When the Stars Come Out--A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  Chapter Four

  Darkness crept across the sky and the temperature had dropped noticeably. Yet Jackson hadn’t made a move to call the garage for a tow. Willa threw him a sidelong look. The strange vibes that had ricocheted through the shop all day seemed to reverberate even louder in the confines of the car.

  He faced front, his hands tightening and loosening on the wheel at regular intervals. Was he upset or angry? Neither response was like him. Car troubles generally didn’t faze him. He would roll up his sleeves and get on with it, but this car was a big-visibility project. Ms. Carson planned to drive it and not auction it off. It would be priceless advertising.

  “It’s probably something minor,” Willa said to break the tension. “A gasket. Or loose connection. I’ll take a look underneath as soon as we get back to the garage. I can fix it, don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried about the car, Willa. I’m worried about you.” He let go of the wheel and shifted toward her. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  She swallowed, the change from car talk to personal unwelcome. As she’d feared, their unplanned dinner together had been a tipping point. Nothing would be the same between them again. She hauled herself out of the low-slung seat and stalked down the shoulder back toward the shop.

  A car door slammed and gravel crunched behind her. She upped her pace, but knew it was only a matter of time. Like her past, he was too big to outrun. The flames licked closer and closer.

  He came up beside her and matched her stride, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black pants. He didn’t grab her and demand answers or make ultimatums.

  “We walking all the way back, then?” he asked.

  “I am. I don’t care what you do.” That wasn’t strictly true. She cared too much.

  “Pretty sunset.” His voice was conversational, instead of confrontational. “This is my favorite time of year.”

  His attempt to normalize the situation settled her nerves somewhat. “Mine too.”

  “I like the stark trees and smell of burning leaves and homemade soup and football. What’s your favorite part?”

  She enjoyed fall because she wasn’t sweltering in her trailer like in summer or shivering like in February when even Louisiana could turn frigid. Fall reminded her of making s’mores with her dad when she was a kid around the fire pit in her backyard. She couldn’t admit any of that to Jackson.

  “The same as you, I guess,” she said.

  His sigh struck her as disappointed and cast her back to high school where she’d never been in danger of being pegged a high achiever. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She’d dealt with far worse and come out the other side.

  “I’m not a damn car.” Anger heated her voice.

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?” She stopped and he turned to face her. “You haven’t spared a thought about how much you pay me or what I wear or why fall is my favorite season for two years.”

  “I know and that’s my bad. I should have been paying more attention to you.”

  She made a scoffing sound. That’s exactly what she didn’t need. Everything depended on her staying under the radar. “You want to fix me like I’m some broken-down car. Or fix my problems or whatever. But that’s not how people work. Maybe I’m unfixable.”

  Half his face was in shadows from the setting sun. Even in the best of times it was difficult to get a read on his mood, but the roughness in his voice was more pronounced than usual. “I don’t want to fix you. I want to help you. I want you to trust me.”

  Part of her wanted to trust him. But she’d learned too many times that trust led to betrayal. It had started with her ex. He’d ripped her trust into tiny unmendable pieces. There was the time she’d trusted her roommate in Biloxi with the rent money. Instead, the girl had bought three painkillers off the streets, and they’d been evicted. Or the time one of her landlords wanted a different sort of payment than money. The list went on.

  Accepting help led to being in someone’s debt. And one never knew when or how any favor would be called in.

  “I don’t want your help. Don’t need it. I want you to leave me alone and let me do my job.” She resumed stalking back to the garage. How far would her hurt feelings and outrage carry her?

  She didn’t have to find out. Down the road a set of headlights cut through the gloaming, and she recognized the garage’s tow truck. It slowed on the approach, stopping with a squeak of its brakes.

  Wyatt stuck his head out the window, an easy half smile she couldn’t return on his face. “Need a lift?”

  Without a word, she hauled herself into the backseat of the double cab and huddled against the far window, letting the brothers get the car situated. They troubleshot the problem with the Cutlass on the ride back. She didn’t interject her opinion.

  The past two years had lulled her into an idyll. Unlike Sleeping Beauty she was not waking to a handsome prince, but the field of thorns where the dragon lay in wait. In the darkness, she stared out the window and wiped a tear into her temple.

  As soon as they arrived back at the garage, she grabbed her stuff and loaded into her crappy Honda with only murmured semipolite good-byes. Wyatt and Mack were focused on the Cutlass and didn’t seem to notice. But, of course, Jackson did. He seemed to possess X-ray vision these days. Only when the garage was out of sight did she relax.

  Country Aire trailer park wouldn’t get a magazine spread unless it was in Trailers and Trash, but she’d lived in far worse places. When a tornado had taken off the roof and collapsed the wall of her first trailer, ruining her things in the process, she’d moved what was left into a smaller trailer at the back of the park. The rent was cheaper which helped defray the costs of replacing the couch, bedding, and most of her clothes.

  She parked next to her front—and only—door. Sounding like a dying animal, her car engine spooled down as she got out. The relative quiet was filled with competing sounds. Muffled gunfire from an action flick on someone’s TV warred with a loud telephone conversation. Several men gathered to drink outside like it was happy hour. Now that her time was growing short, nostalgia overcame her. She would miss the slice of freedom and solitude she’d carved out for herself here.

  A whine grabbed her attention. She scanned the line of pine trees beyond her trailer. The black-and-white mutt was back. It had been hanging around her trailer for the last couple of weeks, and she’d left out food every couple of days. Dumb of her considering she could barely take care of herself.

  She stepped into the high grass between her and the dog. For its own good, she should shoo the dog away. She wouldn’t be around to take care of it. But the decision to leave had left her feeling hollowed out and achingly lonely.

  Instead of doing the responsible, smart thing, she crouched down and patted her legs. “Come here, boy. Or girl. Come on.”

  The dog crossed three-quarters of the field before stopping to pace a good dozen feet away, its attention fixed on her. She tried again, but only drew the dog forward a couple more feet. It crouched on the ground, its whine sounding like a cry for help.

  “Good grief,” she muttered and retreated to her trailer. She opened her fridge, seeing nothing that would tempt a dog. She checked her lean cabinets. The off-brand can of ravioli was supposed to be her dinner. She dumped the contents on a paper plate and grabbed a granola bar on her way back outside.

  She sat cross-legged at the edge of the field, laid the plate of ravioli at her knee, and dug into the granola bar, taking small bites and chewing slowly. The trick didn’t make the bar any more satisfying or make her feel more full. Its ears twitching, the dog raised its head and sniffed before slinking forward with its belly close to the ground.

  The crinkle of the granola-bar wrapper froze the dog six feet away, and she set it on the ground, playing a solitary game of quiet mouse, still mouse.

  The closer the dog came, the more ribs she could count along its side. Her chin wobbled, but she held the tears back. “Go on, baby. I won’t hur
t you. You can trust me. Promise.”

  That the words were too similar to what Jackson had said to her earlier tweaked her sense of irony. But she wasn’t a stray dog. Or a car.

  She coaxed the dog closer with soothing nonsense words. Never taking its eyes off Willa, it started to eat. She had never owned a dog, but she’d read enough to know not to touch one while it ate unless she wanted to lose some fingers.

  After licking the plate clean of any remnants, the dog settled on its belly and looked up at her. Tentatively, Willa held out her hand. Once the dog had sniffed her fingers, she stroked its head. Although dirty, its fur was softer than she expected, and its eyes narrowed at her touch, seemingly content.

  Had the dog, like her, once had a home? She set the plate to the side and inched closer. She ran her hand down its back, stopping to scratch its hindquarters. Black ringed one eye while the rest of its face was white, giving it a “boxer after a big-fight” look. A fight it had lost. The rest of its body was splotched with black on white. Willa wasn’t familiar enough with breeds to make a guess as to its parentage.

  Nothing except extreme hunger appeared to be wrong with it though. Maybe the dog just needed some luck to break its way. Willa could empathize.

  She ran a hand around its neck, but there was no collar hiding in the fur. “Should we give you a name?”

  The dog responded with a look that sent the hairs on her arms standing up. It was like it understood her.

  “Okay. Since I don’t know if you’re a boy or girl, how about something middle-of-the-road like … River.” It seemed appropriate considering how important the river was to Cottonbloom.

  River tucked its head under her hand, and she smiled, resuming her gentle strokes along its head and soft ears. The temperature dropped faster now the sun was gone. She shivered and rose, her muscles stiffened from her long day and the cooler air.

  The dog backed into the taller grass of the field. She patted her legs. “Come on. Don’t you want to be warm and safe tonight?”

  A bang came from the front part of the park, some idiot firing an air rifle. River ran to the line of pine trees and disappeared. It was for the best. The mutt probably had fleas. Still, she waited a few minutes, hoping the dog would return, but it didn’t. Willa was well and truly alone.

  Retreating to the trailer, she cleaned up in the lukewarm trickle that any respectable shower wouldn’t associate with. Her double mattress took up most of the floor in the back room. It was comfortable, but more importantly, safe.

  When she woke in the morning, it was to gritty eyes and the feeling she’d had terrible dreams. Only a sense of dread lingered. She pulled on her coveralls and stepped out into a crisp morning.

  With River on her mind, she rounded her trailer and scanned the trees, squinting to see through the low-hanging fog. A furry head tucked itself under her hand and she startled. River sat next to her, looking out at the field as well.

  She squatted down and gave the dog a thorough petting. If River hadn’t smelled so bad, Willa might have given the dog a big hug. She went back inside, opened a can of chicken noodle soup, and poured it into a plastic container. She left River happily slurping at the soup.

  The next few days passed as if a pause button had been pressed, leaving everything in limbo. She and Jackson resumed their usual working relationship, which consisted of Willa anticipating his needs with minimal discussion. By the time Friday rolled around, she had almost convinced herself things could revert to normal.

  Except for the fact she’d caught Jackson looking at her with a worrisome expression, as if he were probing for weakness before he launched an attack. He could spend days troubleshooting an engine problem. He was too stubborn to give up untangling her secrets.

  The shop floor was filled with the clang of equipment, but little conversation. Even Wyatt was unusually quiet. Attuned to Jackson’s every move, she noted when he disappeared out the front door with Wyatt. Were they discussing her?

  Not three minutes later, Wyatt busted in the front door. “Hey, Mack, give animal control a call. We’ve got a problem.”

  Mack strode toward his office. “Another rabid raccoon? Let me grab my gun.”

  “Stray dog acting like it wants to take Jackson’s balls off.”

  Willa looked out the foggy window of the nearest bay. Her breath stuttered. There was no mistaking the black-eyed face of River.

  She pushed past Wyatt and ran to the side yard. Jackson caught her arm on her way to River and pulled her into his side, putting himself between her and the perceived threat.

  “Get behind me,” he said close to her ear. “It might be rabid.”

  River’s growling grew chestier and more menacing, and Willa peeked over Jackson’s shoulder. River’s dirty paws were planted wide, its focus on Jackson. He was the threat, and in a flash, she understood that the dog was trying to protect her.

  She pivoted around to face Jackson and put her hand on his chest. His heart was thumping fast and hard. “The dog’s looking for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been hanging out around the woods behind my place for a while now, and I’ve been feeding it.”

  The dog interspersed a few snappy barks between his growls, and Jackson’s arm came up to block her, his hand around her upper arm. His movement escalated River’s agitation.

  Willa patted Jackson’s arm and took a step, but Jackson didn’t let go of her. She wasn’t the one who needed protecting. “River thinks you’re going to hurt me. Step back and let me calm it down.”

  “River?” A hint of amusement lightened his expression, although he kept his gaze fixed on the dog.

  “Seemed appropriate. Go on. Back up.” She gave him a little shove in the biceps, but like a stone statue he didn’t move.

  She didn’t drop her hand. He transferred his attention to her, and she exhaled as if the intensity and fierce protectiveness in his eyes were a physical thing. He was magnetic, and she reacted as if she were made of metal. Before she could lean into him, he took a step back and then another.

  She took a deep breath, crouched down, and held out her hand. “It’s okay, River. Come on. No one here is going to hurt you, I promise.”

  River’s chesty growls ceased, but the dog didn’t move. Willa glanced over her shoulder to see all three brothers lined up like a gorgeous wall of muscle behind her. Jackson’s hands were outstretched slightly as if he were ready to leap to pull her to safety.

  “You have any of that beef jerky left, Wyatt?” she asked.

  He fished a package from his pocket and handed over a piece.

  “Okay, I need you guys to step off. You’re frankly terrifying all lined up like that.”

  Wyatt and Mack retreated to the edge of the garage. Jackson only took two steps back. “I don’t like this, Willa.”

  “Trust me.” The irony of her asking for his trust didn’t escape her in that moment, and by the flare of his eyes, it wasn’t lost on him either. Nevertheless, he backed off.

  Once he’d put a dozen feet between them, she turned back to River and waved the jerky around. “Come on, you know you want it.”

  Crouched low to the ground, River padded toward her like a stealth hunter and took the jerky out of her hand, settling in to gnaw on the leathery treat. Willa scratched behind its ears and patted its back, the spine still too prominent even with a week of relative plenty.

  Jackson duck-walked over to join her. He offered the dog another, larger piece of jerky. The dog tensed, but accepted the offering, even deigning to let Jackson pat its head, although it never took its eyes off him.

  “It must have followed me this morning. That’s got to be five miles or more. It’s a wonder it didn’t get hit.”

  “Your dog is a girl, by the way. No dangling appendages.”

  “I should have checked her undercarriage, I guess. But she’s not my dog.” Her denial was weak considering she had been feeding it—her—the past week.

  “She belonged to some
one once upon a time.” His voice was low and contemplative.

  “What makes you think that?” Willa stroked dirt-roughed fur.

  “No feral dog would tolerate us petting her, much less enjoy the attention. Look what she did to get to you. You showed her a little kindness, and she wants more.”

  “I gave her some off-brand ravioli is all.”

  “She’s a pretty thing. Or will be once she’s had a bath and gotten fattened up. Probably needs a good once-over at the vet too.”

  “I can’t…” The lump in her throat grew to epic proportions. She could share her canned food with River, but no way could she afford a vet bill. Yet another living being she’d disappoint.

  Now the dog had a little food in her belly, she put her head on her forelegs, her eyes heavy. She must be tuckered out from the journey.

  “Let’s get a water dish for her.” Jackson stood and held out a hand.

  She held on to River’s ruff. “But—”

  “This dog traveled miles to get to you. She’s not going anywhere now she’s found you.”

  She slipped her hand inside his, and without any effort at all, he pulled her up next to him, but didn’t immediately release her. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” he whispered.

  He might have been referring to River, but it felt like his assurance encompassed more than the dog. He wasn’t a soothsayer though. Bad things happened all the time to people who didn’t deserve it.

  “Sure it will.” Not bothering to mask her sarcasm, she pulled her hand free and walked back to the shop floor.

  Jackson made good on his promise, and as he’d predicted, River hovered around the door the rest of the afternoon. When she was ready to leave, she exchanged a glance with Jackson, but he didn’t comment, only turned back to his work.

  She loaded River into the passenger seat of her car and rolled down the windows to combat the strong dog smell. River rode with her head poked out the window, tongue lolling. Seeing her delight in spite of her near starvation and abandonment filled Willa with a welling hope that had taken a beating the last few weeks.