This Place: Holmes Crossing Book 3

by Carolyne Aarsen

  Chapter One

  By the time I left British Columbia, I'd stopped looking over my shoulder. When I started heading up the QUE2, my heart quit jumping every time I heard a diesel pickup snarling up the highway behind me.

  I was no detective, but near as I could tell, Eric didn't know where I was.

  Four days ago, I'd waited until I knew without a doubt that he was at work before packing the new cell phone I had bought and the cash I had slowly accumulated. I slipped out of the condo we shared, withdrew the maximum amount I could out of our joint account, rode the city bus as far as it would take me, and started hitchhiking. Phase one of my master plan could be summed up in three words: Get outta town.

  Okay, four words if you want to be precise about it.

  Now, as I stood on the crest of a hill overlooking a large, open valley, I was on the cusp of phase two. Again, three words: Connect with Leslie.

  I let the backpack slip off my shoulders onto the brown grass in the ditch and sank down beside it in an effort to rest my aching feet and still my fluttering nerves. I was leery of the reception I would get from my sister and not looking forward to what she might have to say. Since August, nine months ago, I'd tapped out two long, rambling e-mails telling her what was happening in my life and laying out endless lists of reasons and excuses. But each time I read the mess of my life laid out in black and white on a backlit screen, guilt and shame kept me from hitting the Send button.

  I knew she had a cell phone, and I knew the number, but a text message couldn't begin to cover either apologies or explanations.

  So I was showing up after nine months of nothing hoping for a positive reception.

  But at the same time my heart felt like a block of ice under my sternum, the chill that radiated out of it competing with the heat pouring down from above.

  The click of grasshoppers laid a gentle counterpoint to the sigh that I sucked deep into my chest. I slowly released my breath, searching for calm, reaching into a quiet place as my yoga instructor had been yammering at me to do.

  I reached down, tried to picture myself mentally going deeper, deeper.

  C'mon. C'mon. Find the quiet place. Anytime now.

  The screech of a bird distracted me. Above, in the endless, cloudless sky, a hawk circled lazily, tucked its wings in, and swooped down across the field. With a few heavy beats, it lifted off again, a mouse hanging from its talons.

  So much for inner peace. I guess there was a reason I dropped out of yoga class. That and the fact that my friend Amy and I kept chuckling over the intensity of the instructor as she droned on about kleshas and finding the state of non-ego.

  The clothes were fun though.

  I dug into my backpack and pulled out my "visiting boots," remembering too well how I got them. Eric's remorse over yet another fight that got out of control. On his part, that is. He had come along, urging me to pick out whatever I wanted. I had thought spending over a thousand dollars could erase the pain in my arm, the throbbing in my cheek. But those few hours of shopping had only given me a brief taste of power over him. His abject apologies made me feel, for a few moments, superior. Like I was in charge of the situation and in charge of the emotions that swirled around our apartment. That feeling usually lasted about two months.

  Until he hit me again.

  I sighed as I stroked the leather of the boot. For now, the boots would give me that all important self-esteem edge I desperately needed to face Leslie.

  As I toed off my worn Skechers and slipped on the boots, I did some reconnoitering before my final leg of the journey.

  Beyond the bend and in the valley below me, the town of Holmes Crossing waited, secure in the bowl cut by the Athabasca River. For the past three days, I'd been hitching rides from Vancouver, headed toward this place, the place my sister now called home. In a few miles, I'd be there.

  I lifted my hair off the back of my neck. Surely it was too hot for May. I didn't expect Alberta, home of mountains and rivers, to be this warm in spring.

  In spite of the chill in my chest, my head felt like someone had been drizzling hot oil on it, basting the second thoughts scurrying through my brain.

  I should have at least phoned. Texted.

  But I'd gone quiet, diving down into my life, staying low. I wasn't sure she'd want to see me after such a long radio silence. I knew Dan wouldn't be thrilled to see me come striding to his door, designer boots or not. Dan, who in his better moments laughed at my lame jokes, and in his worse ones fretted like a father with a teenage daughter about the negative influence he thought I exerted on my little sister. His wife.

  Leslie had sent me e-mails about my little nephew Nicholas's stay in ICU and subsequent fight for his life, pleading with me to call to connect. I knew I had messed up royally as an aunt and a sister by note being there. Not being available.

  And I'd wanted to be there more than anything in the world. But at the time, I’d been holding onto my life by my raw fingertips and had no strength for anyone else.

  You had your own problems. You didn't have time.

  But I should have been there for my only sister. I could have tried harder.

  The second thoughts were overrun by third thoughts, the mental traffic jam bruising my ego.

  I pulled a hairbrush out of my knapsack. Bad enough I was showing up unannounced. I didn't need to look like a hobo. As I worked the brush through the snarl of sweat-dampened curls, I promised myself that someday I was getting my hair cut. I stuffed my brush back into my backpack and brushed the grass off my artfully faded blue jeans, thankful they were still clean. Zipping up my knapsack, I let out one more sigh before I heard the sound of a car coming up over the hill. My low spirits lifted as I turned to see who might rescue me from walking on these stilettos all the way to town.

  They did a swan dive all the way down to the heels of my designer boots.

  A cop car, bristling with antennas and boasting a no-nonsense light bar across the top, was slowing down as it came alongside me.

  Did Eric sic the Mounties on me?

  I teetered a bit, wishing I were a praying person. Because if I believed that God cared even one iota about my personal well-being, I'd be reciting the Lord's Prayer, Hail Mary--anything to get His ear right now.

  My nerves settled somewhat when I saw two young girls huddled in the backseat of the cruiser. They didn't look older than seven or eight. What could they have possibly done to warrant the heavy artillery of a police car and two officers?

  And what would the cops want with me?

  ……….

  You can find out more by ordering

  All In One Place

  Excerpt - A Silence in the Heart - Holmes Crossing #4

  She thought she heard the cry of a child.

  The haunting sound slid through the early-morning quiet just as Tracy stepped out of her car. Still holding the door, she canted her head to one side, listening.

  There it was again. Softer this time.

  Tracy strode around the concrete-block building trying to pinpoint the origin. But when she came around the side, the street in front of the clinic was empty as well.

  The tension in her shoulders loosened and she shivered, pulling her thin sweater closer around herself. Ever the optimist, she had left her warmer jacket hanging in the hallway closet of her apartment this morning, counting on the early-September sun to melt away the coolness of the fall morning.

  Then a movement caught her eye.

  She stopped and turned to face whatever might come.

  Then a small boy shuffled cautiously around the corner of the clinic, his head angled down, his thin arms cradling something. He looked to be about six or seven.

  Tracy relaxed as she recognized him. For the past two weeks she had seen him walking past the clinic in the early morning on his way to school. The last few days he had stopped to look in the window. It had taken a few encouraging waves and smiles from her to finally tease one from his wary face.

  She always felt bad
for him, going to school on his own, remembering too well her own early morning treks as a young child.

  Tracy might have been inadequately dressed for the weather, but this little boy was even more so. He wore a short- sleeved T-shirt, faded blue jeans and in spite of the gathering chill, sandals on bare feet. As she watched, he shivered lightly.

  “Hey, there,” Tracy said quietly, sensing he might startle easily.

  “I want to see the doctor,” he said, sniffing lightly as Tracy came nearer. “This kitten got hurt.” He angled her a suspicious glance through the tangle of dark hair hanging in his brown eyes.

  “The veterinarian isn’t in yet.” Tracy crouched down to see what he was holding. The tiny ball of mangled fur tucked in his arms looked in rough shape. One eye was completely closed, the fur around it matted with blood. A leg hung at an awkward angle. Probably broken.

  “What happened to it?” she asked quietly.

  “I dunno. I just found him laying here.” The little boy stood stiffly, his body language defensive. “Can you fix him?”

  Tracy’s heart sank. She knew the little boy couldn’t pay the vet fees, and from the looks of his clothes, doubted his parents could.

  “Where’s your mommy?” she asked, touching the kitten lightly.

  “I dunno.”

  Those two words dove into her soul. Too familiar.

  “Is she at your home?”

  He kept his eyes down, looking at his kitten. Tracy looked over his worn clothes and the dried smear of tomato sauce on his face and stained shirt and filled in the blanks. She guessed he had gone to bed looking like this and that there was no one at his home right now.

  “I wanna keep him,” the little boy wiped his nose on the shoulder of his T-shirt, a hitch in his voice. “He can be my friend when I’m by myself.”

  Tracy’s thoughts jumped back in time. She saw herself a young girl of eight, standing in the kitchen of her apartment she and her mother shared, saying the same words, also holding a kitten, hope lingering.

  “Not enough money,” her mother had said, though Velma managed to use those same limited funds for lottery tickets and liquor. How Tracy had longed for that kitten. A friend. Someone to hold when there was no one around.

  Tracy pushed herself to her feet. “Let’s go inside.”

  The boy slanted her a narrow-eyed, wary look, holding back as she unlocked the door and opened it.

  “It’s okay,” Tracy said quietly. “We have to go inside to look at your kitten.”

  He nodded and slowly stepped inside, his head swiveling around, checking out the reception area of the clinic.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as the door fell shut behind them.

  “Are you a stranger?” he asked, suspicion edging his voice. “My mom says I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.”

  “I’m a vet technician,” she answered, sidestepping the guarded question. "And my name is Tracy Harris.”

  He stood in the center of the room, a tightly wound bundle of vigilance, clinging to the kitten like a lifeline. His eyes darted around—assessing, watchful. They met Tracy’s as he straightened, as if making a decision. “My name is Kent,” he said with a quick lift of his chin. “Kent Cordell.”

  She had been given a small gift of trust and in spite of the kitten that might be dying in his arms, she gave Kent a smile. She skimmed his shoulder with her fingers. “Good to meet you, Kent.”

  The back door slammed and a loud singing broke the quiet. Crystal, the other vet technician burst into the room with her usual dramatic flair, bright orange sweater swirling behind her. “And a good morning to you, my dear,” she called out snatching a knitted hat off her deep red hair, then stopped when she saw Kent.

  Kent tucked his head over the kitten, his shoulders hunched in defense. Like a turtle he had withdrawn again.

  Crystal angled her chin at Kent as she tossed her hat on the desk. “Who’s the kid?”

  “This is Kent, and I’m bringing him and his kitten to an examining room. As soon as Dr. Harvey comes in, can you send him my way?”

  “Not Dr. Braun?” Crystal asked, her voice holding a teasing tone.

  Tracy was disappointed at the faint blush warming her neck. From the first day that David Braun had started at the clinic four months ago, Crystal had been avidly watching the two of them, as if it was only a matter of time before they started dating. Because, you know, two single people were always on the lookout for a mate.

  Negatory.

  There was no way Tracy was putting herself there again. Her old relationship with Art was the textbook version of ‘bad relationship’. And she wasn’t putting herself there again.

  But that didn’t stop her from feeling extra self-conscious around David—which in turn annoyed her.

  “Just send Dr. Harvey in when he comes,” she said.

  Crystal pouted. “Okay, okay. I’ll just be in the supply room.” She swung around, her lab coat flaring out behind her as she strode down the hall. But from the glance she tossed over her shoulder and the wink she gave, Tracy guessed Crystal hadn’t gotten the hint.

  At all.

  Also by Carolyne Aarsen

  ALL IN ONE PLACE

  THE ONLY BEST PLACE

  A SILENCE IN THE HEART

  ANY MAN OF MINE

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank a number of people who helped me get this book to This Place.

  My daughter-in-law, Emily Beckett Aarsen helped me brainstorm the concept and came up with Jane. Thanks for this perfect addition to this story!

  My sister Yolanda Brouwer offered me her insightful advice and help and the occasional snarky comment that didn’t make it into the book but kept me entertained. And annoyed. Because that’s what sisters do.

  Also thanks to Tanya Saari who edited this book and also gave me suggestions that made the book better.

  Huge thanks to Erika Brouwer who did the cover for this, and the other Holmes Crossing books. And put up with my picky edits along the way. You rock, girl.

  A book is never done. And with this series, my first foray into self-publishing, I’m realizing how tempting it will be to fiddle and adjust. I hope that any adjusting will be limited to fixing spelling errors and typos which, in spite of rigorous editing, have probably crept in and will jump out at me with flags waving and banners flying the second I hit ‘publish’. Please let me know if you spot them. I can’t promise I’ll fix your copy but you can be the pioneer for the next reader who will download a less error-prone book.

  Thanks for coming on this journey.

  About the Author

  Carolyne Aarsen, originally a city girl, was transplanted to the country when she married her dear husband Richard. While raising four children, foster children, and various animals Carolyne’s résumé gained some unique entries. Growing a garden, sewing blue jeans, baking, pickling and preserving. She learned how to handle cows, drive tractors, snow machines, ride a horse, and train a colt. Somewhere in all this she learned to write. Her first book sold in 1997 and since then has sold almost forty books to three different publishers. Her stories show a love of open spaces, the fellowship of her Christian community and the gift God has given us in Christ.

  To find out more about me go to…..

  www.carolyneaarsen.com

  carolynewriter@xplornet.ca