Twilight
Copyright 2002
Kristen Heitzmann
Cover design by Ann Gjeldum
Scripture quotations identified NIV are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW
INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved. The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society.
Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-2605-2
ISBN-10: 0-7642-2605-3
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Heitzmann, Kristen.
Twilight / by Kristen Heitzmann.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-7642-2605-3 (pbk.)
1. Single mothers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.E468 T88 2002
813’.54—dc21 2002002466
* * *
Dedicated to those who serve
either heroically
or quietly
ROCKY MOUNTAIN LEGACY
Honor’s Pledge
Honor’s Price
Honor’s Quest
Honor’s Disguise
Honor’s Reward
DIAMOND OF THE ROCKIES
The Rose Legacy
Sweet Boundless
The Tender Vine
Twilight
A Rush of Wings
The Still of Night
Halos
Freefall
Secrets
Unforgotten
Echoes
www.kristenheitzmann.com
KRISTEN HEITZMANN is the acclaimed author of eight novels, including Honor’s Pledge from her bestselling ROCKY MOUNTAIN LEGACY series. Raised on five acres of ponderosa pines at the base of the Colorado Rocky Mountains, Kristen has long held a passion for the state she and her husband call home. A teacher, a music minister, and a mother of four, Kristen delights in sharing her American heritage through the written word.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgments
1
THE MAN WHO WALKS IN THE DARK
DOES NOT KNOW WHERE HE IS GOING.
John 12:35 NIV
THE THING ABOUT SERVING is that it isn’t true service until there’s nothing in it for you—no personal benefit, only pure sacrifice. Doing what you have to do when you can’t give yourself a single reason, except someone needs it. And sometimes what you do looks just plain stupid. That explanation wasn’t in the dictionary, but Cal had spent some hours defining it in his mind. He had redefined a lot of things these last months.
He stood now in the lounge of the fire station that served Montrose, population four thousand, and the surrounding county. By its nature the career he’d chosen meant training, dedication, service. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known he wanted to rescue people, combat destruction, take charge of any emergency. But some situations were beyond control.
Like the people lost in the terrorist attacks running into a building to save, rescue, aid, and the unimaginable destruction that followed. Pure service that cost them their lives. Cal’s memories threatened to erupt, but he pushed them aside. Not now; not here.
He stepped up to the wall. The mirror threw his face back at him, each of his twenty-nine years leaving their mark in the lines around
the eyes and the scar running white across his sunburned chin, shaved clean of the weekend’s growth. He looked decent, manly, handsome enough if he wanted to go there. He wasn’t vain—just assessing what he saw these days when he faced himself. It was about to change anyway.
White paint erased the chin scar as he shaped a smile outlined in red—a goofy, extravagant smile. He hid his blue eyes behind wraparound sunglasses and pinched on a red plastic nose, then mashed his hair down like a mess of straw and pulled on the curly yellow wig. His uniform shirt took on a whole new look with the spotted, oversized bow tie, but the emblem on the sleeve gave Spanner the Clown his purpose. Jokes, magic, laughter—all to grab and hold attention, promote memory. Climbing into baggy pants, he snapped the suspenders on his shoulders and stepped out into the garage.
The dented, red engine waited beside the smaller rescue vehicle. Cal stood for a moment, eyeing the old truck’s length, the hoses accordion-folded in the back, the steps to the jump seat behind the cab where a man could crouch, the siren shrill in his ears, holding the side bars as the engine sped along, adrenaline transforming him into a machine primed for action. The new trucks were enclosed for safety, but not old Susie.
Stepping back, he made way for Rob and Perry to finish the checklist on the engineer’s panel. Rob nodded, and Cal returned it, pretending he didn’t notice the smirk on Perry’s face, though it was how he’d have looked at one of them dressed like this. But he didn’t judge anymore, not by appearances anyway. The real man was not on the surface—sometimes in the eyes or in the stoop of the shoulders, but never in the face he showed the world.
And that was the irony, Cal thought, frowning inside the white smile. Painting a clown’s face was only a gross imitation of the masking of humanity. Everyone just pretended no one knew. He took the boxed theater, props, and puppets from the shelves and went out into the glaring sunlight. Missouri didn’t seem to know it was November. The air was warm and dry, and the daylilies along the road were putting out sprouts. Even nature could be fooled.
His scalp itched, and he stuck a finger under the edge of the wig to scratch as he climbed into his jeep. Fremont Elementary, here I come. He could have dressed at the school and saved himself Perry’s contempt, but kids were sharp. He didn’t want them to see the man who would dress up as Spanner the Clown. He wanted Spanner to arrive. It helped the magic.
One year ago he would have never believed the tricks he’d taught himself in high school would become so important. That, and the drama classes taken for the heck of it. And his natural cut-up personality. It was crazy. He shook his head. Not crazy, just unexpected.
The drive was short, the walk inside routine. But the sea of children’s faces made him tense. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed and plump beside their smiles, life and energy so thick he could feel it … and yet so precariously poised on the edge of tragedy. One wrong step, one minute too few …
He grabbed Rocky, the wooden-headed fireman puppet, and fixed the lever that worked its mouth firmly in his palm. But he kept the puppet still at his si
de as he stepped around the side of the theater. “Good morning, kids!”
“Good morning, Spanner!” They knew him from the last trip, maybe remembered his name came from the fireman’s tool, the spanner wrench. If he could just know they would remember the message behind his tricks.
“Say hello to Rocky, kids.” He held up the puppet.
“Hi, Rocky!”
“Hey, Rocky, tell us a joke.” That from a husky boy near the back.
Cal thought fast. He’d already told every firefighter changing a light bulb joke he knew. He moved the puppet’s mouth. “Did you hear about the monastery that sold flowers to pay for a new chapel?”
“No!” The childish voices struggled to outdo one another.
Cal made Rocky bob his head up and down. “Yep. But the flower seller in the village didn’t like the competition. He told those monastery fellows to cut it out. Did they listen?”
“No!” The children collapsed in giggles. Cal loved that part.
“You’re right!” Rocky shouted, clacking his wooden legs that dangled over Cal’s arm. “They kept selling flowers. So that flower seller brought in the big gun, Hugh McHugh.” Cal pulled the puppet back to face him and kept his mouth almost still as the puppet pleaded, “I can’t tell this part, Spanner. You tell it.”
Cal made his own voice ominous. “All right, Rocky. If you insist.” He looked over the young faces, waved his hand, fingers splayed. “Hugh McHugh stomped up to the monastery. Those little friars heard every step—boom, boom, boom. They trembled behind the door, then jumped back with each thump of his fist. The door flew open, and Hugh said, ‘No more selling flowers!’ Did the friars obey?”
The answers were mixed. Some defiant children shouted no, others called yes. Cal held his white-gloved hand in the air. “Yes, they stopped, and do you know why?”
Quiet now.
“Because Hugh and only Hugh can prevent florist friars.”
The teachers around the gym rolled their eyes and laughed. Half the children laughed, and half leaned to a friend to get the explanation. Cal didn’t wait. His reason for coming was fire safety, and he went right into his spiel.
After the school show he went back to the station, changed and washed up, then went home, more drained than he should be. It hadn’t been that full a day: just paper work, code inspections, and one show. But seeing all those trusting faces, the innocence, little limbs, little minds … He dropped into his recliner. At the third ring of his phone, Cal picked up the receiver.
“Is this Cal?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, Ray. I’m the only one here, remember?” He tossed down the evening paper and popped the tab of his Coke. Its sweet effervescence took the bite from his mood.
“I got a job.”
Of course. Ray only used the phone when he’d picked up an odd job from his newspaper ad. If Cal hung his head out the window, he’d see Ray standing in the garage apartment out back. Ray could have easily run up the outside stairs and told Cal in person, but he always informed him by phone.
“That’s great.”
It was great. At thirty-something, and balancing his lack on the smarts scale with his substantial strength, Ray took his work seriously and got top billing in the odd-job column. On the side, he helped his aunts, Mildred and Cissy, keep up the old country estate that Cal also called home. For that he got the garage apartment gratuitously. As the sole renter, Cal occupied the attic. Mildred and Cissy knocked around in the other two stories of the house in which they’d been born. Only the cellar was uninhabited, at least by humans.
“Yep,” Ray said. “But I need your help.”
That also was a given. Ray only called when he needed help. “Your employer will help in any way you need, Ray.”
“She can’t.”
This was going downhill. “Why not?”
“She’s not strong enough.”
Cal hitched the recliner back until the footrest leapt out. “What’s the job?”
“I gotta move a couch. It’s a sofa sleeper.”
“Move it where?”
“Downstairs. Around a corner.”
He was getting the picture. “When?”
“Tonight. Now.”
Cal pictured Ray’s expression, the urgency in his normally bland face. Ray’s jobs were the highpoint of his life, his way of saying he might not be much, but someone needed him. And that usually meant Ray needed Cal. What were friends for?
Cal massaged the kinks from his neck, swigged the Coke, and stood. “Okay.” How exactly he’d become Ray’s sidekick he couldn’t say—probably no more than proximity and acquiescence. Cal couldn’t turn him down, and that went a long way with Ray, who’d had enough rejection growing up.
The drive into town took longer than it would have if Ray had not insisted on reading the directions while he drove. Cal would have known the block and street by instinct, but Ray wouldn’t let Cal near the strip of napkin he’d written the address on. This was his gig.
Ray’s hammy shoulders hunched over the wheel with the paper trapped in the space between stem and circle. Every now and then he squinted his ruddy face at the hieroglyphics scribbled on the corner, and Cal couldn’t tell from his angle if he could still see the road. Twice he sat on his hands to keep from grabbing the wheel as the edge of the pavement wobbled the tires.
Driving was Ray’s most sensitive spot, maybe because it had taken him six tries to get his license. Cal guessed he’d run through all the driving testers and no one wanted to get in with him again, so they passed him. Now only Cal risked the passenger seat. But hey, if he hadn’t wiped himself out yet, Ray wasn’t likely to either.
After one final miscue, they pulled up in front of a blue-shingled house and climbed out of Ray’s junker. Cal knew the street, but he hadn’t been down this way in a while. The house was better kept than the ones flanking it. The paint looked fresh, and though the structure had the typical sagging of age and weather, there was an innate charm to the place. But then, he was a sop for old houses. More character than new. Just like people. What memories did those old walls hold?
Ray lumbered up the steps and rang the bell. Cal followed but stopped in his tracks when the door opened. She stood dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her straight, brown hair hanging past her shoulders. She still had the melting brown eyes that reminded him of a spaniel pup. It was Laurie, pronounced “Lawrie.”
She had been quick to correct him when they first met, but he’d made a point of mispronouncing it to keep her attention. He’d kept it, too, from the very start when she joined the Montrose High junior class his senior year. He hadn’t needed to try so hard for her attention when she returned from college seven years ago, the summer her grandmother died. It was that summer that leapt to his mind acutely as they stood now without speaking.
What had been a boyhood crush had become, as his friend Reggie would put it, one of life’s defining moments. He ached inside at the memory—and hoped it didn’t show.
“Hello, Cal,” Laurie murmured.
Rubbing his chin, Ray turned with a true “golly” grin.
Cal shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. What was it his mother used to say? Coincidence was God’s way of remaining anonymous? It wouldn’t be the first time he was the butt of some supernatural joke. “When Ray said he had a job, I hardly expected to find you.” And in no way could he connect her to this old madam of a house. She hated anything old enough to have the price tags removed.
“Are you helping him move my couch?” She pushed open the door and stepped out.
“Did you think he’d move it alone?” Cal’s knees felt weak.
“I guess not.” She finger combed the hair back over her crown. “Come on in.”
They followed her inside. The wooden floor of the entry and living room was the kind of tight tongue and groove that you wanted to slide on with stocking feet, though its finish was worn dull. Nothing broke its plane except a tired wing chair in the corner with a floor lamp beside it. Eit
her she hadn’t been there long or she was living a Spartan existence.
“I’ll get you something cold.” Laur ie disappeared into the kitchen.
Cal tensed. If she brought him a beer … He hooked an eyebrow up at Ray. Would he say something like “Cal’s not supposed to have that”? Swallowing a bitter taste, he gave the living room a quick scan.
The interior had not received the cosmetic boost of fresh paint the exterior had been given, and the absence of furniture accented the cracks in the walls. Ray could make quick work of that and slap on a coat of paint, but Cal didn’t say so. That was Ray’s call, though it suddenly felt personal. He’d have to be careful not to ruffle Ray’s feathers. The last time he’d overstepped his assistant role, Mildred had cold-shouldered him for weeks.
At the foot of the stairs, Cal noticed a junior-sized baseball glove. He didn’t want to think what that meant. But when Laurie emerged and handed him, luckily, a can of Coke, he noted the lack of a ring, though her fingers were as long and slender as he remembered. “Thanks.” He took a swig and followed Ray as she headed upstairs, taking the glove with her.
At the first doorway, she tossed it onto a twin bed with a sports comforter. A pair of trophies perched on the windowsill, and in the corner a stuffed bear wearing a Padres hat. The next room sported only a pink bed and a dollhouse under the window. Two, Cal counted, and they weren’t even down the hall yet.
Laurie stopped at the next door and waved her arm inside. Cal halted at the faint but familiar odor of clay. It must be her studio, and when he glanced inside, he confirmed it. Identifying the slip bucket and the wheel in the corner, he had a sudden attack of nostalgia, remembering a ganglier Laurie kicking the concrete wheel at the bottom, then attaching elbows to ribs for support as she cupped her hands over the mound of clay spinning between them. Little by little, working her hands upward, she’d dig in her thumbs until a gaping mouth appeared, then work the walls thinner with an imperceptible tightening of the fingers and thumbs.
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