by Jo Leigh
The room was lighter, but he knew it was barely daylight. Time for him to get up. To prepare.
When Becky shifted, Mike slipped out of her arms. Being alone had never felt colder. He looked at her for another minute, so lovely it hurt. She was his life.
He got up, careful not to rouse her, and put on his jeans. It was chilly, but the sweatshirt helped. He turned off the bedside lamp after donning his shoes and socks. He hoped Becky would sleep for a long time. He had the awful feeling she would need it.
He meant to leave then, but instead, he bent and kissed her cheek once more. “I love you,” he said, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him. He stole out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
It was cold in the hallway. They’d left the light on in the living room. The fire was dead, of course. He went to the front door and checked the lock. The dead bolt was engaged, just as he’d left it last night. He pushed the curtain aside and peered through the window. The snow was coming down at a sharp angle. It was up past the porch now; maybe three feet had fallen in the last twenty-four hours.
The truck would be useless, but the snowmobiles could travel. He wondered about the back route. Would he still be able to find his way? The thought of taking Becky and Sam out into that freezing hell made him grimace. He would do that only as a last resort.
He let the curtain fall back in place, then went to the closet beneath the staircase. His rifle was just where he’d left it, the boxes of ammo stacked neatly on the shelf.
The sweatshirt was a mistake. No pockets. The jeans, too, were no good. They were too tight. He needed to keep himself loaded for bear, and he didn’t want to put on a jacket.
The rifle felt good in his hands. Heavy, formidable. He would give Becky the .45, and he would stick to this baby. All he needed was to get Mojo in his sights. Just once.
He grabbed three boxes of ammo and put them on the table next to the couch. He started for the stairs, but then thought better of going into Sam’s room with the rifle. He didn’t want to wake him that way. When he was alert, the weapon wouldn’t be quite so scary. He put it on the couch, then took the stairs two at a time.
Sam’s door was closed. He opened it quietly, not wanting to wake the boy. The light was still on, and above the lump under the covers was an open book. He remembered Becky saying she meant to go back upstairs last night. He was glad she hadn’t. Stepping over some of Sam’s clothes on the floor, Mike went to the window first, and checked the lock. Nothing looked out of place. When he went to the bed, the lump moved a little. He smiled, and lifted the quilt.
His son was curled up in a tight little ball, sound asleep. An overwhelming rush of love washed over him. No one was going to touch a hair on that boy’s head. Not while he still had a breath in his body.
Anger swelled. Fury at the madman who dared threaten his family. He didn’t want Mojo back in jail. He wanted him dead.
He covered Sam again. No need to wake him. After he got up, Mike would put the food and water in the closet, just in case.
The clock on the nightstand said 6:20. Mike went to the door and turned out the light before he left.
The first thing he needed to do was get an update from Cliff. His throat constricted as he remembered he would never speak to Cliff again. He needed to call Sully. Irrationally, he hoped his boss was sleeping so he would have the pleasure of hauling him out of bed. He hurried downstairs and picked up the phone.
Nothing. No dial tone.
Mike’s muscles tightened. Mojo. He was here already. Maybe just outside that window. Behind that door.
But wait, the storm was a bad one. Witherspoon had said the lines went down a lot during the winter. Before he got all bent out of shape, he’d better check the wires.
He grabbed the rifle and opened up one box of shells. He stuffed a few thick cartridges into each of his pockets. Then he ran to the kitchen. His heart was beating fast, and he tried to consciously slow it down. He needed his wits about him now. No use getting excited until he had to.
The basement was much colder than the upstairs. He flipped on the light and scanned every corner and shadow as he descended. Everything looked still, just as it had the last time he was down here. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was Mojo, not the storm, who had knocked the phones out.
The coiled wire the caretaker had left was by the far wall. Why hadn’t he come down with the old man? Would he even be able to tell if the phone line had been cut?
He crossed the small room and moved aside some storage boxes until he had a clear view of the wall. There were wires there, all right. They all looked fine to his untrained eye. No missing pieces, nothing at all to make him think they’d been tampered with. Besides, if Mojo had gotten inside, they would all be dead by now.
He turned to look out the small window. It was totally blocked by snow so he couldn’t see a damn thing. Could he risk going out there? Mojo might be waiting just out of sight, hoping Mike would leave the safety of the house. No. He couldn’t take that chance.
He had to assume Mojo was out there, and prepare for the worst.
Just as he reached the staircase, a rumble stopped him cold. He froze, adrenaline shooting through his veins. The pipes. The noise was coming from the pipes.
He breathed again. Becky was up, that’s all. No danger. Yet.
He went upstairs quickly. She wasn’t in the kitchen. That meant she must be in the shower. God, he didn’t want to tell her about the phone. How would he be able to stand the look of fear on her face? He’d already done so much to hurt her.
He remembered the sweet ending to last night. How she’d made love to him, with him. They’d been given a chance for a new beginning by the same man who wanted to take it all away again.
The pipes quieted. She was getting out of the shower. A picture of her naked body, glistening with water, came to him like a snapshot. He wanted to make love with her again. Not just tonight, but a hundred nights—all the nights of his life.
It wasn’t wise to think about that now. His head needed to be clear, his senses on full alert. He went to the stove and got the kettle. While he filled it with water, he moved aside the curtain to look out back.
The whole world was snow. There was no horizon, only the furiously swirling white. Mojo could be ten feet in front of him, and he would never know.
He put the kettle on the burner. They would need coffee this morning. Lots of it. He intended to take every opportunity to fortify the house, and the three of them, before the confrontation. There was no doubt in his mind that there would be one—the only question was when.
* * *
After wrapping the towel snugly around her chest, Becky went to the sink. She used her hand to wipe the fog from the mirror. She didn’t look different. It was just her, just Sam’s mom. A little older, perhaps, and a lot wiser. She felt as though she’d aged a lifetime in just a few days.
She pulled the towel from her head, and combed her hair. All she wanted was a peaceful, quiet day. Was that so much to ask for? Lord, she needed a breather, some time to get her bearings.
She didn’t even know if she and Mike had made up. They were still divorced of course, but were they back together? Did she want to be?
Loving him was a given. It was no use even pretending that she didn’t care about him. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was right for her.
It was this place. This crazy snowed-in isolation made it all so hard. Would things make sense back at the house? How would it feel when Mike went to work, and there was a damn good chance he wouldn’t come home? It had taken her so long to stop worrying about him. Did she honestly want to go through that again?
She put down the comb and focused again on her image. Would being without him be worse than her fear? Could she give him up, after all they’d been through? The woman in the mirror had no answers.
She got busy braiding her hair, forcing the troubling thoughts from her mind. There was no way she could make that kind of a decision right no
w. So she might as well stop trying.
When she opened the door, the first thing she saw was the rifle.
Everything stopped but the furious beating of her heart. “What’s wrong?”
Mike looked at her with pain-filled eyes. “The phone is dead. I think he’s here.”
She felt dizzy, and grabbed on to the door for support. Mike was at her side instantly. He moved to hold her, but she waved him away. “I'm okay. Where’s Sam?”
“Upstairs, asleep. I checked on him already.”
“We've got to get him out of here.”
Mike shook his head. “The storm is worse. A lot worse. We're safer inside.”
She looked at him as she sat down on the bed. “Are you sure about this? That he’s here, I mean?”
“No. The weather could have knocked out the phone.”
“But the weather...how could he—”
“I don’t know. But my gut tells me we’d better be prepared for anything.”
She was trembling. It hadn’t been real before. Not like this. It had been words and phone calls, and now it was life and death. She’d told him just last night that she believed in him. That she knew beyond reason that they would be all right. Dammit, she still did. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get dressed.” He walked to the other side of the bed and got his pistol from the night stand. He checked the clip and the safety and put it back in the holster. “Wear something with pockets. If you don’t have anything, take one of my shirts. You'll need room for the ammunition.”
Becky stared at the gun, wondering if this time she would be forced to use it. “I'll need a shirt.”
While she picked up her clothes from last night, she heard him unzip his duffel bag. When she turned to him, he was holding one of his favorite red flannel shirts. He handed it to her.
She brought it to her face and sniffed. His scent was in the material, just like with his clothes at home. It would make her feel safer, like being wrapped in his arms.
“It’s clean,” he said.
She smiled. “I know.” Then she raised herself up on her toes and kissed his lips.
His arm went around her waist, and the kiss deepened. She tasted his desire as well as his fear. But when he pulled away, all she saw was his love.
“Go on, get dressed. Wake Sam up, and get him dressed, too. I've put up coffee, and we all need to eat.”
She touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes and rested upon her hand. Only for a moment, though.
Turning away, she sent up a silent prayer. Keep him safe, Lord. Please. She picked up the holster and gun.
“After breakfast, I want you to get the closet ready for Sam.”
Her stomach jumped at that. Sam. Oh, God. “I want to stay with him, Mike. As much as I possibly can.”
After he pulled his sweatshirt off, he nodded.
“Why are you undressing?”
“I need pockets, too. Now, go on. Hurry.”
She looked at him for one last moment. At the streamlined body that she had just begun to know. At the man she’d never stopped loving. Later, she would tell him. When this was over, she would confess that through it all, even the worst of times, he’d had her heart. Now though, she had a job to do.
* * *
“Wake up, honey.” Becky touched Sam’s shoulder.
He jerked a little, then his eyes opened. “Okay,” he said. Then he turned to his side, and went right back to sleep.
“Sam. You need to get up now. Come on.”
He groaned, then threw his arms out in an enormous stretch. “Is breakfast ready?”
“Soon,” she said.
He was so beautiful. So young and innocent. She would give anything to keep him safe, promise anything to shield him from the fear. “You go wash up, okay?”
He didn’t even look at her. It wasn’t a slight. He just took her for granted, which was as it should be. She should be here for him, always. Ready to guide him where she could, help him prepare for the rest of his life. Nowhere in her plans was saving him from a lunatic.
When he went off to the bathroom, she hurriedly dressed. She chose her jeans, remembering what Mike had said about pockets. His shirt was way too big, but when she rolled up the sleeves, she found it very comfortable. Instead of her heavy boots, she put on her running shoes. As long as they were going to stay in the house, she wanted to be able to move fast. Then she put on the shoulder holster and made the adjustments so it would fit properly.
Sam’s clothes were just as simple to pick out. Heavy jeans, a T-shirt, covered by another flannel shirt. The three of them were going to look like the lumberjack triplets.
“How come you have the gun?”
She hadn’t heard Sam come back into the room. She turned to find him at the door, staring at the holster strapped to her chest. The pistol seemed out of place on the pale yellow quilt.
“We have to be really careful today, Sam.” She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his slight shoulders.
His response was quick and urgent. He grabbed her around the waist as tightly as he could.
“If Daddy or I tell you to hide, you know what to do, right?”
She felt his nod on her stomach.
“After breakfast, we're going set up your closet. We'll make it a fort. We'll put in some sandwiches and fruit.” She bent so she could see his face. “And all the rest of the cookies.”
He smiled for her, a pathetic, scared little grin just for her benefit.
She could be brave for him, too. “So what you do want for breakfast? Pancakes? Eggs? Pot roast?”
“Pot roast?”
She smiled wide as he stepped out of her arms. “Turtle soup?”
He made a face. “Ugh. I want pancakes.”
“Chicken.”
“No, pancakes.“
She laughed and tousled his hair. “I love you, kiddo.”
He reached over and took her hand in his. They looked at each other for a long moment, and she was incredibly aware of the bond between them. Nothing could destroy that; it was bigger than life itself.
“Get dressed now. Don’t dawdle.”
He nodded and let her go and she sat on her bed. When she looked up again she saw that Sam was staring at her. He’d probably guessed that she had slept downstairs. But she didn’t want to explain about that now. What would she say, anyway? “You're not dressing.”
While he pulled his pajama top over his head, she headed downstairs.
* * *
Mike’s rifle was on the kitchen counter, in front of the toaster. He was pouring milk into his coffee. He’d changed into a looser pair of jeans and a blue checked flannel shirt. Even from the door, she could see the bulges in his pockets from the heavy cartridges.
He looked up as she walked toward him. “Did you tell him?”
She nodded. “He’s trying to be so brave. Mike, are you sure Mojo is out there? I mean, shouldn’t we be positive before we put Sam through all this?”
“If we wait, it'll be too late.”
She’d known his answer even before she asked the question. Of course they couldn’t risk it. “I'm going to fix him pancakes,” she said. “Would you get the food ready for the closet, please?”
Mike hesitated as if he wanted to reassure her in some way. He didn’t, though. He just nodded, and went to the refrigerator.
She found a big bowl and the prepackaged mix. All she had to do was add water. Her hands shook as she turned on the tap. She dropped the measuring cup in the sink. It didn’t break.
She was about to, though.
She bent her head, and put her hands over her face. It wasn’t that she wanted to cry—she just wanted to wake up. She wanted to be standing in her own kitchen. She wanted to tell Sam not to run down the stairs, and ask him if he had his homework ready for school. She wanted to see Mike sitting at the table, reading the morning paper.
As if her thoughts had called him, he put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up, knowing none o
f her wishes could come true.
“Don’t fall apart on me now,” he said. “You're the strongest woman I've ever known. You've faced the hardest things in the world. You can do this.”
She touched his hand with hers, and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Then she looked into his eyes.
His fear was as real as her own. That should have made things worse, but instead it made her feel better. Whatever else happened, Mike was human again. He could feel, he could hurt. He could love.
He let her go, and went back to fixing the food for Sam’s closet.
She poured the water on top of the dry mix, and started stirring. Had last night really changed everything? If they got out of this—no, when they got out of this, would Mike just come home? Is that what she wanted?
Not if it meant living with this fear day after day.
Now she knew what it was like to be in the line of fire. There was no way she could watch him walk out her door, and know he was going to face this kind of danger. It would kill her. As much as she loved him, and she had no doubts any more that she did, she couldn’t go back to the way things were.
“Should I give him the grape juice or the apple?”
She turned.
Mike was holding up juice boxes, waiting for her decision. As he looked at her, his brow creased and he put the juice on the table. “Something else is going on, isn’t it?” he said. He walked over to her again. “Talk to me.”
She took a deep, shaky breath. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She held up a hand to stop him. “I wasn’t finished. I love you, but that’s not enough.”
He did stop. He stood in front of her, not moving, not blinking. He started to retreat, to close himself off the way he always did. Then he shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and relaxed. When he looked at her again, she saw his vulnerability, his hope.
She wanted to run to him. To hold him. To tell him that she understood what kind of victory this was. He’d called her brave, but she couldn’t hold a candle to this one moment.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice quiet and intense.
