by Irene Hannon
“Have you ever slept on a window seat, Brian?”
“What’s a window seat?” The boy gave her a puzzled look.
She pointed to the bay window along one wall of the living room. A bench topped with thick cushions lined the inside. “I like to sit there and read. And it’s a great spot for a nap. Would you like to try it?”
It was just across the room, close enough that Brian could hear the murmur of their voices but far enough away that he’d be unable to distinguish their words if they spoke softly.
“That’s a good idea, honey.” Erin caught Christine’s drift and managed to smile at the little boy. “Mommy will be right here.”
Without waiting for him to reply, Christine rose and snagged an afghan off a nearby chair and a cushion from the corner of the couch. “We missed you at story hour yesterday, Brian.” She spoke in a normal, conversational tone as she took his hand. “I had some oatmeal cookies left, and I saved some for you. Tomorrow you can try them.” As she talked, she led him over to the window seat and helped him climb up.
“I like oatmeal cookies.” He yawned and snuggled under the afghan.
“I thought you might.” She brushed his fine hair back from his forehead. As bad as her situation had been, at least no children had been involved. Although her two miscarriages had been traumatic, her sorrow had given way almost to relief over time. No child deserved to grow up in an atmosphere of fear and intimidation.
Including Brian.
Resolution stiffening her shoulders, she returned to the couch. “You need medical attention, Erin. At least let me call Dr. Martin.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Are you injured anywhere besides your face?” Once again, the woman was wearing a turtleneck top.
“I think my wrist might be sprained.” Erin’s gaze flickered to her left hand, lying limp in her lap.
“I’m calling Dr. Martin.”
Expecting further protest, Christine was surprised when Erin didn’t object. After looking up the doctor’s number and placing the call, she rejoined the young mother. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Now let’s talk about calling the sheriff.”
“No.” Fear coursed through Erin’s eyes. “He’s come to the house a few times, after the neighbors reported a disturbance. Derrick was furious. It was worse after he left.”
“It won’t be worse if you don’t go back.”
“I’m afraid not to. He’ll find me. And h-he’ll hurt Brian. He said if I ever told anyone about this, or tried to leave, he’d track us down and Brian would pay the consequences.”
“He threatened his own son?” Christine choked back the disgust that clawed at her throat.
“That’s the problem. I had Brian when I was eighteen. I wasn’t married, and his father wanted nothing to do with me or the baby. I met Derrick two years ago, and I thought I could trust him. He was older, and he said he loved me and didn’t mind that I already had a son. I was grateful someone wanted us. But we were only married a month when he started using threats to Brian as a way to control me.”
Blackmail. There was no more effective weapon than a threat to someone you loved, as Christine knew too well. It could trap you in a nightmare. But unlike Christine, Erin had a way out.
“You can’t continue to live in that kind of environment.” Christine took the young woman’s hand in an urgent grip. “One of these days, your husband is going to hurt you far worse than he already has. Some abused women are killed, Erin. Do you want Brian to grow up with that man if you’re not there to protect him?”
What little color remained in Erin’s face drained away. Christine hated to add to her stress, but if scare tactics were needed to convince her to take action, she wasn’t above using them.
“You have to report this to the sheriff. He’ll get a restraining order making it illegal for your husband to bother you. The state will have something to say about your husband’s assets. The Legal Aid Society can provide free legal assistance. And you’re welcome to stay with me until you get on your feet.”
“You’d let me stay here?” Tears pooled in Erin’s eyes, and a flicker of hope eased the lines of strain around her mouth.
“If that’s what it takes.”
With one more glance at her sleeping son, Erin straightened her shoulders. “Okay. I’ll talk to the sheriff.”
Dale had just dozed off when his pager began to vibrate. Though Oak Hill had few middle-of-the-night emergencies, he always kept the device within reach. His years as a cop in L.A. had taught him that in emergency situations, seconds could mean the difference between life and death.
Swinging his feet to the floor, he picked up the phone and checked in with the 9-1-1 dispatcher. Since joining the staff, Marv had been happy to handle the few late-night calls that had come in, and Dale planned to pass this one on to his deputy, too. Dale didn’t mind taking the calls himself, but he hated to disrupt his daughter’s sleep and wake his mother by dropping her off. Limited backup was one of the few disadvantages of being a small-town sheriff.
When the dispatcher answered, Dale identified himself. “What’s up?”
“Domestic violence incident.”
The Carsons, he assumed. But the address the dispatcher rattled off didn’t match.
“Who called in the report?”
“A Christine Turner.”
Shock rippled through him. Christine did live on the rural route the dispatcher had noted. But the pieces weren’t fitting. Rising, Dale juggled the phone as he slid his arms into his shirt. He wasn’t passing this one on to Marv, after all. “Has an ambulance been dispatched?”
“No. The caller said it wasn’t needed.”
“I’m on my way.”
Twelve minutes later, after handing a sleepy Jenna into his mother’s waiting arms, Dale headed out of town, covering the distance to Christine’s farm in record time. There were two cars parked in front of her house. One was unfamiliar. The other belonged to Sam Martin.
His adrenaline pumping, Dale ascended the four steps leading to her front door in two leaps.
Before he could press the bell, Christine pulled the door open. A soft velour robe was cinched at her waist, and her feet were bare. She looked distressed but unhurt, and Dale let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded and put a finger to her lips as she motioned him in, pointing toward a sleeping Brian Carson.
“We’re trying not to wake him. He’s had a tough night.” So this was about Erin after all. “What happened?”
She gave him a quick recap, concluding with her call to Dr. Martin. “He’s with her in the kitchen.”
“And she’s willing to file a formal complaint this time?”
“Yes.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I convinced her she had to do it for Brian’s sake, as well as her own.” Christine started toward the back of the house, speaking over her shoulder. “And I offered her a place to stay until she gets on her feet.”
A rush of fear surged through Dale, tightening his gut. He grabbed her arm, halting her in midstride as he forced her to face him. “That could be very dangerous.”
“Not if you get a restraining order.”
“That doesn’t stop some guys.”
“He doesn’t have to know she’s here.”
“Word will get out.”
Resolution lifted her chin. “The offer’s been made. I’m not retracting it.” She tugged on her arm, but when he didn’t relinquish it a trace of the fear he’d seen in her eyes the rainy night they’d met echoed in their depths.
He loosened his grip at once, but he wanted answers. “Why, Christine? Why are you putting yourself in the line of fire?”
“If you do your job, there won’t be any fire.”
“I can’t guard your place night and day.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
“A shelter in Rolla is a better option for her.”
/> “No, it isn’t. Erin already feels scared and alone. She needs support. I have room. It’s not open for discussion, Sheriff.” With that, she pulled her arm free and walked toward the kitchen.
It took Dale a good sixty seconds to temper his frustration and tamp down his fear. Christine Turner was one stubborn woman. And she was taking a very big risk.
While Dale could appreciate her generosity from a Christian perspective, his professional opinion was different. Experience had taught him to be cautious and avoid confrontation unless left with no other option. And there were other options for Erin and her son. Yet Christine refused to consider them. He didn’t like that. Not one little bit.
And despite her last comment, he did intend to discuss it with her further.
Chapter Eight
Pushing open the door to the kitchen, Dale took in the scene. Erin was seated at the table, an ice pack pressed to her eye while Sam Martin wrapped her wrist with an elastic bandage. Christine stood beside Erin, a hand on the young woman’s shoulder, her expression defiant.
After securing the bandage, Sam stood and looked toward the door. “Hi, Dale. I’m just finishing up.” He began to gather up his supplies, and Christine moved from behind Erin to assist him. As she reached for a pack of gauze, Sam let out a low whistle and took her hand. “What on earth did you do to yourself?”
In three long strides, Dale was beside them, eyeing a puffy, purple bruise that ran along the outside of Christine’s hand. She tucked her other hand into the deep pocket of her robe, but Dale didn’t need to see it to know it bore a matching bruise. Two days ago, as she’d banged on the toolshed door, he’d been afraid she would hurt herself. It was clear he hadn’t moved fast enough to save her from injury.
“It’s a long and boring story,” Christine told Sam, shooting Dale a warning glance. “I’ll be fine.”
The doctor didn’t look convinced. When a gentle prod produced an audible wince, he shook his head. “You might want to have this X-rayed.”
“If it doesn’t get better in a few days, I’ll think about it.” She retrieved her hand and tucked it in her other pocket. “Thank you for coming out tonight, Doctor. I’m sorry I had to bother you at such a late hour.”
“It wasn’t a bother.” He looked down at Erin and addressed his next comment to her. “Call me if you have any further problems.”
By the time Christine returned from walking Sam to the door, Dale was taking Erin’s statement. As she set about brewing a pot of coffee, Christine was impressed with his professional yet considerate approach. He didn’t badger, didn’t push, didn’t make Erin feel like the accused instead of the accuser. He treated her like the victim she was, his demeanor serious, his manner empathetic.
Where had he been when she’d needed a sympathetic cop?
Turning away from the two people seated at the kitchen table, Christine thought back to the night she’d confronted Jack about the rumors of his indiscretions. Though she’d been disappointed that their marriage had never lived up to the expectations created by their romantic, whirlwind courtship, their relationship had degenerated rapidly in the two months after Jack’s father died.
While she had already grown accustomed to his extended absences, distraction and late nights at the office, his touchiness and irritability were new. But she’d attributed all of it to grief and to the stress of running the business he’d inherited, and she’d done her best to overlook his unpleasant attitude.
She hadn’t been able to overlook the rumors of infidelity she’d overheard in the ladies room at the nursing home while visiting her mother, however. Inside the stall, she’d listened as two aides had discussed her visit. One had commented how faithful she was, and the other had laughed and remarked that it was a shame her husband didn’t follow her example. The woman then proceeded to fill in her coworker on his long-standing reputation as a ladies’ man, noting that marriage hadn’t seemed to change that and passing on the most recent rumor she’d heard.
That night at dinner, as she’d picked at her food while Jack read a magazine, she’d worked up the courage to raise the subject. He hadn’t been pleased about being questioned and had tried to brush her off. But after she’d persisted, noting how little time they spent together and asking if he’d stopped loving her, his irritability had soared to fury so fast her head had reeled.
The explosion, when it came, reminded her of a stick of dynamite that had just been waiting for the touch of a match. He’d grabbed her arm and half dragged her down the hall, saying that if she wanted him in her bed she had only to ask.
Shocked by his violent response, she’d fought him, searching without success for some trace of the charming man who had wooed her, terrified by the Jekyll and Hyde transformation. She’d used every ounce of her strength to resist him, but she’d been no match for his well-honed muscles.
She could still remember the sound of cloth ripping as he’d torn at her clothes, could still feel the rough groping of his hands. And as he’d transformed an act of love into punishment, the fading romantic dreams she’d been clinging to evaporated as quickly and completely as a puff of warm breath on a cold, frosty morning.
Throughout that ordeal, as tears had streamed down her cheeks, Christine had begged God to help her. But it seemed He’d been otherwise occupied. Nor had He been around when Jack had tired of that game and turned to another. Too numb at that point to offer much resistance, she’d had no idea what he planned to do as he’d pulled her off the bed, grabbed her wrist and hauled her across the room.
Only when he’d opened the closet door, shoved her inside and slammed it shut had she realized his intent. Although she had questioned him about having the lock installed a few weeks before, she’d accepted his explanation that he didn’t trust the cleaning woman. But then, as the lock clicked, she’d realized he’d been preparing for this day. Readying a prison for her.
Frantic once again, she’d pounded on the door until her hands were bruised and swollen, pleading for release as the first of the many near-debilitating headaches to come pounded in her temples.
An hour later, when he’d at last opened the door, she had been too spent to do more than lie like a limp rag doll in one corner. But she’d remembered the cold, hard edge to his words as he’d glared down at her.
“Let’s get something straight, Christine. Now that dad’s gone, I do what I want, when I want, with whomever I want. My marriage to a prim and proper little librarian convinced him I was ready to settle down—and to name me his successor in the business. So it accomplished its main purpose.
“However, since this is Bible country, it’s advantageous for me to maintain the image of a devoted married man. If you play the part of a loving wife in public, everything will be fine. But stay out of the rest of my life.”
It had taken her hours to recover. Hours to process the bomb-shell he’d dropped about the reason he’d married her. Hours to acknowledge that her romantic fantasies had never been anything more than that. And hours to gather the courage to report the incident to the police, waiting until she heard Jack’s car pull out of the driveway before picking up the phone.
Like Oak Hill, Dunlap had a tiny police department, consisting of Sheriff Gary Stratton and two part-time deputies. Gary had responded to the call. She’d known that the cocky, fortysomething lawman and Jack were buddies, but it had never occurred to her that the man would put friendship above the law. Nor that he would be willing to accept “favors” in return for keeping her in line.
A shudder ran through her as Christine recalled that terrible night. By the time Gary had shown up at the door, her hands had already begun to discolor and she’d been limping from a wrenched knee. As she’d related her sordid story, she’d sensed his resistance. More than once he’d interrupted her to ask if she was sure everything she was relating had happened. He’d taken no copious notes, as Dale was now doing with Erin. In fact, he hadn’t even pulled out his notebook until she’d questioned him about it, and then he’d writ
ten little.
In the middle of her statement, Jack had come home. She would never forget the barely contained rage that had ignited in his eyes when he’d realized she’d called the police. But he’d been good at masking his feelings. And he’d always been a smooth talker. The look he sent her was venomous, but the smile he gave Gary was genial.
“What’s going on here, Sheriff?”
“Your wife called. Said you attacked her.”
Feigning concern, Jack had moved beside her. She’d flinched and tried to step away, but his hand had tightened around her wrist in an iron grip.
“Have you been at the bourbon again, honey?” His tone was solicitous, his gaze pointed as a lance as he spoke to her. Transferring his attention to Gary, he’d lowered his voice. “We try to keep her little problem on the quiet side, Sheriff. You understand.”
Stunned, she’d gaped at him. But shock had quickly given way to rage. Jerking free, she’d faced the man who was sworn to uphold the law. “That’s a lie. I don’t drink. And he did attack me.”
Gary had glanced at Jack, who’d given a “what-can-you-do” shrug. Turning to Christine, the sheriff had cleared his throat. “That’s kinda hard to verify, ma’am, you being his wife and all.”
“I have the bruises to prove I resisted.”
Jack had stepped in at that point, throwing an arm around her rigid shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. “She does have a lot of bruises. Liquor can make you pretty unsteady. You know how it is, Sheriff.” He’d given the man a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve taken a few spills myself through the years. I bet you have, too. Not on duty, of course.” He’d nudged Gary in the ribs with his elbow, and the two had shared a chuckle. “Why don’t you let me walk you out?”
The man had closed his notebook while an incredulous Christine had watched. “Aren’t you going to do anything about my complaint?”
“Well, ma’am, why don’t we see how it goes?” His tone had been placating and condescending. “Maybe you’ll feel different about things tomorrow.”
