Peppermint Creek Inn

by Jan Springer

  She cast a nervous glance at the almost black sky. The uneasiness crept up a notch. A fist of fear threatened to cut off her air supply.

  “The only way you’ll get over your fear of storms is by confronting it and going through it.” His voice sounded so warm, so confident.

  Sara shook her head and retreated a step. “I just want to go inside.”

  “Come closer,” he encouraged gently.

  The look of tenderness in his emerald eyes drew her to him like a bear to honey. He reached out and pried the tray from her grasp, placing it on the nearby porch swing. Her hands automatically clenched into tight fists at her sides. A lonesome cry from a loon out on the lake startled her. Her insides churned violently with the bubbling fear.

  When Tom reached out, she didn’t hesitate a second before flying into the safety of his arms. His hand slid around to the small of her back, caressing her there. It felt so wonderful.

  Instinctively, she pressed her head against his strong muscular chest and listened to his heart beating. The sound was a delicious, steady, soothing rhythm and for the first time in a long time, she felt truly safe.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered gently. “I’m with you.”

  Another bolt of lightning zipped across the velvety black night. This time, Sara didn’t jump in fright. His face was mere inches from hers and the intense look in his eyes fascinated her.

  There was need. Hunger. Caring.

  He stood so close. It would be too easy to wrap her arms around his neck, pull his face downward to hers, to kiss those enchanting lips. He smelled so intoxicating, so masculine. It took all the strength she could muster to break the spell.

  “What do you remember?”

  He took a deep breath and stiffened against her.

  “Mom.” The word came out in a low rush, a quietly whispered anxious sigh. “I remember my mother. How the cancer was eating away at her. She was suffering so much. After a while the doctors told us they couldn’t do anything more. She wanted to go home to die, and so we took her home.”

  “Oh, God,” Sara closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the pain of Tom’s words.

  When she opened them again, he was staring straight into her eyes. Searching for something. Understanding? A fellow comrade? Someone to share his grief?

  “Our house smelled of death. Little by little, day by day she got worse. Begging us to put her out of her misery. We went nuts trying to find help for her. We tried everything. I even went to see some old gypsy card reader to get some help. She came up with the death card.”

  He was shaking so bad.

  Sara reached out and touched his face. “I’m so sorry. It’s so hard to lose someone you love.”

  The first growl of the oncoming storm cascaded over the surrounding hills. Sara barely heard it.

  “‘Time heals the wound of loss’ my mom used to say,” Tom whispered in a strangled voice. She felt his warm breath caress her cheek. “You never forget. You grieve. It’s a part of the healing process. But you never forget.”

  “How’d you get through it?”

  He took a deep wobbly breath and let it out slowly. His jaw clenched tightly for a moment before answering.

  “It was tough. For all of us. But I focused on my belief that there is a higher power out there, a great designer. Someone who knows what they are doing and why. Mom went that way for a reason. I haven’t figured it out yet. Maybe I’m being naive for even trying. I kept repeating to myself over and over again that I’m going to get through this. I’m going to make it. Then one day I realized I had.”

  “I almost didn’t make it,” Sara whispered.

  “I kind of got that feeling.” He reached up, his gentle callused fingers brushing away the fresh tears slipping from her eyes. “There’s a haunted sadness in your eyes. Can you tell me about it?”

  Sara hesitated a moment, feeling uncertain and afraid. She’d never told anyone. Not even her closest confidant, her sister Jo. Not a single soul. She’d felt—well, embarrassed for trying to take the easy way out.

  “It happened a few weeks after they died. Just after Christmas,” Sara began. “It was the first time I’d been left alone. Mom and Dad had gone back home. Garry needed to get away. His heart was breaking. He’d lost his wife, his only son, only grandchildren and he was losing me, too. His brother managed to talk him into visiting him for awhile in New York City.

  “Jessie, my brother, bless his heart, wanted to sell his apple farm business to stay and take care of me. But I put up a good front. I told everyone I was fine. But Jo, she seemed to feel I wasn’t doing so well. I couldn’t get rid of her. No matter how hard I tried. Kicking, screaming, crying. She was always there, hovering around me. It was almost as if she sensed what I wanted to do…”

  Sara checked if the door was unlocked then stole into Jocelyn’s bedroom. She’d always felt safe and secure in Jo’s room. Maybe because of all the chats they had together when she came for visits.

  Or maybe it was the room itself and the way Jo had decorated it. Frilly white laces. Soothing tones of forest green and buttery warm yellow. So comforting. So safe.

  But today she didn’t feel safe or secure. She felt nothing but the deep hollow emptiness. A black hole stretching endlessly.

  Her therapist told her she was depressed. If this was depression, they could have it. She had nothing to live for anymore. Her family was gone. Wiped out. All she wanted was to be with them.

  Sara edged to the closet where Jo kept it. After a couple of minutes of frantic searching, she found it hidden way in the back. Her sister had moved it.

  Jo suspected. They all suspected.

  Her fingers fell on the smooth wooden box on the top shelf. With suddenly trembling hands, she slowly removed the item from the closet and sat down on the bed. She stared at the box for a long time, then what seemed an eternity later she opened it and delicately withdrew the gun. It was cold and heavier than she remembered.

  Years ago, Jo had shown her how to load it, how to clean it and how to fire it. But Sara hadn’t been interested in shooting the thing, much to the dismay of her little sister who believed every woman should learn to defend herself any way they could. Just in case.

  Sara felt oddly removed from everything in her life now. The past weeks had been a horrible ordeal. Burying her husband, her babies and her mother-in-law.

  On top of that, all the curious stares, hand pointing and hurried whispers from the people in town. For the past two weeks, she’d been preparing herself for this day. Jo rarely left her alone. It was as if she sensed Sara would snap at any minute.

  But every Monday morning, Jo left for town to pick up the cinnamon-covered donuts that Widow McCloud at the general store made for Monday Special. Jo loved her donuts. How many times had Sara been envious of her little sister? She ate so many donuts and yet never gained a pound. But when Sara ate more than one in a sitting, her stomach seemed to grow its own donut.

  But Sara didn’t worry about her own weight anymore. No family. No appetite. No problems.

  She wondered how Jo would react when she discovered her body. She knew Jo would feel guilty for some time. After all, Jo had her own demons to deal with. But she’d come through and gone on with her life.

  Sara wished she’d been able to do the same. But it just hurt too much.

  She thought about her father-in-law Garry and how he’d react. Or her parents. Oh, God, she couldn’t deal with it. Not now. Not when she was so close.

  In the end, everyone would be relieved of her. She’d been a burden to them all. Altered their lives to baby-sit her just because she hadn’t been able to handle it.

  Yes, she liked Jo’s room. So soothing. So safe.

  It was the perfect place to do it.

  Hesitantly, Sara’s trembling fingers picked up the bullet she needed for the job. She loaded the gun. She thought of Jack. The twins. Of how it should have been.

  She wanted her final thoughts to be of them.

  She cocked the
gun.

  The sound pierced through the quiet morning like a gunshot and she jumped at the harsh noise. Just a matter of seconds and it would all be over.

  She would join them soon. They’d be the big happy family just like they’d always planned.

  She wondered if she would have the guts to do it. She sat there looking out the window. Everything was covered in sparkling white snow. The trees, the buildings, the parking lot. It looked as if someone had dumped icing sugar on everything. She knew it should look pretty but it didn’t. Nothing did.

  She imagined Jack, rolling a giant snowball through the drifts. Their two-year-old twins following him. Both bundled up in winter gear to ward off the winter weather, their faces red from the cold, eagerly watching what their dad was up to. And when Jack put the smaller snowball on top of the two other giant snowballs and placed his own hat and scarf around the makeshift snowman, the children laughed. The sweet sound like crystal chimes.

  She could hear her children’s laughter so clearly.

  She wanted to join them. To be happy with them. Jack’s laughter boomed with her children’s.

  I’m coming, my darlings. I’m coming.

  She lifted the gun, oh so slowly.

  Jack’s laughter boomed outside. The children giggled excitedly.

  Her family was waiting for her. She pressed the cold smooth barrel of the gun until it kissed her left temple.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  Suddenly Jack’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You promised me, Sara. You promised.”

  “Jack?”

  Sara swung around, her eyes wide fully expecting to see her husband standing in the open bedroom doorway.

  No one was there.

  For a moment, she thought she’d pulled the trigger and had been reunited with her family.

  But she was alone. Desperately alone.

  And then she realized it wasn’t true. She wasn’t alone. Jack had been here for her. She’d heard his voice. He’d been here all the time. She should have felt relieved at the realization, but she wasn’t. He’d made her feel guilty, guilty for not honoring her promise to him.

  Then she knew. It wasn’t time to go to them. Something waited for her. It could be around the next corner. The next day. Or further down the line. Something was out there.

  A burning curiosity began to take hold. She wondered what Jack had in store for her. Why else had he come into her life at such a bleak period, but to offer hope?

  “The promise you made to him to find someone else.” Tom’s hushed voice cut through her memory.

  Sara closed her eyes and bit her lower lip to prevent herself from crying. His arms tightened around her, comforting her.

  “And from then on you were on the run. Trying to escape the promise you’d made to him. Keeping the pain of his loss from grabbing hold of you. Trying not to remember how your family died. And when you finally allowed them into your heart, you saw them, experienced your children’s laughter, heard Jack’s voice. Is it any wonder Jack, the man who loved you so dearly, who probably loved you more than his own life would want nothing more than for you to live? Would want your happiness?”

  His words found their way into her heart and Sara felt her spirits lifting. She cocked an inquiring eyebrow at him.

  “Are you sure you’re not a psychiatrist?”

  Tom laughed. “I still may not know who or what I am, but I’m definitely not a shrink.” His voice suddenly grew serious. “I guess it’s what I learned from my mom. She tried to teach us. To prepare us a little on how to deal with death and life. Take it as it comes, the good with the bad.”

  “Us?”

  “No names. But I know I have two younger brothers. A dad. I can’t see their faces, but I know they’re out there. It’s just feelings I have. Just like things I remember Mom teaching us. About healing rituals. Something that might be able to help you.”

  Sara frowned. “Rituals?”

  “Remember the old saying something old, something new. Something borrowed, something blue.”

  Sara nodded. “A wedding ritual, a symbol of transition. When a woman gets married, she wears something old, to remind her of her past, of what she’s leaving behind. And she also wears something new, a symbol for her future. So you’re saying I should find something to symbolize my past, my losses. Create a reminder of what I’ve lost.”

  Tom nodded. “Then you have a healing ritual. When you enact a ritual of your loss—bury it, destroy it, give it away or show some way it is no longer a part of your life.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  He frowned and squeezed her tighter against him. “Believe me. It isn’t.”

  Suddenly she felt better. Better than she’d felt in a long time. Realization and understanding wrapped around her like a newfound, long-lost friend. “And that’s why people attend memorial services and visit gravesites of their loved ones. To obtain some sort of closure.”

  A hint of a smile entered his voice. “And why societies build memorials in an effort to heal from social traumas—whether it’s for thousands of people lost in a war or for one person who meant so much. Remember though,” he cautioned. “You can’t fix everything in a split second. It’s sort of an experience in the larger process of recovery. You have to examine and process your trauma, mourn your losses, deal with the symptoms, then rebuild your damaged self and finally rejoin society.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a shrink?”

  Tom chuckled. “I don’t think so. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Looks like the headache is gone. What do you say we go in, sit by the fire and have our tea and cake?”

  “You’re on.”

  Before Sara could make a move, Tom’s entire body coiled with tension, his hand tightened painfully around her waist and suddenly Sara became aware of everything around her.

  The cool breeze bristling against her face. The sweet smell of the oncoming rain. The unmistakable feeling they were being watched.

  Before she could voice her suspicion, he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her. Hard. She crashed stomach first onto the wooden planked floor, her breath escaping in a wild rush, his weight crushing her against the veranda as he flew on top of her. Much the same way as the first night they’d met.

  A split second later she screamed as a gunshot disintegrated the overhead porch light, showering glass over both of them.

  Chapter Nine

  “Sweetness?” Tom hissed anxiously.

  “I’m fine. Who do you think it is?” Sara shook violently as she peered through the veranda slats.

  “Stay down!” Came his harsh reply as he rolled off her. “Get inside. Lock all the doors.”

  Before she could stop him from blindly taking off and stumbling recklessly into extreme danger, he’d slipped into the heavy cloak of darkness.

  —

  Though Tom’s eyes were still unaccustomed to the sudden darkness, he dashed headlong through the night. Crouching low, legs and arms pumping viciously, he bolted in the general direction of where he figured the shot had come from. The road.

  Someone had shot out the porch light. On purpose? Or had someone been aiming too high and missed. The gunshot had triggered the unwelcome headache and more visions. He’d lain on the veranda for a few precious seconds. Totally useless. Not knowing where he was. Engulfed by memories.

  He’d snapped out of it long enough to make sure Sara was safe. And now he ran through the night like a madman. Visions sucker punching him all the way.

  One by one, the blows fell.

  Crimson.

  Blood seeping.

  Shouting.

  Glass breaking.

  A gunshot.

  It sure as hell made concentrating on being careful pretty difficult.

  Up ahead he could hear someone running along the road. Tom’s legs pumped harder. Adrenaline rushed like wildfire through his veins. Around the next bend lightning flashed and he spotted the intruder a
ttempting to climb into a pickup truck.

  Instantly Tom was airborne. He crashed into the tall, chubby figure. A surprised gasp escaped the assailant’s lips as they both slammed against the open truck door with violent force. Tom grabbed the man’s shoulders and spun him around, the overpowering smell of whiskey made him wince.

  Raising his arm, he was quite ready to smash his fist into the man’s face when he halted midair. He’d been expecting Justin Jeffries. This was a man he’d never seen before. A somewhat rumpled looking fellow about Tom’s own age who scrunched up his face like a prune, waiting for Tom’s fist to hit.

  Instead, Tom grabbed the man by his shirt collar with both hands. “Why are you shooting at us? Who hired you?”

  “Hired me?” There was genuine surprise in his slurred voice. “Are you kidding? C’mon. Quit rough housing me, you’re gonna ruin my threads.”

  Tom’s grip tightened and he shook the man hard. “I’m going to ruin more than your threads if you don’t answer me!”

  “I thought you were Jeffries!” he blurted fearfully.

  Tom was suddenly taken aback at the man’s confession. “Jeffries?”

  “The cop. I was trying to scare him off.”

  “Why?”

  “Keep him away from you and—Sara.”

  Tom didn’t know why, but he believed this drunkard. There were two types of people who always told the truth. Kids and drunks. And by golly this man was sauced.

  Tom let him go and the drunk immediately reached out to grab the truck door in an effort to keep standing. He figured it was more from the booze than from Tom’s surprise attack on him.

  “Who are you anyway?” the drunk asked curiously.

  “Never mind who I am. Who are you?”

  “Cran Simcoe. You gonna turn me in?”

  “Only if you don’t answer my questions.”

  The man visibly shrunk. “What do you want to know?”

  “For one, why do you want to shoot at Jeffries?”

  “Because—” The drunkard hesitated. “You sure you won’t turn me in?”

  “Just answer my questions,” Tom replied firmly.