by Jillian Hart
Amy didn’t remember making the choice to fight instead of run. She was simply there, between the man and her sister. Protective anger made her feel ten feet tall. “Get out of here. Now.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk. I just wanted to give you girls a chance to make back your five bucks. Maybe even earn a tip.” The strong scent of hard liquor wafted from him.
She wasn’t afraid; she was mad. “That’s a horrible thing to say. Shame on you. You get back in your truck and leave us alone, or I’ll—”
“Yeah, what are you gonna do, pretty lady?” he mocked, and then the smirk faded from his shadowed face.
For out of the black curtain of rain emerged another man. One who stood alone.
Maybe it was the glaze of light snaking across the sky behind him. Or the way his dark hair lashed in the wind, but he looked like a warrior legend come to life. There was no mistaking the sheer masculine steel of the man as his presence seemed to silence the thunder.
He didn’t utter a word. He didn’t need to. The look of him—iron-strong and defensive—made the troublemaker shrink back as if he’d been struck. The ruffian cast one hard look at Amy—she saw the glint of malice before he leaped into the cab and slammed the door. The truck shot through the downpour, roaring out of sight.
Amy realized she was trembling from the inside out, now that the threat was gone. She swiped the rain from her eyes. She didn’t know why some people behaved the way they did. As long as Rachel was safe. They were both safe. She remembered to send a note of thanks heavenward.
And her loner—her protector—waited, his back to them, his feet braced wide, his fists on his hips looking as invincible as stone as he watched in the direction of the road, as if making sure those troublemakers weren’t doubling back.
“Oh, I can’t believe those men! If you can call them men.” Rachel walked on wobbly legs toward her car. “I’ve got to sit down.”
“They scared me, too.” Amy opened her sister’s car door and took the keys from her trembling hand. She sorted through them for the ignition key as Rachel collapsed onto the seat.
“Are you all right?”
Amy turned at the sound of his voice, rough like the thunder and as elemental as the wind.
He was simply a man, not legend or myth, but with the way he looked unbowed by the rain and lashed by the storm, he gave the presence of more.
When he spoke, it was as if the world silenced. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? I came across the parking lot as fast as I could.”
But from where? Amy wondered. He could have come out of the very night, for he seemed forged out of the clouds and dark. She swiped a hand across her brow, trying to get the rain out of her eyes and saw the faint glaze of lightning reflecting in the windows far down the alley. The town’s only motel. That’s where her loner had come from.
“You arrived just in time,” she assured him, standing to block the rain for her sister. “We’re all right.”
“Thanks to you. Again.” Rachel was still clutching the briefcase to her chest.
Amy knew what she was thinking. Rachel had their day’s take tucked in her leather case. It was a lot to lose, had the men been interested in money only.
“You ladies want me to call the sheriff?” The loner kept his stance and his distance like a protective wolf standing on the edge of a forest, ready to slip back in.
“No, it looks like the phone lines are down, too. I’ll stop by and see the deputy. I drive right by his place on my way home—”
Lightning flashed like stadium floodlights, eerily illuminating the parking lot and the three of them drenched with rain. Thunder exploded instantly and a tree limb on the other side of the alley crashed to the ground, smoking.
The rain increased so she had to shout to be heard. “This is dangerous. Get inside. I’ll—”
She didn’t get to finish her invitation for breakfast in the diner. The lightning returned and made every surface of her skin prickle. Here she was, standing up in the parking lot, and how dangerous was that? She yanked her car door open and dove into the seat, grateful for the shelter. Through the rain-streaked windshield, she could see her loner in the parking lot, a dark silhouette the storm seemed to revolve around.
Rain hammered harder, sluicing so fast down the glass she lost sight of him. When the water thinned for a second, he was gone. There was only wind and rain where he’d stood.
Good. He’d returned to his motel room, where he’d be safe. The car windows began fogging and she realized her fingers were like ice, so she started the engine and flipped the defroster on high.
In the parking spot beside her, Rachel’s old sedan came to life, too, the high beams bright as she put the car in gear, creeping forward as if to make sure Amy was okay.
Amy wasn’t okay, but she knew her sister wasn’t going to drive off and leave her sitting here. So she buckled up and put the car in gear. She ignored the groan of the clutch because it needed to be replaced and, after creeping forward, realized she needed both the wipers and the lights on.
Rachel’s car moved away and Amy followed her, steering through the downpour that came ever harder. But her gaze drifted to the rearview, where the motel ought to be. She couldn’t see it; there was only darkness. Remembering the loner and the way he’d stood as if he were already not a part of this world, she wished…she didn’t know what she wished. That he would find rest for whatever troubled him.
She would always be grateful he’d stepped between her and possible danger twice. Lord knew there had been times when that wasn’t always the case.
The rain pummeled so hard overhead, she couldn’t hear the melody of the Christian country station or the beat of the wipers on high as she let the storm blow her home.
“Mom!”
The instant Amy had stumbled through the front door, she’d been caught by her son. His arms vised her waist, and he held on tight, clinging for moments longer than his usual welcome-home hug as thunder cannoned over the roof and shook the entire trailer.
Oh, her sweet little boy, the shampoo scent of him, fresh from his bath, and the fabric softener in his astronaut pjs just made her melt. She feathered her fingers through his rich brown hair the color of milk chocolate and when he let go, he didn’t look scared. But his chin was up and his little hands balled tight. Westin was great at hiding everything, true to his gender.
Only she knew how storms scared him. The hitch in his breathing told her his asthma medicine was working. The image from earlier today of the needle pricking along his spine tore at her. Her little one had had a rough day, and she remembered how he’d set his jaw tight and not made a sound. Tears had welled in his eyes but he hadn’t let them fall.
Her tough little guy.
She knelt to draw him against her. “I figured you’d be sound asleep by now and I wouldn’t get to read you another chapter in your story like I promised.”
“The thunder kept wakin’ me up. It’s loud. So I just stayed awake.”
That was his excuse. Tough as nails, just like her dad had been. Every time she looked at him, she saw it, the image of her father, a hint that always made her remember the man who’d been twenty feet tall for her. Who could do anything.
There were the little things Westin did that would twist like a knife carved deep. In the innocent gestures, as he was doing now, chin up, arms crossed in front of his chest, all warrior. Tough on the outside, soft as butter on the inside. Yeah, he was just like her dad.
“Okay, tiger, it’s way past your bedtime. Get to your room and under your covers. I’ll be back in half a second.”
His big brown eyes stared up at her. She caught the flash of fear when it sounded as if golf balls were hitting the roof with the force of a hurricane, but she nodded, letting him know without words that she was here now. He might be cowboy-tough, but he was a little boy who needed his mother. She wouldn’t let anything hurt her little one.
“’Kay,” he agreed, “but hurry up! We got a light all set up and eve
rything. Bye, Kelly!” he called to the woman in the shadows of the tiny kitchen.
“G’night, don’t let the bedbugs bite!” came the answer and then her cousin by marriage emerged from the dark with her coat in hand. Kelly slipped one arm into the raincoat’s sleeve and then the other. “Hi, Amy. I got the dishes put away, too, just to help out. If you want me tomorrow night, just give me a call. You know I can use the extra cash.”
“Sure.” Amy dug through her apron pocket and counted out a small stack of ones. Tips had been sparse with the state economy the way it was and they’d been even worse tonight.
She regretted that three-quarters of her tip money was already gone, but there were other places to cut corners. Her son’s care was not one of them. “Rachel wants to come over and spend time with him tomorrow, but if I have to work at night, I’ll give you a call. We’re still short-handed. Are you sure you don’t want a job at the diner?”
“It’s harder to do my school work and wait tables at the same time. I have a test Monday.” Kelly settled her backpack on one shoulder. It was heavy with college texts and notebooks.
Amy had wanted to attend college, too, like so many of her friends and cousins had. Sparkling-eyed freshmen going to classes and chatting over coffee and learning exciting new things. There were a lot of reasons that had kept her from that path, mostly her own choices and the fact that a college education took money neither she nor her family had.
She admired Kelly for sticking to the hard course. It couldn’t be easy working several jobs and studying, too. “Drive safe out there. The roads are slick.”
“I will. Heavens!” Kelly opened the door and the racket was deafening.
Hail punched the pavement and hammered off the row of trailers lined up in neat order along the dark street. Ice gleamed black as it hid lawns and driveways and flowerbeds starting to bloom.
The wind gusted and Amy wrestled the door closed. She pulled the little curtain aside and watched through the window in the door, making sure Kelly got to her car safely and it started all right. In a town where few people ever bothered to lock anything, Amy turned the dead bolt and made sure Kelly made it safely down the lane.
It’s just the storm, she told herself. That’s why she felt unsettled. But she knew that wasn’t the truth.
The hail echoed like continual gunshots through the single wide, and she circled the living room, dodging the couch. A thick candle, one she’d gotten for Christmas, sat in the center of the coffee table and shed enough light for her to see her way around an array of toy astronauts and space ships arranged in the middle of a battle. The windows were cold, streaked with ice and rain and locked up tight.
Amy knew it wasn’t the storm that bothered her. It was those two men tonight. The harsh, brash way they’d laughed over their meal. The suggestive leers they’d shot at her. The way they’d walked out of the diner without fully paying, as if they had the right. It all burned in her stomach, the anger and the helplessness of it. They probably thought nothing of it, just two guys out having some fun.
But it was a big deal, their lack of respect. She wasn’t some questionable woman. She had standards and morals she lived by. What hurt is that times like this and men like that reminded her of the days when she’d behaved in ways she deeply regretted.
Don’t think about it. It’s over and done with now. She’d do best to erase the entire experience from her mind. She’d told the incident to the deputy on her way home. He lived four doors down. He was on his way out on an emergency call, but he told her he’d be by the diner in the morning if she wanted to file a report. She didn’t. There was no point. Things like that were public record and she wanted to keep as far away from the ugliness of the outside world as she could. For her son, and for herself.
This trailer wasn’t much, but it was hers and she’d worked hard to make the best of it. The tan shag carpeting was nothing fancy, but it was freshly vacuumed and in good repair. She’d laid it herself, after buying it as a remnant from a flooring outlet store in Bozeman.
Last year she’d retextured the walls in the living room and applied several coats of the lightest blue paint. The couch had been in the family for what seemed like generations. She’d reupholstered it and made the throw pillows that cheerfully matched the walls. Pretty lace curtains—she’d made a good yard-sale find with those—hung on decorative rods she’d mounted and gave the cozy room a sense of softness.
This was her sanctuary, and Westin’s boyhood home. She breathed in the serenity and felt more centered. She knelt to blow out the candle, and darkness washed over her. Tonight the shadows did not seem as peaceful. Hail echoed through the spaces and corners of the trailer and filled her with trepidation, as if the past could rear up and snatch away her life here.
I’m just tired, that’s all. Amy rose, breathing in the faint smoke rising off the wick and peppermint-scented wax. The uneasiness remained.
“Mom!” Westin stood in the wash of light from his bedroom door, looking like a waif in pjs that were a size too big. He was holding his stuffed Snoopy by the ear.
Her heart broke. Why was she letting the unease from the past trouble her? There was no reason to look back. She’d come a long way, and she’d done it all by herself—okay, with the help of God and her sisters. Westin was waiting for her, and no way was she going to let him down.
“Are your teeth brushed?” she asked, because it was her job as a mom.
“Kelly made me.”
“And what about your prayers?”
“Yep. I told ya. I’m really, really ready.”
“Then get into bed, young man. Hurry up.”
He ran, feet pounding as he raced out of her sight. The squeak of the box spring told her he’d jumped onto his mattress and was bouncing around, all boy energy, even this late at night.
If only she could harness it, she thought wistfully, as she bent her aching back to blow out the other candle on the little dinette set in the eating nook. Every bone in both feet seemed to groan and wince as she headed down the hall, drawn through the darkness by the light in her little boy’s room.
Westin was waiting and ready, tucked beneath his covers. A candle in a stout holder—Kelly must have placed it there—shone brightly enough on the pillow to reveal the boy’s midnight-blue bedspread with the planets sprinkled all over it. The rings of Saturn. The storms of Jupiter. The icy moon of…Jupiter? She couldn’t keep straight which moons belonged to which planets, but she should know it by heart because it was nearly all Westin talked about.
“Kelly and I saved the chapter on black holes for you to read, Mom!” Big blue eyes sparkling, Westin hid a cough in his fist and scrunched back into the pillows. Snoopy, clenched tightly in the crook of one arm, was apparently anticipating the wealth of information on black holes, too.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” Amy settled onto the bedside and held the heavy library book open in her hands. The spine cracked, the plastic cover crinkled and she breathed in the wonderful scent of books, paper and ink. She cleared her throat and began to read.
As exciting as gravity was, and as awesome as it was to hear about some stars exploding their matter into space, while others sank into themselves, Westin’s eyelids flickered. He yawned hugely and fought hard to stay awake. When she got to the part about gravity sucking light and matter into the net of a black hole, Westin’s lids stayed shut. His jaw relaxed. Snoopy kept watching her, however.
She slipped a bookmark between the pages and set the book on the nightstand. She just watched her son sleep for a few minutes with her heart full. Then she rose, blew out the candle and shut his door tightly.
The hall was pitch-black. Hail still rattled against the walls. Listening to the wind groan, Amy slipped into the darkness of her room. There was a tiny reading light, run on battery power, on her headboard. She unclipped it and flicked it on. It was a faint light and not strong enough to scare away the deep shadows from the room.
The uneasiness was still
inside her. It was the loner. Tonight he’d somehow breached the careful shield she kept around her. Maybe it wasn’t that he’d broken through her defenses as much as she saw through his. And what she saw there reminded her of hard lessons she’d learned.
When a person lost her innocence, there was no way to get it back—even if she surrounded herself with family and friends, lived in a small rural town where she’d lived nearly all her life, where she knew everyone, where nothing bad hardly ever happened.
She could work hard, do her very best, pay her bills on time, make a home, raise a son and sometimes, like tonight, there would be something that would remind her.
Some wounds ran too deep to heal. And there lived within her a scar that cut into her soul. She was as lost as the loner had seemed to be. And as wounded.
In the dark, alone in her room, she felt revealed. In an act just short of desperation, she switched on the clock radio by her bed and forgot the lights were out. Tonight there would be no soothing twang of familiar Christian songs to lull away some of the void.
She hurried about her bedtime routine, the little habits reassuring her, making her feel as if everything was in its place. She washed her face, flossed, brushed her teeth, smoothed cream on those little lines beside her eyes and mouth. She changed into her soft flannel pajamas and knelt to say her prayers.
The storm was moving on. The hail turned to rain as she crawled under the covers, and then to silence.
But it wasn’t a peaceful silence.
Chapter Three
Heath growled in frustration from beneath the pillow that he’d wedged over his head. But it wasn’t working to block out first light.
It was his brand of luck. His motel room faced east—and that meant bright searing sunlight was finding its way through the gaps in the fifty-year-old curtain, and it lit up the place like a lighthouse’s beacon. The light seemed to pulse and dance because the old heater that clattered like a hamster running on a squeaky wheel all night long and wouldn’t turn off, was spewing hot air full-blast beneath the curtains.
