by Nicole Snow
I choke on my first bite of cereal. It tastes like ash and I'm totally sobbing, remembering Mia's sweet smile.
“Sorry, honey. I should have told you last night. Didn't want to say anything and upset you.”
“I get it,” I tell him, pushing the bowl away.
He's out of his chair before I'm halfway across the kitchen, stopping at the end of the stairs. “Going back up? No worries. I'll clean up.”
I mumble a thanks and retreat to my bedroom to lick my latest wounds. My father isn't wrong.
I hope like hell Mia is okay.
But for some sick reason, I hope Marshal is, too. I want him to be okay, dammit. I tell myself that's for Mia's sake, but my lying, damaged heart can't hide the truth from itself.
I want him to be okay because I'm still praying, as irrational as it is, that this is all a hideous mistake.
I want to just settle into my pillow, close my eyes, and wake up with the world being right-side up again.
Four more days pass in a haze. I'm outside on the deck, freezing with the phone clutched to my ear.
“Ms. Kelley? Sarah?” It takes Dr. Cartwright saying my real name to break the trance.
“I'm here. Sorry, doctor.”
So sorry. It's the first time in forever I let myself feel a shred of self-pity. I should've known going into the clinic to get checked would lead to this.
“You heard the results, correct?”
“Yes. Of course. I spaced and I'm sorry.”
“It's no trouble, considering the circumstances.” Brutal. His voice is soft, but there's judgment. “Listen, there's a wonderful prenatal and maternity crew in Davenport. I'll have June set up your referral to ensure you receive the finest care.”
It's like he's read me a death sentence. My hands go to my waist, trembling, and I pull my cardigan tighter. It doesn't do much against this kind of cold. I'd better get back inside. Surely, fetuses won't be harmed by a few minutes of twenty degree exposure?
I don't have a clue. I have to start thinking about this stuff, whatever it takes to keep the baby I shouldn't be having safe.
“Thanks, doctor. I'll be waiting.” I wait before my screen starts flashing.
The call ends. No goodbye.
He's an asshole, but what do I expect? Dr. Cartwright knows it's just as unplanned as I do.
Oh, and not only am I staring down the black hole of having a child I'm not the least bit mentally equipped for, but I've just blown my best chance to snag a lab job in town.
I'm fucked.
Completely hopelessly devastated.
I'm holding in a silent scream as I fling open the door and step inside the house. Of course, there's a surprise waiting that makes the wintry February snow seem downright balmy.
“Oh, there you are, sis. Finally.” Jackson beams. I don't know how to associate my brother's harsh smile with anything less than a new nightmare. He pushes something across the kitchen counter, taking a long slurp of coffee. “Look this over. Tell me what you think.”
“Can't it wait? I'm not really...I'm just not in the mood.”
His smile disappears. He picks the slim stack of papers up, rounds the corner, and gets in my face. “Okay. You will be for this, though. Read.”
What choice do I have? What choice ever where he's involved?
My eyes skim the words. I see a judge's name, something about a restraining order, custody, and – Mia.
Jesus Christ.
My stomach tries to turn itself inside-out.
“What's the matter? I thought it'd perk you up. Soon as we show up on the Castoff's fucking doorstep, we've got him. We can get her away, somewhere safe, where she'll have a chance to – hey!”
I'm stumbling, knocking over a water bottle on the counter. I can't breathe. Hell, I try not to, because if this is really some twisted nightmare, maybe I'll finally wake up once the oxygen deprivation hits.
“Sis? Whoa. Hey, Ginger!”
I didn't even notice my sister-in-law nearby. Her hands are the only thing keeping my knees from slamming into the floor a few seconds later. I'm doubled over, both their arms tucked under my shoulders, watching hot, vicious tears slap the kitchen's wooden floor.
“Oh, Jackson, why'd you have to lay this on her now? She's been through so much. It isn't easy being stuck in the middle of all this. I told you, wait.” It's one of the few times I've ever heard her annoyed.
It doesn't help. The second I turn my head, eyeballing her growing baby bump, I want to throw up all over again.
God damn it, Marshal Howard.
A shrill whimper punctures the air. I think I'm hyperventilating.
“Mia!” I whimper, the only word I'm able to get out.
“What? What?!” Jackson barks the same question in my face twice, angrier by the second. “Don't tell me you still give a shit what happens to the kid? Can't you see what I'm trying to do here? You can't be this fucking blind, sis.”
“Jackson, don't! Come on.” Ginger's grip tightens on my arm. She tries leading me to the sofa in the living room, but my brother isn't having it, blocking our path.
“No, you come on. It's bullshit. Here I am, trying to do the right thing, searching high and low for that goddamned killer freak. Same thing anybody with a brain should've done years ago: get the kid away from him. If there was ever a bad fucking influence –“
“Jackson!” A louder male voice I don't recognize at first booms down the hall. We all stop and turn. “Enough. Leave her be.”
Dad steps into the fray, a quiet anger in his eyes. My brother stands taller, straighter, staring our father down. “Stay the hell out of this, old man. You let that freak in the house, too. Neither of you were ever fit to care for mom. Just wish I'd seen it sooner.”
I'm petrified. So is Ginger. We watch in horror as my father blinks once and then adjusts his glasses. “I wish I knew what the hell happened to you over there, son. It's sick what you've become. Fit? You're no longer fit to come here.”
I wish I could applaud my father for finally growing a backbone. Too bad it's today, after everything else has left me numb.
“Really? Just like that you've found your balls? Nice. Real fuckin' nice! This is the thanks I get for trying to track down the asshole who assaulted me twice, and put our mother in the nuthouse.”
“Leave, Jackson. I'm tired of it. Ginger, drive him home.”
My brother's eyes laser through his wife. “I know when we're not welcome. Let's fucking go.”
Her arm slips off mine. It's rare to see anyone look as disgusted as my own sister-in-law as she walks to the table, grabbing her purse, probably contemplating the painful drive home.
Jackson slumps against the wall, stewing and waiting. My father heads for the kitchen, shaking his head, knocking around cups in the cabinet more loudly than he needs to.
“What the hell were you so busy bawling about anyway? If it's not my full intent to nail that Castoff prick to the wall, then –“
“I'm pregnant.” It just falls out.
I didn't know the truth could go terminal until now.
Confusion flicks through my brother's eyes, rapidly becoming shock, and then rage. “You're...you're fucking knocked up? You've got to be shitting me, sis.” He pauses, shaking his head, jerking up and closing on me so fast he winces. “Who?”
I don't say anything. There's no point.
I'm alone, somehow still standing underneath the heat lamps where Jackson's eyes should be. And right now, I'd give anything to see Marshal again.
I don't care if it's insane. I don't care if it's desperate. I don't even care if he lied, ran, and left me behind for good.
Whatever he's guilty of, it can't be worse than weathering the explosive betrayal in my brother's face.
It's gone dead quiet in the house. I wait for Ginger to come between us, use her charm on overtime to lead him away, but she's stopped, staring, unsure. It's too much for even her.
“Who, Sadie? Who? Who the fuck got you...Jesus!” Jackson
can't bring himself to say it.
Then his hands are on my shoulders. Thumbs digging into my clavicles. He's screaming something my ears have lost the will to comprehend.
“It was him. Him. Fucking him!”
“Jackson! No, no, holy –“ Jackson flings her away. Ginger squeals, holding tight to him for support, but barely.
His eyes widen and his grip dies. It takes his pregnant wife nearly slamming into the wall face first before he lets go.
Jackson steps back, disgusted. I wish I knew if it was meant for me, or himself.
“Fuck. I'm so sorry, baby,” he growls, clenching Ginger to his chest. He cups her reluctant face, sliding his fingers through her hair, giving me and dad the evil eye.
For once, I stare right back, finding my strength. I did not make you do that, asshole.
“We're going home, and I'm sorting out the shit nobody else has the stones to deal with. I've got a lead on that Castoff prick. Mark my words, I'll pay him a visit myself. Before the police show up. I want a chance to beat the ever-living shit out of him first for wrecking my life.”
“Jackson!” Dad barks his name one last time, but there's no stopping him.
He's gone, heading through the garage, a sobbing Ginger hooked on his arm. I'm still alone, cold, and utterly crushed.
Even when my father finally turns to me, disgust fading from his eyes, and holds me in the tightest embrace I think we've shared since my Sweet Sixteen, it isn't enough. It isn't consolation. It can't help.
I know what's coming next: disaster.
12
Growling Closer (Marshal)
“Daddy...it's cold.”
“Working on it, honeybee. Give me a minute and drink your hot cider. Little sips, baby girl, just like I told you.” I break another log apart, hurling the wood into the old furnace, slamming the metal grate shut.
Of course the temperature had to plummet on day fourteen of exile. Ten days past the time we should already be several states away from Port Eagle.
The real problem isn't that this trailer parked on the abandoned hunting ground is too cold, too dreary, too far removed from civilization. It's that it's working too well. It's comfortable enough to keep me here, hiding away with Mia while I try to force myself to pull the pin. There's no hurry to start the long, permanent road trip that will take us God knows where.
A different end of the country, certainly. That much, I know. Anchorage, maybe, or Tucson.
Whatever mid-sized city has never attracted a single person from Port Eagle, Iowa, and who can't identify me as the Castoff behind my growing scruff. I reach up and scratch.
Shit itches. Another week, the full beard will start feeling natural, and then I'll be able to settle into the cover story I've concocted, wherever we wind up. I'm telling our new neighbors I'm a Missoula affiliate. One of those lumbersexual gun shop owners who made a killing selling ammo to the Prairie Devils MC, or whatever the hell other scary syndicate I can name drop to make people keep their nosy ass questions to themselves.
Easy. I hope.
Leaving this place, on the other hand...putting more miles between me and Red...
God damn. I sit down next to Mia, pushing my fingers through my hair, trying not to let her see me scared.
It's hard, and it shouldn't be.
Why am I fucking up like this today? Why for the last week have I been telling myself we'll check the truck and leave? Tomorrow, honeybee.
Always tomorrow. Never today.
“Daddy, I'm hungry.” She tugs at my flannel sleeve, giving me a longing look. For a second, I look through the wall, wishing like hell I'd never posted that nanny ad.
I'm an okay cook, but nothing like Red. My little girl misses her grub even if she won't say it. Hell, so do I.
I wish I'd done things differently, like never bringing Sarah Kelley into my house. But by the time I give Mia my reassuring smile, promise her mac and cheese, and start rummaging through the tiny fridge to see if we have any frozen peas left for a veggie add-in, I know it isn't true.
I don't regret this, however much I hate roughing it out with my little girl. I don't regret her.
Fuck, I miss her more than ever.
Little Mia's sing-song humming while she waits for me to boil water just drives it home. It's the Star Spangled banner. I cock my head, listening to the national anthem. Out of place, out of context, but damn if it isn't what they were working on before the terrible night that ripped her away from me.
I try not to slam the knife down on the onions and mushrooms I'm adding to our poor man's macaroni casserole. At least I have real cheese to flesh out the instant powder.
Thinking about Red inevitably brings my mind to her asshole brother and his threats.
His threats make me think of Jenna.
Jenna makes me think of the truth, which yeah, I fucking embellished, but I never killed her.
Too bad I was caught red-handed the second asshole noticed me tampering with his brakes. I'll never understand how he deciphered the intent, or why he sat on it as long as he did.
I underestimated him. Should've done more than a basic patch job, realizing too late the garage in town never half-asses things.
It's not like it matters.
His lies were enough. They tore her away, stole my woman while she was still wearing my ring, clutching it to her trembling lip like it was the reason our world went to hell.
Not because of the lying, would-be murderer idiot standing in front of her on the icy driveway after attacking her brother. Not because of the bigger fool who ran.
I should have faced the music.
Turned myself in and let the heavens fall.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
I don't know what's in the crystal ball next. I try not to picture it, much as I need to, if we're ever getting anywhere.
Today, I'm here, boiling pasta, listening to my little girl hum a patriotic tune that tears my heart out, and not because it summons a lot of ghosts into my screwed up head.
My eyes drift over to the cheap notebook and pen. I bought it the first and last time we stopped in town, the same night we left everything, tearing down the highway to this abandoned place I've seen a thousand times. It's got hotels, routes, itineraries, whatever I could find online the first night before I switched off my phone and tossed it into the Mississippi at a scenic overlook.
There's plenty of paper left over, demanding words. For two weeks, I've resisted the biting urge to sit down and write. I can't, I can't, I so fucking can't, I keep telling myself.
Because the instant I do, and those words flow out of me, they have to find Red. I have to bring them to her. And if I let that happen, everything ends.
I wake up with a groan the next morning. I roll over, check honeybee snoozing on the blow up mattress next to me. She likes to pull her covers off at night and wake up freezing, but thankfully that's not the case this morning.
I'm careful not to wake her, fixing myself a coffee in the little kitchen. It's cheap instant shit that puts a few more hairs on my chest after the first sip. First thing I'm grabbing once we've settled into our new lives is a grinder and some fresh beans.
Even hardasses are coffee snobs sometimes.
My caffeine woes pale compared to the notebook next to the stove. The pen is still on top, calling me, ruining my day before the cold winter sun is up.
“Goddammit, I can't...” I whisper, downing more black sludge.
My hands aren't listening.
Somehow, my fingers find their way to the smudged black pen.
Somehow, I'm holding the notebook when I sit on the plastic stack of storage bins I use as a makeshift chair.
Somehow, I'm writing like a man who's lost his mind.
I can't leave town without Red knowing. Not without an explanation. Not without a clue.
My hand scribbles furiously for the next half hour, finding the words lodged in my heart like an arrow, drawing them out in quick, painful bursts. Emotion bleeds out of
me and stains the pages. Wounds the old Marshal Howard never knew.
This new man I've become beats his way out of me, high on adrenaline. Alive and enraged with a cold new realization.
I never thought I'd love a woman this fucking much.
How the hell can I leave Sadie behind?
I don't know. But I have to find a way, right after I finish this note, get our crap together, and feed my little girl some breakfast.
Survival doesn't make room for heartbreak, or bitter confessions. It's cruel, unrelenting, and a bitch with zero room in her icy heart for error.
Go.
After you finish this thing, stuff it in an envelope, and drop it at her door.
This has to be the end.
I tell myself the same thing over and over. It's early, well before our small town's poor excuse for a rush hour. Maybe if I can get Mia up and dressed in the next half hour, stopping at the McDonald's on the edge of town won't be too huge a risk. Then we'll hit the highway and never look back.
Finally. I have a plan, and it's the first time it's actually felt right.
Standing, I look through the dirty windows at the first sunlight peaking up above the frosted trees. There's a heavy peace in my bones.
Then I hear the engine. It's a rough noise that shouldn't be here in the morning calm. A slow steady growl that's too ominous and far too fucking close to our hideaway.
“Mia!” I yell her name, crossing the trailer to the air mattress. “Honeybee, come on, wake up. We have to go right now.”
Now, now, right the fuck now.
I can't even wait for her to rub her little eyes. I've yanked her up in a matter of seconds, clutched tight to my chest, ripping our jackets off the back of the sofa.
That engine is coming closer still. I stop for a split second at the kitchen window, and see a familiar black truck rumbling through the morning gloom.
What little hopes I had for a lost farmer using this abandoned turf to turn around dies. I'm desperate, but I'm not delusional.
There's no mistaking it.
I know who it is, even if I can't make out his features in the driver's dark silhouette.
