelings for Wade, her words tumbling out in a jumbled mess.
Now the overhead light flipped on as Aunt Lucy entered the kitchen, knotting the belt of her robe around her thick waist. “’Morning, dear.”
Abigail looked away from the pity in her aunt’s eyes. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I wanted to see you off. Are you sure I can’t drive you?” Aunt Lucy sank into the nearest chair.
“I’m sure. The cab’ll be here any minute.”
“I’d ask how you’re feeling, but it’s all over your face.”
Abigail swallowed the last bite of toast and pushed back her plate. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve made a mess, and it’s too big to . . .” A lump swelled in her throat, forcing off her words.
“There’s only one thing you can do at a time like this, honey: pray hard. God knows all you’ve done, and He knows your heart. Trust Him to lead you.”
Abigail wanted this fixed. She wanted to go back in time and do things differently, but that wasn’t possible. “You’re right. I know you are, it’s just hard—” She swallowed against the lump.
“Love is never easy.”
A car horn tooted outside.
“My ride.” They stood and hugged. Abigail kissed her aunt on the cheek. “Thanks for everything, Aunt Lucy. I love you.”
“Love you too, child. I’ll be praying for you.”
Abigail gathered her things and started for the door.
“Oh, one more thing.” Aunt Lucy waddled across the room and plucked a doll from the sofa. “Take Lydia.” She handed the doll to Abigail. “She’s my best comforter.”
35
Abigail stared at the blinking cursor. The page was blank except for the title. Every now and then she wrote a sentence, reread it, then hit Backspace.
The hum of the computer was the only sound in the office. Beyond her cubicle, the room was empty.
Just like her heart.
Outside the shaded windows a car roared past, the bass thumping from its stereo. A distant car alarm shrieked.
She missed the sound of the wind rustling through tall grass. Missed the big blue sky that stretched as far as you could see. Missed the hills that rolled like waves in a never-ending ocean.
Stop it. She had to stop this incessant torture. Get back to work.
Her column for the last issue of Viewpoint had been canceled and the cover was undergoing a hasty redesign. It was over. She’d let everyone down. Her mom, all the employees, and most of all, Wade and Maddy.
Her eyes swung to the title in the header of her document. Moose Creek. She was going to squeeze the travel article into the September issue in place of her column. Since Maddy and Wade wouldn’t be there, what could it hurt? At least a little good might come from her ill-fated stay in Moose Creek. Only trouble was, she couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t find a way to describe the town, the people. Couldn’t find a way to explain how special it was, how much they’d all affected her.
A pounding on the front door broke the silence. She pushed back from her desk and walked toward the entry. Reagan waved from the other side of the glass door. She looked nice in her trendy jeans and red blouse.
Abigail twisted the two deadbolts and opened the door.
“You look awful,” her sister offered by way of greeting.
“Thanks.”
“Why are you here?” Reagan tucked her brown hair behind her ears.
Abigail locked the door and started for her desk. “Working on an article.”
“It’s Saturday. By the looks of you, you should be home taking a nap.”
Abigail shrugged. “Can’t sleep.” She’d had a constant headache since her return to Chicago five days earlier. If her thoughts of Wade and Maddy didn’t keep her awake, her palpitations did. The bags under her eyes could hold her wardrobe.
Abigail dropped into her chair and rolled close to her desk. The screen saver had kicked on, mercifully sparing her those two words.
Reagan perched on the corner of her desk. “You didn’t answer your cell.”
Abigail pulled it from her purse. “Oh. It’s dead.” Not like Wade was trying to reach her. “Thought you were having lunch with Dr. Steve.”
“Just got home and tried to call you. I was worried when I couldn’t get through. You have a headache, don’t you? Are you taking your meds?”
“Yes, Mother.” She was getting what she deserved for hurting two people who least deserved it. Ironic how exposing truth had always felt so satisfying. This time it only felt wrong.
“You’re scaring me, Abs.”
There was already enough guilt flowing through Abigail to float a boat. “Sorry.” She was getting good at letting people down.
“The cowboy really got to you, didn’t he?”
The word put an instant image of Wade in her mind. Hat tipped low over his blue eyes, lips curved in a barely-there smile. The shallow cleft in his chin. The image was so real, she felt like she could reach out and touch him.
Then he was gone. She’d dreamed about him last night. It was as close to him as she was getting. The thought weighed her down.
“Don’t want to talk about it,” Abigail said.
“Have you tried calling him?”
Abigail frowned, crossed her arms.
“Talking is therapeutic.” Reagan crossed her own arms and waited. “Well, have you?”
Her sister wasn’t going away, wasn’t the least bit intimidated by her best angry look. “Yes, Dr. Freud, I have. Many times. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t want to talk to me, obviously, and can you blame him? I left a message telling him not to move, that we weren’t publishing the article, but do you really think he’ll believe me at this point? You think he’ll chance their future on my promise? ’Cause I don’t.”
She’d wondered a thousand times what he’d told Maddy. If the girl hated Abigail as much as Wade did. But hadn’t she said as much?
“You really do love him.”
A familiar ache filled her stomach—filled the hole that had been there since she’d left Wade standing in the barn. When Abigail was packing, she’d heard Maddy crying outside, had watched from her window as Wade put his daughter in the truck and
drove away, his tires spitting up dirt and gravel. It was the last time she’d seen them.
“You were only doing your job, honey,” Reagan said.
Her job. A lame excuse. “I let so many people down. My work has always left me fulfilled. After I finish a column, I’m almost overwhelmed with a sense of justice. It’s what keeps me going . . . it’s why I write.”
“But now you feel . . .”
“Empty.” No other word for it. She’d never had a story go so wrong. The column had failed, Viewpoint would be canceled, and she’d hurt two people she loved. “I never should’ve gone after this story.”
“It fell into your lap—what were you going to do? It was right up your alley.”
“No. My column exposes wrongs. I investigate, get the facts, then I expose the evil or immorality. But Wade’s not evil or immoral. He did nothing wrong. He was just trying to move on with his life after his wife died, trying to protect his daughter.”
She remembered what he said about letting Lizzie down, how he felt he’d failed her. Was he feeling that way about Maddy now? All because of her? She palmed her eyes. “And now they’re moving because of me.”
Reagan’s hand smoothed Abigail’s hair. “You didn’t plan for that to happen.”
“I told myself that if the article showed him as the hero he is, everything would be okay. I was kidding myself. I should’ve told him the truth.” She gave a wry laugh. “The Truthseeker. I’m beginning to hate that word.” Wade was right. She didn’t know the first thing about truth.
“Is it okay if I say something here?”
“Can I stop you?”
“Probably not.” Reagan shifted, her hand dropping from Abigail’s hair. “Sometimes I wonder if you write what you do because of Julia.”
Julia? Abigail lifted her head. “What does Julia have to do with my writing?”
“I think you’ve carried a lot of guilt about her abuse—about not telling. It changed you.”
“I was a child.”
Reagan waved her words away. “I’m not saying you had reason to feel guilty. I probably would’ve done the same thing, Abs. You were scared, rightfully so. The man was a monster.”
How could Reagan bring this up now when she was reeling over Wade and her horrid story? “And this has to do with my writing, how?”
“Think about it. You didn’t tell the truth then, and you’ve regretted it ever since. Now your life’s work is to expose wrongdoers through your column. You don’t see a connection?”
Abigail didn’t even want to think about it. “No, I don’t.”
“You weren’t responsible for her father’s behavior.”
“I know that, Reagan.”
“If you’d told, he might’ve come after you.”
Abigail shuddered at the thought. She had no doubt he’d been capable—it was one of the reasons she’d kept silent all those years ago.
“I think you’re trying to redeem yourself through your column,” Reagan said softly. “But there’s no way you can. That’s like trying to earn salvation, and you know that’s impossible. Let it go. You’ve carried it around too long.”
“I’ll think about it,” Abigail said to appease her sister. She would think about it later. Much later, when she didn’t have all the other stuff hanging over her head.
“Promise?”
Abigail sighed, impatient. “Yes, I promise.” She propped her elbow on the desk, bumping the mouse. The screen saver disappeared, revealing the title of her blank document. She wished she could go back to Moose Creek and do things over. She’d handle it all so differently.
“I hate regrets,” Abigail said. But she’d made her bed, and now she had to lie in it, as her dad used to say.
“Maybe he’ll forgive you in time. Once the anger fades, he might listen.”
“Only I won’t know where to find him.” Abigail remembered the confrontation in the barn. Maybe if she’d been the one to tell him the truth, if he hadn’t found out on his own . . . “You didn’t see his face, Reagan.” The way his jaw was set, that hard look in his eyes. She never wanted anyone to look at her that way again, much less the man she loved.
“And I can’t blame him,” Abigail continued. “He’s losing his home, his ranch. Maddy’ll have to make new friends, go to a new school—all because of me.”
“You were caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.”
“And I chose the wrong one.” She’d never known that hurting someone she loved could hurt so much.
“It’ll get better, honey. I promise.” Reagan gave her a sympathetic smile.
The words sounded nice, but right now, sitting in the eye of the storm with her eyes closed, it was hard to believe she’d ever feel better again.
36
Abigail decided to take a break from the Moose Creek article. The words weren’t coming anyway, and she was weary of staring at a blinking curser. She locked up the office and drove from the parking garage, turning onto the empty street. The sun had gone into hiding behind a thick bank of gray clouds.
She pointed the car toward her apartment, wondering what she’d do when she got there. She’d skipped lunch but wasn’t hungry. Couldn’t stomach the thought of eating. She could use a nap, but her bed had become a place to avoid. A place where memories haunted her until she slept, and then the dreams started. Dreams that made waking up painful.
She wondered what Wade and Maddy were doing right now. Probably packing their belongings and talking about how awful Abigail was, how glad they were she was out of their lives. Where were they moving? Once they left Moose Creek, they’d be lost to her forever.
Who are you kidding, Abigail? They’re already lost to you.
The thought knotted her stomach. Why was she torturing herself?
She made a turn and kept driving. She’d drive around all afternoon if she had to, but she couldn’t go back to those four walls. She had to stay busy.
Noise. She needed noise. She flipped on the radio, and a country and western tune filled the car. The song reminded her of riding in Wade’s pickup truck. Of that Saturday night at the Chuckwagon in Wade’s arms.
Abigail changed the channel. The sound of peaceful strains of strings and flutes filled the car. Maybe classical music would soothe her.
Leaving the city, she turned toward the suburbs and a succession of sleepy streets. She passed a group of neighborhood children running through a sprinkler, enjoying the last days of summer, a precious weekend after a week in a new school year. Maddy would start school on Monday, her first day of sixth grade.
Under the shade of a giant oak, a young girl wearing a helmet wobbled down the sidewalk on her pink bike.
Pink. Like Maddy’s.
Stop it, Abigail. Don’t go there.
She turned the corner, down a lane lined by small brick homes, similar to the street where she’d grown up. A middle-aged woman, down on all fours, weeded her burgeoning flower bed. Abigail thought of Aunt Lucy’s plastic flowers, and a tiny smile formed. She thought of her vegetable garden, and the smile slid from her face. It would die now. The plants wouldn’t stand a chance under the August sun without the sprinkler. Not that it mattered, since there’d be no one around to harvest the vegetables. Soon there’d be a big commercial For Sale sign at the end of the drive, under the Stillwater Ranch archway.
There she went again. Why was every image, every thought, a direct highway to Moose Creek?
Abigail turned at a four-way stop and progressed down the next street. Hedges and low fences divided the small lawns. Sidewalks stretched out on both sides of the narrow street. Children played games of street hockey and kickball in the cul-de-sacs.
Reagan’s words about Julia rang in her head. Did she still carry guilt? Why else would the memory of Julia be painful after all these years? Yes, she did carry guilt. It surfaced sometimes when she least expected it.
And she subconsciously chose to expose truth now to make up for the one time she hadn’t? Is that why she experi
enced that satisfying sense of justice when she finished a column? Was there a connection?
It made sense, though she hated to admit it. She was driven in her job. Her mom had called her a workaholic on more than one occasion. Was she so driven because she enjoyed her work, or was she trying to earn her own redemption?
Maybe I am. The words rang of truth, a subject she was only just beginning to understand.
Only One could redeem a person, and He was the same One who called Himself Truth. The irony didn’t escape her.
She reached the end of a street and turned right. The sign in front of a low sprawling brick building caught her eye. She hadn’t been here in years. And yet it looked just the same. Well, maybe a bit smaller.
Abigail parked the car along the grassy curb and exited the car. She hadn’t meant to wind up here, but it seemed appropriate somehow. The gray clouds swallowed the sky now, hiding any trace of the sun, shading her from its punishing heat.
She followed the curved walkway to the back of the building, passing her dad’s old classroom. Colorful construction paper pictures adorned the windows. Everyone had loved her dad. He’d been the best teacher in the school.
The walkway led to the empty playground, and Abigail followed it until she reached the metal swing set. Fresh wood chips covered the base now, a safety precaution that had been added since she’d been in school.
How many hours had she and Julia spent on this swing set? Every recess from kindergarten until fifth grade. They’d pump their legs to see who could go higher, then coast for a while playing Would You Rather. Would you rather eat a whole jar of peanut butter or walk all the way home barefoot on the hottest day of the year? Would you rather tell Mr. Lugwig that you love him or kiss Scottie Bowlen?
Abigail lowered herself onto the rubber seat. It cradled her hips tightly, forcing her knees together, her ankles apart. She grabbed the cool metal chain and pushed off.
Would you rather clean the whole school or hitchhike to Canada?
Julia had been better at Would You Rather, making them so equivalent in difficulty it was nearly impossible to choose. They’d debate forever which exercise was worse, but in the end they’d usually agree.
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