by Hinze, Vicki
“You honestly believe that?”
“I do, yes.” He let her see the truth in his eyes. “You’re a brave woman. Far too brave not to make peace with caring for me, with yourself and maybe even with God.”
“That matters a great deal to you.” What if she didn’t? He’d be disappointed, resentful. That would create tension, and how long would it take for that to break their bond?
Longer than three years. It hadn’t broken it yet. He hadn’t been judgmental or disappointed or resentful, either.
He lowered his voice. “You matter to me, Della. You’ve always mattered, and you always will.”
This wasn’t a declaration of love. It was a declaration of being open to love. Could she do that? He thought she was brave, but was she that brave? He had been. Admitting he needed her when he’d trained his whole life to need nothing. If he could do that for her, she could try to be brave for him.
Paul kissed her, then kissed her again, rubbing gentle circles on her back.
She opened her mouth to speak, though she had no idea what she intended to say; she couldn’t pull her thoughts together. She was feeling way too much.
He pressed his fingertips to her lips. “No, just know you matter to me, and I don’t expect you to be anything other than yourself.”
An alien feeling swarmed her. Deep inside, the flare of hope grew to a flame and burned strong, shooting sparks that spread through her body and limbs, so pure her skin tingled. Looking into his eyes, she pegged the sensation. It was caring. She cared, and if only to herself, she admitted the truth. Not feeling hollow felt good.
So good. For such a long time, she’d felt empty and dead inside. A lump in her chest rose to her throat. The back of her nose stung, and her eyes burned. Healing was not painless. It came through hope and caring. It came through opening old wounds, cleansing them. It came through compassion for oneself as well as others, and it came through—
One of Paul’s phones rang.
Neither of them appreciated the interruption. He answered, “Yes?”
He listened for a long moment, mouthed to Della, “Warny.”
Della smiled. “Keeping my reputation intact.”
Paul laughed. “I’m on my way.”
“Night.” Della went upstairs, torn between smiling and frowning. She cared. The fact scared her to death, but she felt...alive. She waited for the guilt to swamp her. Twinges of it tried, but something else proved stronger. Fearful of discovering what it was, she rounded the corner at the head of the stairs and went into her room, then closed the door and it hit her that they still hadn’t heard back from Cray.
The detective could have gotten that information on Jeff in fifteen minutes—an hour at most. So why hadn’t he called back?
Maybe he had gotten detained or sidetracked. Maybe he was waiting for feedback from someone in Tennessee. Or maybe he didn’t want to deliver bad news in the middle of the night.
She showered and got into bed, then did something she hadn’t done in a long time. She folded her hands and began to pray, tentatively. “I’m not sure if You’re there and listening, but I am open to the possibility. If You are, and You wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate Your help keeping everyone You’ve put in my path safe. I don’t want anyone else I care about getting hurt because of me.”
A wealth of sadness flooded her. The Bible said God would never give anyone more to deal with than he or she could handle. Truthfully, she’d pretty much maxed out. Maybe He thought she could stand more, but she knew she’d reached her limit. Maybe He’d keep that in mind and protect her friends.
Della bit her lip, torn and struggling with her thoughts and her feelings for Paul—her gratitude that he was in her life. Without him, she’d be upset about Jeff’s getting married again. But Paul helped her see things differently, even to see Jeff through compassionate eyes.
Closing her eyes, she continued. “I’m not that good or holy. But I am grateful, and I want You to know that.” Feeling alone had been really hard, and caring could hurt. She didn’t want to hurt, but she didn’t want to feel dead inside anymore, either. Not wanting to crawl into a hole and die wasn’t truly living. And Della wanted to live.
I want to heal. Fear slithered through her. Opening herself up for more pain, more disappointment, more despair. Had she lost her mind? Healing meant living a full life. It meant pain. It meant forgetting....
The strongest sense came over her, the feeling to pay attention. Forgetting. That’s what she’d been thinking about. Dawson had caused her more pain than she thought anyone could bear and survive, killing her son. She hadn’t forgotten Dawson, but she had forgiven him. He was sick.
But she hadn’t forgiven herself. Did she deserve forgiving?
She didn’t. Her son, her responsibility. She’d failed. But what about grace? With the awful things people did, God could still forgive them. Her act hadn’t been intentional. She’d gladly trade her life for his. Forgiveness, anyway—grace—that was the only hope for her. But she didn’t deserve it. Didn’t trust it.
Wait. Grace is grace. It can’t be earned. No one deserves it.
She buried her nose in her pillow, let the darkness settle over her. The mind twisted things, made them easier to bear. But it didn’t really change anything. The guilt and blame remained—earned and warranted or not.
Or did it?
Grace. Choice. She could choose to forgive herself. She could have done so at any time in the past three years. But she hadn’t. What kind of a person chose pain? Chose three long years of agony?
She had chosen the perimeters of her life. What she deserved and didn’t, what she was worthy to experience and too unworthy to experience. The absence of anything and everything but work. The lack of things, and even simple pleasures like laughter, like fun. She’d treated herself with far less mercy and compassion than she would a stranger. She hadn’t trusted herself not to forget. To go on living a full life and not forget Danny and Jeff. Self-imposed punishment for crimes she hadn’t committed. Why hadn’t she seen that? Why?
It was time to let go of the pain and choose forgiveness. Time to give herself permission to heal and to attempt to do it and forgive herself. God was merciful. He’d known how much she’d suffered, how deeply. And surely He would agree, she’d suffered enough.
She’d try. She’d really try.
She closed her eyes and relaxed, let her mind be at peace.
Warmth flooded her. It was familiar and had been gone far too long.
Unconditional love.
TEN
“What are you doing?”
Paul stepped into the kitchen, wearing jeans and a blue-and-gray flannel shirt. He smelled of soap from the shower.
“Cooking.” Della stirred a pot of spaghetti sauce, tapped the spoon against the edge of the pot, set it in a saucer and then looked at Paul. He appeared thunderstruck.
“But you hate cooking.”
“Well, that’s not actually true. I used to love it. What I hated was eating alone and not having anyone to cook for, so I quit.”
“Oh.” He processed that and still seemed unsure of what to do with it. “It smells good.”
She smiled; she couldn’t help herself. “You’ll love it.”
He smiled back, settling into the idea. “I, um, need to run out to the creek.”
“Want me to ride along?”
“Not this time.” He frowned. “Something’s glinting on the monitor, reflecting sun, and it shouldn’t be. I’m going to see what it is. Could be a piece of foil or something blown by the wind.”
“There is no wind. It’s still as glass out there.” She stirred the sauce. “Let me come with you, just in case you need backup.”
“Warny’s riding backup. You keep an eye on the monitor. The alarm has to be down with us out there. Otherwise, it’ll go off nonstop.”
“But Warny can’t see a thing, Paul.” Worry flooded her voice. She loved the endearing recluse, but he was bat-blind.
“He’ll we
ar his glasses.” Paul pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “Just watch the monitors and don’t come out there.”
“But—”
“Promise me, Della. You’d be in a goldfish bowl. I can’t have that.” He clasped her shoulder. “I’m probably overreacting, but considering what all’s happened, I need to check to put my mind at ease.”
She nodded. “Be careful.” It could be nothing. But once again it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like a whole lot of something.
He walked to the back door. “Warny’s armed.”
Considering his shoot first, ask questions later attitude, staying put was wise advice. “Understood.”
Paul left the house. Warny sat waiting, astride Thunder and holding the reins on a beautiful black beast that had to be seventeen hands high. His coat gleamed in the sun. Paul stroked its neck and then mounted the horse, told Jake through the glass door, “Guard,” and then rode off.
Jake danced around, his nails clicking on the tile floor. He was itching to go but didn’t whine to be let out. Yet if something was wrong out there, Jake could be needed. She was fine. The alarm was off, but she was safe in the house. Della opened the back door and told Jake, “Go with him, boy,” then thrust a hand toward Paul.
The dog didn’t have to be told twice. He ran full out.
Della watched until she couldn’t see them anymore and then entered the monitor room. Scanning quickly, she found the stream and saw the glinting object. It was on the ground near where they’d had their picnic on Sunday.
* * *
Paul spotted Jake running toward him and frowned. Della had sent him. There was no way Jake would have left her side otherwise. Irritated, he spurred the horse to the stream, then searched for the tree he’d used to mark the location of the glinting object. Stubborn woman, but one with instincts he respected. She’d be alert, making sure that while the alarm was down, she kept a sharp eye out.
He adjusted his hat to block the sun. She’d be glued to the monitors, watching him and his back. In the kitchen cooking. Della. He couldn’t get over that. He’d thought she hated it, but it was eating alone, having no one to share her meals. She must have loved cooking a lot at one time, or it wouldn’t be such a big deal to her that she totally avoided her kitchen.
Approaching the tree, he slowed his horse. A panting Jake caught up, nose to the ground, he sniffed and followed a straight path to the shiny object. Paul dismounted and looked into the camera, signaled Della with an okay sign.
Jake plopped down beside it. What it was, Paul couldn’t yet see. He approached and stopped. His blood ran cold.
Warny rode up. “What is it, son?”
Paul looked back at him. “A baby bottle.”
And on it written in red: D.B.D.
“That sure didn’t blow in here by itself.”
Paul’s stomach clenched. “No, it didn’t.” He scanned the woods, the stream. Pulled a ziplock bag out of his pocket and captured the bottle, then put it near Jake’s nose. “Find it, boy.”
Thunder snorted, and Warny asked, “What does it mean?”
It felt like Crawford’s work. His arrogance. Paul turned to Warny. “It means Della’s stalker knows she’s at the ranch.”
* * *
The dog was tracking his scent.
Standing in the four-wheeler, he adjusted the binoculars and picked up Mason on horseback, following the dog’s lead. He’d found the bottle—a little faster than expected. The man was good, and definitely watchful. Where was the old man?
He panned the binoculars and spotted him riding back toward the ranch house. Moving slow for a man expecting trouble there. He studied the horse’s gait. It was the horse. Not negligence.
Interesting. So Della was alone in the house, and her guard was limping back to her while her hero tracked her soon-to-be killer. He smiled.
Cray hadn’t gotten that phone call in to them. He said he had, but that they were here proved he hadn’t. He’d lied. Excellent.
Things were moving along exactly as planned.
He looked back to the dog. Homed in on him, and in a full run, heading right to him.
It was time.
He dropped down into his seat, popped the four-wheeler into gear and took off.
* * *
Della watched the monitors. Warny, armed with his shotgun and wearing his glasses, watched her, the doors and the windows. Thunder stood on the lawn tethered to the corner post of the back porch. If anyone approached, he’d whinny and let them know.
Warny paced, clearly worried. “You eyes on in there?”
Eyes on. A military term. Apparently Warny hadn’t always been a recluse. “Paul’s still not back on the monitors.” She scanned and scanned, her nerves strumming, hoping for a glimpse of him or his black beast or Jake.
Another hour passed. Then another. Noon came and went and the day wore on. The house remained silent. No music, no news on the television, no anything that could hamper them from hearing every creak.
Della was thirsty. “Warny, come watch the monitors so I can get us some tea.”
He walked into the monitor room and peered from one screen to another. “I don’t like it. He’s been out of touch too long.”
He had. “Me, either,” Della admitted.
“Smells like Crawford to me. It surely does.”
“Why?”
“He ambushed and nearly killed Paul.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Betcha didn’t know that.”
She filled two glasses with sweet tea and ice. “He told me.”
“Naw, not the half of it. To him, the attack and everything else is all about Maggie.”
Walking back from the kitchen to the monitor room, Della passed Warny a filled glass. “It happened in Utah,” she said. “He told me he’d been injured, but that was about all he said about himself.” He had said more about Maggie.
“He was unconscious for three days. In ICU a solid week.”
Chills swept through Della. “He didn’t tell me that.”
“Told ya. That’s Paul.” He frowned. “He took a bad one to the head. It gave him balance problems for months.”
“So he was a patient there at the same time as Maggie?”
Warny nodded. “He wasn’t hurt as bad, of course, but he was still in the hospital—Maggie was still in ICU—when their folks went back home.” Warny rubbed at his neck. “I couldn’t believe those two left the kids there in that shape with that monster on the loose.”
Neither could she. If it had been Danny, they’d have had to pry her away from him with a crowbar. “You went to Utah.” The truth hit Della. “You watched over them.” Paul hadn’t been alone. God had given him Warny.
“Till I could bring them home with me. Neither one of them was in the best shape to be flying back, but Paul wanted to get back to the ranch. He figured if he could get Maggie home, she’d fare better.” He grunted. “I have to say, she did. Paul got her started rescuing animals and that kept her going. Crawford had her scared of her own shadow. She quit the FBI—she was a profiler—and she wanted to lock herself away. But the animals warmed up to her. Some had been abused and even tortured, but they knew they could trust her, and she trusted them. They got my Maggie girl back on an even keel.” He blinked hard. “Paul was a good brother. Only real parent she had.”
“Isn’t he still?”
“You know it.” Warny cleared his throat. “Good thing, too, considering my sister is who she is. If it ain’t about her or her husband, she ain’t interested, and that’s the sorry truth. Paul and Maggie always had only each other. Well, and me, but I ain’t much.”
Special, special man. “That’s not so, Warny. You were there for them. Loving them. There’s no better gift than that. I think you are more to them than you think.”
“Naw. I’m just an old uncle who never got on with his sister. Didn’t even know Paul and Maggie until they was grown. Course, I didn’t know how their folks treated ’em or I’d have come sooner. That was my fault—th
e not knowing. But fact is I didn’t know and I should’ve. And that makes me nothing special.”
Paul hadn’t been loved as a boy. But his uncle loved the man. “You’re special to them, and to me. Standing here, putting your life on the line to protect me...” Her eyes blurred. “That’s more than special.”
Warny shrugged. “Being honest, Miss Della, I think you’re a fine woman and my nephew deserves the best. Lord knows, he ain’t never had it—tender feelings, I’m talking about. Women have wanted what he could give ’em, even his mama was that way, but you’re the first that asks for nothing and just appreciates the man. That makes it a privilege to do what I can to look out for you.”
“Because Paul needs looking after?”
“No, ma’am. Because he loves you and I think if you’ll scoot out of your own way and let yourself, you’ll find out you love him back.”
“I do love him,” she said before realizing she was speaking.
“Course you do. But now, there’s love, and then there’s love,” Warny went on. “It’s clear to anyone with eyes you two love each other. I reckon that makes the question whether or not you love each other, too. That’s something only the two of you can answer and ain’t none of this old man’s busin— Look! There he is!”
Paul showed up on the monitor, tracking back downstream to where they’d had the picnic. Jake ran alongside him. They cut across the open pasture and headed toward the house.
Relief washed through Della, and her eyes burned. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t cried for three years. Then she prayed last night, everything changed and she turned into a virtual waterworks.
She sniffed. “Oh, thank goodness.”
Paul came in hot and sweaty, smelling of horse and sunshine. “Everything okay?”
“We’re fine,” Warny answered before Della could. “No activity.”
Della passed him a fresh glass of tea. “You okay?”
“Frustrated. It was him, Della.” Paul took a drink of the tea.
“How do you know?” That he knew wasn’t in doubt. It showed in every line on his face, in the set of his jaw, the hard expression and outrage in his eyes.
