Martha shivered and shoved aside the blanket she’d been burrowing under. She was not going to spend the hours until sunrise imagining the worst. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well do something constructive. Like find chocolate. One good thing about living alone—there was no one she needed to explain an early-morning chocolate raid to. No one to witness a bad case of bed head, two-sizes-too-big flannel pajamas or floppy pink bunny slippers. No one to keep awake with her restless fear.
No one to share her worries.
To tell her everything was going to be all right.
She shook her head, knowing that wasn’t the truth. She wasn’t alone. God was with her. She could share her worries with Him, and she could trust that He’d take care of her. She knew that, but sometimes it was hard to feel the emptiness of the house and know that it might always be the same. Just Martha. No husband. No kids. No busy days wrapped around a life of domesticity.
Maybe it was silly to want those things, but she did.
More than that, though, she wanted what God intended for her life. After her experience with Brian, she was pretty certain that marriage wasn’t what He had planned. That was okay, because as much as she might want a forever-after kind of relationship, she wasn’t sure how good she’d be at it. Her parents hadn’t been a great example of how to make things work. And her mother certainly hadn’t shown Martha how to mother a child, unless walking out on your kid when she was five was the way to do it.
She flicked on the light in the kitchen, scrounged through the cupboards in search of her chocolate fix. Her supply was sparse. Two chocolate bars. A bag of M&Ms with peanuts. A few Hershey’s Kisses. She unwrapped one, popping it in her mouth as she set the teakettle to boil. So what if she couldn’t sleep? It wasn’t the end of the world. Plenty of people suffered from insomnia. As a matter of fact, she was sure if she went online she’d find a support group for people who couldn’t sleep. And one for people who’d dumped their fiancés. Maybe even one for women who were being stalked by killers.
A soft tap sounded at the back door, and Martha nearly dropped her teacup. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to do. Ask who was there? Turn off the light and hide? Call the police?
The knock sounded again, this time more insistent. She grabbed a steak knife and crept toward the door, her heart racing. “Who’s there?”
“Tristan.”
She nearly sagged with relief, her heart slowing, and then jumping again as she opened the door and met Tristan’s vivid blue gaze. “You’re supposed to be in the garage apartment.”
“And you’re supposed to be asleep. Apparently neither of us are doing what we’re supposed to.”
“Is everything okay?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. When I saw your light go on, I thought I’d better come over and make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine. Just having trouble sleeping.”
“So you’re wandering around the house with a steak knife in your hand and pink bunny slippers on your feet?” A hint of a smile eased the harsh angles of his face, his gaze dropping from her eyes to her feet and back again.
“They seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“When was that?”
“When I didn’t think there’d be anyone in the house at two in the morning to see them.” She placed the knife on the counter as his warm laughter filled the room, resisting the urge to smooth her hair. There was no way she could fix the mess she knew it to be, so there was no sense drawing more attention to it.
“I guess we’ve both been surprised, then, because I wasn’t expecting to see a light on in your house at two in the morning.” He smiled again, grabbing a Hershey’s Kiss from the counter, his presence reminding Martha of all the things she needed to forget—namely, how nice it was to have someone to count on. Someone stronger, tougher, more able to fight if fighting needed doing. Not that Brian had been much of a fighter. He’d been more likely to argue and complain.
She really needed to stop comparing Tristan and Brian, because doing so only painted Tristan in a more positive light than she wanted to see him. As she watched, he grabbed another chocolate, denting her limited supply.
See? Selfish. She’d known if she’d look hard enough she could find something negative about him. “Those chocolates are mine, you know.”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?” He popped the candy into his mouth and took a seat at the table.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to ask?”
He laughed, grabbing another candy and eating it before Martha could snatch it from his hand. “I’ve got four siblings, remember? We all learned to grab what we could while we could. Besides, I’m hungry. I need to stock the fridge in the apartment tomorrow.”
“If you’re hungry, I’ve got sandwich makings in the fridge. Just leave my chocolate alone.”
“Chocolate is a girl’s best friend?”
“Absolutely.”
“But it’s not such good company at two in the morning, is it?” He looked up into her eyes, compassion shining from his gaze.
But she didn’t want his compassion, because if she accepted it, she’d also be accepting his presence in her life. A presence that was becoming much too familiar much too quickly.
She turned away, pouring water over a tea bag, trying to put distance between them. “Want some tea?”
“No, thanks. I wouldn’t mind a soda, though, if you have any.”
“Soda at two in the morning?”
“Why not?”
“Good question.” She grabbed a can of soda from the fridge, set it down in front of Tristan. Efficient. Businesslike. That was the way to handle this situation. “You asked me why I was up, but you didn’t mention why you were.”
“Probably the same reason you are—I’m worried.”
“Because of what happened today?”
“Because of what happened Friday, what happened today. What might happen tomorrow and the next day.” He ran his hand down his jaw and shook his head. “I know worry doesn’t do any good, but my mind is running around in circles trying to figure out what Johnson’s next move is going to be.”
“I don’t think anyone can do that.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to try.” He stood, pacing across the room. He wasn’t wearing his sling, and he held his injured arm close to his waist, shrugging his shoulder as if trying to relieve tension.
He might be saying he couldn’t sleep because he was worried, but Martha wondered if the reason had a more physical cause. “Is your arm bothering you?”
“It’s not too bad.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It hurts. Happy now?” He scowled, taking a sip of soda and eyeing Martha with an intensity that made her squirm.
“No, I’m not happy. I haven’t been happy since Friday.” Actually, she hadn’t been happy in a couple of months. As much as she’d told herself she was, as much as she’d tried to pretend excitement over wedding preparation and engagement parties, there’d been a hollow ache in her chest that no amount of self-talk or pretend enthusiasm could fill.
She turned away from Tristan’s gaze, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol from the cupboard and opening it. “Here, take these.”
“Thanks.” His fingers brushed her palm as he took the medicine, and she was sure they lingered for a moment longer than necessary. No. She had to have been wrong about that. There was nothing between Tristan and herself but the need to find Johnson and put him in jail.
She needed to keep that in mind.
In the distance, a car engine chugged along, growing closer. So close that Martha stiffened, cocking her head and straining to hear more. “I think someone is coming up my driveway.”
“Sounds like it.”
“You don’t seem concerned.”
“I called the local sheriff a few hours ago. He agreed to send patrol cars out as often as possible. It’s probably one of them. Stay here while I make sure that’s who it is.”
“But—”
“Are you going fight me on everything, Sunshine?”
“No, I just—”
“Good. I’ll be back in a minute.” He pulled a gun that Martha hadn’t even realized he was carrying, and her heart froze in her chest.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking care of things. Stay here.” He strode away, not giving Martha a chance to ask more questions, or demand answers. The soft hum of the engine came closer, and Martha knew the car would be passing the house, U-turning at the dead end, moving by again. Or would it? Maybe it would stop. Maybe the sharp, quick blast of bullets would fill the silence.
Legs trembling, she grabbed the phone, ready to call 911 at the first hint of trouble.
Then she followed Tristan. He might not like it, but he couldn’t change it, and there was no way in the world she was going to cower in the kitchen while he faced danger alone. It wasn’t what her father had raised her to do.
Be tough. Be strong. The world’s gonna knock you down. You got to learn to bounce back up again.
She could almost hear him saying the words, could picture his gnarled hands pulling back branches as he led her on long hikes through the woods, teaching her about survival and about life. Too bad he hadn’t told her what to do if a murderer came knocking on the door.
She moved silently, easing down the hallway, making sure that she avoided loose floorboards. The last thing she wanted to do was distract Tristan.
The darkness of the living room was as oppressive as her fear, sucking away her confidence and making her want to slink back into the kitchen and do exactly what she’d decided she wouldn’t. Hide from the trouble. Let Tristan take control.
At the window, a shade darker than the room, Tristan stood pressed against the wall with his broken arm holding back the curtain, his good arm holding the gun. Focused. Intent. “I told you to stay in the kitchen.”
She hadn’t made a sound, but somehow Tristan had known she was there. “I thought you might need some help.”
“Looking outside?” He didn’t turn toward her as he spoke, just continued to stare out the window.
“Calling the police.”
“Thanks, but if Johnson had been out there, I’d have acted first and called the police later.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“No, he wasn’t. But that doesn’t mean he won’t be next time.”
“I know.”
“Do you, Sunshine? Because you sure don’t act like it.” He dropped the curtain and tucked the gun out of sight again.
“How should I act? Like a damsel in distress who needs a prince to run to her rescue?”
“Like a woman who’d rather be alive than dead.” Even in the darkness, she could see his eyes flashing with irritation.
“Of course I’d rather be alive.”
“Then maybe next time I tell you to stay put, you’ll do it.”
“And maybe next time you’ll actually give me something to do besides sitting around twiddling my thumbs.”
He stared at her for a moment, his grim expression slowly easing into a smile. “You’re stubborn as a mule, Sunshine, you know that?”
“How could I not? Brian told me that just about every day for eighteen months.” The words slipped out and Martha blushed. Fortunately, it was too dark for Tristan to see.
“Brian is a real winner.”
“That and a few other things.” Like arrogant. Self-centered. Thoughtless.
“But you almost married the guy anyway?”
Ouch! That hurt, but she refused to let Tristan know it. “I like to call our engagement nine months of temporary insanity.”
“Nine months of temporary insanity?”
“Yes. Fortunately, I’m over it now.”
He chuckled, but Martha wasn’t amused. She really had been out of her mind to consider marriage to a guy like Brian. Not that he was a bad guy. It was more that he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d ever put another person’s needs above his own. He was the kind who’d demand more and more and never be satisfied. The kind of person her mother had been.
She’d learned her lesson. There’d be no more trying to be someone she wasn’t. The thought of the months she’d wasted doing just that made her feel more tired than she had all weekend. “It’s late. We should both probably try to get some sleep.”
“You’re right, but there’s something I want to ask you first.” Tristan grabbed her wrist before she could take a step away, his thumb pressed against the pulse point there. Could he feel the way her heart jumped? The sudden speeding of her pulse?
She sure could, and she didn’t like it.
If men could still be heroes, if chivalry were still practiced and dragons were still in need of slaying, Tristan would be in the front line of every battle; the knight that every maiden wanted as her champion. A guardian of truth, a protector of the innocent. A man who made women swoon and other men jealous. Someone who could be very, very dangerous to Martha’s heart if she let him. She had no intention of letting him. “What’s that?”
“How is it that a woman like you ended up engaged to a guy like Brian?”
“The same way any woman ends up engaged to any man. Brian asked. I said yes.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Maybe, but your question is presumptuous and you know it. We barely know each other. Neither of us should be asking questions about the other’s relationships.”
“You’re wrong there, Sunshine. We know each other a lot more than ‘barely.’ After what happened Friday, I’d say we know each other well.”
“Why? Because you kissed me?” Twice. Not that she’d been counting.
“Actually, I hadn’t thought about that, but thanks for the reminder.”
Martha’s cheeks heated. “We didn’t even know each other’s names Friday, let alone anything else.”
“I knew your name. I saw it in your backpack, remember? I also saw that you were strong, independent. A fighter. That you pack more chocolate than protein bars when you hike through the woods, and that when the going gets tough you just keep going. Oh yeah—” he leaned in close, inhaling deeply “—I learned that you smell like a memory and a promise—chocolate and cinnamon all rolled into one.”
There went her heart again, skipping and jumping and acting more foolish than it ever had when she’d been around Brian. “Tristan—”
“You deserve a lot better than a man like Brian, Sunshine. I’m glad you realized it.” His lips touched hers, the contact so brief Martha could almost believe she’d imagined it. Almost.
“Lock the door.” He left before Martha could respond, moving through the room and disappearing out the back door as quickly as he’d arrived, the house falling silent behind him.
Alone again.
Just the way she should want it.
She turned off the kitchen light and retreated to her bedroom. It had been a long day. Tomorrow would be longer. The best thing she could do was forget her worries and concentrate on getting the rest she needed. But as she settled into her bed, she couldn’t deny the truth. As much as she might want to convince herself otherwise, alone really wasn’t what she wanted to be.
ELEVEN
Tristan’s cell phone rang at a little past seven in the morning. He’d been awake for an hour by then, and he scowled as he saw his older brother Grayson’s phone number on the display. “It’s seven o’clock.”
“And?”
“And you said you’d give me a six o’clock wake-up call.”
“You want a wake-up call, go stay in a hotel.”
“I can’t stay in a hotel and do my job at the same time.”
“What job? You’re on medical leave.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not working.”
“You shouldn’t be.” The oldest of the five Sinclair siblings, Grayson had definite ideas about what his brothers and sister should and should not do.
“That’s my choice to make.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“You’re trying to tell me you’re worried?” Tristan nearly snorted at the thought. Grayson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a worrier. As a matter of fact, he’d talked Tristan into more than his fair share of trouble when they were teens.
“Mom is worried. I’m just disgusted that you’d go to such great lengths to get out of painting our parents’ house.”
“It’s that time already?” They’d been helping their father paint the hundred-year-old farmhouse they’d grown up in since they were old enough to lift a brush. Every three years they’d congregate at the old house and enjoy each other’s company while they made sure the house looked bright and cheerful as per their mother’s orders.
“First weekend in November, just like always.”
“I thought we painted two years ago.”
“Three. We painted the year I met…” He didn’t finish, but Tristan knew exactly what he was going to say—the year he’d met Maria. A woman Tristan had never liked, and who, he had to admit, he was glad his brother had decided not to marry.
“That’s right. I forgot. I may be able to make it if things here wrap up quickly.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Why not? Gordon Johnson isn’t known for patience.”
“He’s also not known for stupidity.” Grayson had good reason to know. A state prosecutor, he knew plenty about Gordon Johnson and his boss.
“True. One way or another, though, I’ll be around when he decides to make his move.” Tristan crossed the room and looked out the window. Martha’s house shone brilliant white in the first rays of morning light, the windows reflecting the navy blue sky and the gold and red leaves of the trees that surrounded the property. A wide creek, filled from the fall rain, meandered through autumn-brown grass. At another time, Tristan would have appreciated the quiet beauty and peaceful tranquillity of the place. Now all he could do was see the potential for danger.
“Just be careful, bro. Johnson and Buddy have avoided prosecution for a long time. There’s no way either plans to have that change now.”
“Understood.”
SB01 - The Guardian's Mission Page 8
