by Irene Hannon
A strangled sob caught in her throat, but she managed to choke out a few words. “L-latch. S-swings down.”
It wasn’t much, but Dale had a pretty good idea what she was talking about. He’d seen a number of outbuildings in the rural area with simple wooden or iron bolts on the doors that swung down to latch behind a U-shaped hook on the frame. He hoped that’s what she meant. And he also hoped the door wasn’t a tight fit. At least the age of the outbuilding was in his favor on that score. The weathered wood had had plenty of time to shrink.
He removed his hands, and once more Christine’s head dropped forward. She pulled her knees up and rested her forehead on them, wrapping her arms around her legs as she huddled into a small, tight ball. She was still shaking violently, but the fight seemed to have gone out of her. Dale had a sudden urge to wrap his arms around her, to hold her until she felt safe, but he suspected that the best way to ease her fear was by setting her free.
Rising, he moved back to the door and peered at the crack where it met the frame. Thanks to the storm, the sky was dark as night, so there was no light to shine through and illuminate any ill-fitting areas. Rather than waste time trying to do a visual check, Dale turned to Christine’s tool bench, casting a quick look in her direction. She was only a dim outline in the murky shadows of the shed, but he could tell she hadn’t moved a fraction.
A quick scan of the tool bench yielded no useful items. He needed something thin and strong, but few garden implements fit that description. He was beginning to lose hope when several flat metal T-stakes caught his eye, the kind used to identify plants. He’d noticed them in Christine’s garden, all neatly labeled. Relief surged through him. One of these might work.
Praying the metal would be thin enough to squeeze between the door and the frame but strong enough to lift the latch, Dale went to work.
It didn’t take long. In less than a minute he’d fitted the stake into the crack, located the latch and eased it up. As the door gave way, he pushed it open. Fresh air spilled into the room, along with a faceful of rain as a gust of wind swept toward the opening.
As Dale lifted an arm to wipe the moisture from his eyes with his sleeve, he felt Christine scuttle past on her hands and knees. Caught off balance as she brushed against him, he steadied himself on the door frame, watching as she crawled out onto the gravel path. In seconds the driving rain had soaked through her cotton shirt, plastering it to her slender frame.
Another flash of lightning galvanized Dale into action. Rising, he strode out and pulled her to her feet, urging her toward the house. For once, she didn’t fight him. Most likely because her legs weren’t yet steady enough to support her weight.
When they reached the shelter of the back porch, he kept one arm around her while he twisted the doorknob. Stepping inside, he flipped on the light to reveal a sunny yellow room with large windows and a skylight that wasn’t visible from the front. White cabinets brightened the cheery space, and a large bouquet of flowers stood in the center of an oak table.
He guided Christine in that direction and eased her into a chair. Angling another chair beside her, he sat and scrutinized her face.
The wild terror had subsided, he noted with relief. Her shaking had eased, though occasional tremors continued to ripple through her. No color remained in her cheeks, and there was an unnatural tightness around her eyes. He wouldn’t yet call her respiration normal, but he didn’t think hyperventilation was an issue any longer.
Satisfied that she wasn’t going to pass out, he rose and filled a glass with water. “Try to take a few sips.” He passed it to her, guiding her shaking hand with his as she raised it to her lips and swallowed. The day had grown much cooler, and considering that she was soaked, he wasn’t surprised when a shiver rippled through her. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
She drew a shuddering breath and pushed back her damp hair. “You’re wet, too.” Her voice was raspy, as if she’d overtaxed her vocal chords.
Glancing down, he realized she was right. His slacks were damp, and his shirt was sticking to his back. He flexed his shoulders, but the fabric didn’t release its hold. Putting his own discomfort aside, he focused on Christine. “I’ll dry. You change while I make some tea.”
“Coffee.”
“Ah. A woman after my own heart.” A brief grin teased his lips.
Rising, Christine took a second to steady herself on the edge of the table, aware that Dale’s perceptive eyes missed nothing. Calling on every ounce of her stamina, she pushed away and walked toward the hall, hoping she’d make it to her room without falling flat on her face.
Once there, she could regroup. Assess the damage. Figure out how to deal with the questions she suspected he was saving up until she returned. Questions she wasn’t about to answer. She’d already revealed far too much today, including a weakness that could be exploited.
And that scared her.
In the wrong hands, her phobia could become a weapon. It had happened once. She didn’t intend for it to happen again.
Her goal was clear. Convince the sheriff that her little performance in the toolshed meant nothing. Explain it in such a way that he’d write it off as a fluke and forget about it.
The only trouble was, she had no idea how to do that. And she also suspected that Dale Lewis had a long memory.
Chapter Seven
As Christine changed into dry clothes, the dull pounding in her head that had begun in the shed intensified. Rummaging through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, she dug out four aspirin from an unopened bottle. Since coming to Oak Hill, she’d had no need of them. But she’d been prepared. Without aspirin, these headaches escalated to migrainelike pain, almost debilitating in their intensity, leaving her weak and vulnerable. Two things she didn’t want to be when she was around the Oak Hill sheriff.
By the time she’d dressed and returned to the kitchen, Dale had made himself at home. Judging by the jacket he now wore—obviously retrieved from his car—and the hum of her dryer, she deduced that he’d ditched his wet shirt. He’d also run a comb through his damp hair. Seated at her kitchen table, he was sipping a mug of coffee. Once more she was subjected to an assessing perusal.
“Feeling better?”
“Yes.”
“Your coffee’s ready.” He nodded toward a steaming mug beside him. “I didn’t know how you liked it.”
Instead of answering, she retrieved a carton of half-and-half from the fridge and stirred in a generous amount. Once she replaced the cream, she wrapped her hands around the mug and took a sip, hovering behind her chair.
“You can sit, Christine. I won’t bite.”
His voice was calm, his expression benign. But his probing eyes unnerved her.
Slipping into her seat, she sloshed some coffee on the polished surface. She started to rise again, but he rested a hand on her stiff shoulder.
“Sit.”
He moved to the counter and tugged a paper towel from the holder, sopping up the brown liquid and disposing of the soggy mess before retaking his seat. Christine tried to control the tremors in her hands, but as she lifted the mug to her lips they were hard to disguise.
“It looks to me like you could use something stronger than coffee.”
At the sheriff’s quiet comment, she took a deep breath. He was giving her an opening to talk about the incident. But she chose to turn it into a joke, forcing her uncooperative lips into a slight upward curve as she responded. “Too bad I don’t drink.”
“You don’t have any alcohol in the house?”
The touch of skepticism in his voice puzzled her. “No. Liquor has never held any appeal for me.”
A flicker of surprise darted across his face, come and gone so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it. “The coffee will have to do, then. Did you take something for the headache?”
“How do you know I have one?” The man was way too insightful for his own good. Or for her peace of mind.
“Your eyes. They look strained a
t the corners.”
“I thought you were a sheriff, not a doctor.”
“I picked up a lot working accidents in L.A. with EMTs. Did you take something?”
He was nothing if not persistent. But there was no harm answering that question, Christine decided. “Yes.”
“Have you always had a problem with claustrophobia?”
Nor did he dance around an issue, she concluded, debating how to respond. Jack had asked her that question once, and she’d paid a high price for her admission. Yet in light of what the sheriff had witnessed, her strategy of passing the incident off as a fluke no longer seemed viable. But she could try to play it down.
“Some. It’s not a big deal.”
“It was a big deal twenty minutes ago, after that door slammed shut.” His tone was steady, his gaze intent.
“I would have found a way out eventually.” She took a sip of coffee as she framed her response, struggling to swallow past the lump in her throat. “I was just…spooked. And then there was all that thunder and lightning. It was an odd combination of circumstances. I doubt it will ever happen again.”
“A lot of people have phobias, Christine. There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that. I’m not all that fond of heights. Do you know how it started?”
“Yes.” The cause was etched forever in her memory. “When I was ten, a friend and I found a small cave and decided to explore. I got wedged into a narrow opening, and my friend had to go for help. I wasn’t there long, but it was pitch-dark and I couldn’t move. I was afraid I was going to suffocate. It was pretty scary for a little kid.”
“That would be scary at any age. Do you have this kind of reaction very often?”
“No.” Not anymore. Wrapping her hands around the mug, she let the warmth seep into her cold fingers.
“What about elevators?”
She avoided them like the plague. If she did find herself in one, she managed to control her fear, but she was always the first to exit the instant the doors slid open.
“I don’t freak out, if that’s what you’re asking. What brought you out here today, anyway?” She hoped Dale would respect the “back off” message implied by her abrupt change of subject.
To her relief, he did.
“I ran into the editor of the Gazette and got drafted for courier duty. Your story’s in the next issue. Those are some advance copies.” He motioned to a stack of newspapers on the counter. “Go ahead and take a look while I finish my coffee. It’s a nice article.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Skimmed it when I stopped at the Gazette offices to pick up the copies. Page six.”
Rising, Christine moved to the counter and flipped through to the correct page. The story occupied the top half of the page and featured two photos, one of her in the garden and a close-up of a bundle of herbs tagged with the Fresh Start Farm label she’d designed. She gave the story a fast read, pleased with the result. It was accurate, complimentary—and good for business.
“That should generate some interest in your weekend pumpkin patch,” Dale commented, as if reading her mind.
“There are only two weekends left in October. And I’ve already sold a lot of the pumpkins that survived.”
“How are things working out with Stephen?”
“Better than I expected.” Summoning up her courage, she laid the paper on the counter and turned to him. They’d never spoken about the incident since the day he’d stopped by and encouraged her to file an official complaint, but she still resented his interference, even if things had turned out fine. “Why did you talk to Les Mueller?”
“Because you wouldn’t.” He returned her gaze steadily. “You deserved to be compensated for the damage, and I knew Les would want to make things right.”
“I preferred not to make an issue of it.”
“You didn’t. I did. That’s my job, Christine. To see that justice is done.”
Cynicism flared in her eyes. She started to respond, but the drier signaled the end of its cycle with a loud, prolonged beep and she clamped her mouth shut. Once quiet again descended, she angled away from him. “Your shirt’s dry. Thanks for bringing the papers.”
Rising, Dale studied her rigid back. He was being dismissed. She wanted him gone. For some reason, he—and his deputy, according to Marv—made her nervous. In fact, lots of things made her nervous. Small, enclosed spaces. Reporting legitimate misdemeanors. Questions about her past.
The latter was apparent even from his brief scan of the Gazette article. She’d been happy to talk about her plans for Fresh Start Farm, her interest in organic farming, her library work. She’d referenced her mother in a couple of quotes, her childhood, her summer job at a nursery in Omaha during high school.
But the article had contained no mention of her married years in Dunlap. Meaning that period in her life must hold the key to her mystery, Dale reasoned. But considering the way she’d shut down, he wasn’t going to solve the puzzle today.
Two minutes later, his shirt back on and his jacket dangling by one finger over his shoulder, Dale re-entered the kitchen. Christine remained by the counter, facing him with her hands braced behind her, looking like a cornered animal poised to lunge at the slightest hint of attack.
“I wish I knew why I make you nervous.” Dale hadn’t planned to open that can of worms, and he immediately regretted speaking. But the words had spilled out before he could contain them.
For a second she seemed taken aback by his quiet comment. He thought she was going to deny it, but instead her tense shoulders sagged, as if the effort of constant vigilance had finally grown too burdensome.
“Look, you seem like a nice man, Sheriff.” Her voice was soft, her eyes sad. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. It’s nothing personal. I just think it’s wise if we keep our distance.”
“Why?”
“It’s a very long story.” She drew an unsteady breath and wrapped her arms around herself, a posture of self-protection that tugged at his heart.
“I don’t have to be anywhere for an hour.”
Her lips tipped up into a mirthless smile. “That wouldn’t even cover chapter one. Let it go.”
At some intuitive level, Dale knew that no matter what he said next, Christine wasn’t going to budge today. So he did as she asked, murmuring a quick goodbye and heading back to the patrol car.
But as he pulled down the drive and passed the Fresh Start Farm sign, his jaw settled into a determined line. Sooner or later he was going to uncover the real meaning behind the name of Christine’s new enterprise.
And he preferred that it be sooner.
Two nights later, a persistent thumping tugged Christine out of a deep sleep. Groggy, she blinked and tried to identify the sound. Knocking. That was it. Someone was knocking on her front door. At…she propped herself up on one elbow and peered at her bedside clock. Eleven o’clock. Late for a farmer. And definitely too late for callers.
When the frantic pounding started up again, a surge of adrenaline shot through her. Swinging her feet to the floor, she shrugged into her robe and crept down the stairs from her second-floor bedroom, cell phone in hand. She had good locks. Installing them had been her first order of business after she’d moved in. But she wasn’t taking any chances.
Her fingers poised to dial 9-1-1, she tiptoed to the peephole in the door and glanced through.
The tableau on the other side was like a punch in the stomach.
Erin and Brian stood on the doorstep, illuminated by the dusk-to-dawn lantern beside the door. Though their images were distorted by the fishbowl lens, Erin’s black eye and bleeding, split lip were impossible to miss.
Her hands shaking, Christine fumbled with the lock. When she opened the door, Erin surged forward, almost falling into her arms. Christine pulled her inside, noting that Brian’s face was pasty and that he had a death grip on his mother’s hand. His eyes were wide with fear as he darted a look at Christine.
“I’m so sorry to bother you this l
ate. But you offered to help, and I—I didn’t know where else to go.” A sob choked Erin’s voice as Christine guided her into the living room and eased her onto the couch.
“It’s no bother, Erin.” Christine sat beside her and took her hand. She didn’t have to be told the source of Erin’s injuries, and the woman seemed to know that. “Have you called the sheriff?”
“No. That will make things worse.”
Christine understood Erin’s position. Better than her visitor would ever know. And a few months ago, she’d have agreed with her.
But that was before she’d met Dale Lewis. Never again had she expected to be able to put one iota of trust in a cop. Yet the Oak Hill sheriff had slowly begun to convince her that he was what he seemed—a man dedicated to seeing that justice was done. A man of integrity and honor, who could be counted on to uphold the law. A man who would ease Erin’s burden, not add to it.
Transferring her attention to Brian, she looked him over. Other than being scared, he appeared to be untouched. But she needed to be sure. “Is Brian okay?”
“Yes.”
Physically, perhaps. But his lower lip had begun to quiver, and his freckles stood out in stark relief against his pale skin.
“My daddy hurt my mommy.”
His tearful statement clutched at Christine’s heart. “We’re going to fix her all up, though. She’s going to be fine.” Looking back at Erin, she saw the anxiety in the woman’s eyes.
“I took the car.” Erin’s words were riddled with fear. “Derrick went out drinking with some buddies after…” She swallowed and left the sentence unfinished. “But he’ll be home soon, and he’ll come looking for me. I shouldn’t have panicked. He’ll be furious when he finds out I left. I have to go back.”
“Erin, you can’t do that. It’s not safe—for either of you.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go. And I don’t have any money. Everything’s in Derrick’s name.”
There were questions Christine needed to ask, but not in front of Brian. She looked at him again. Despite the strain of the evening, the little boy’s eyelids were growing heavy. Christine seized that opportunity.
