The Hero's Redemption

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Sanchez poked an elbow in his side. “You ever play ball? You’re almost big enough to make it as a pro.”

  He took a swallow of the beer he’d been nursing since the kickoff. “You kidding? Those guys are massive. Going up against three hundred and fifty pound behemoths doesn’t sound like much fun. Yeah, I played a couple of years in high school, but that’s not the same.”

  “You weren’t good enough to be recruited by any colleges?”

  Too late for regrets. He only laughed and shrugged. “No place I wanted to go.”

  “I played in high school, too,” Rico surprised him by saying. “In Toppenish. You know, near Yakima.”

  Cole nodded. About all he did know was that the area had a large Hispanic population because of agriculture.

  Rico’s grin was reminiscent. “We had a losing record every year, but we never lost hope. Me, I’m short but I’m fast. Kind of like Rawls.” He tipped his glass toward the TV. “Easy to squeak by the big guys.”

  Returning the grin, Cole suggested, “We should start up a league. A little touch football on Saturdays. What do you say?”

  “Great—if you’re on my team. I sure as hell don’t want you flattening me.” Rico was starting to slur his words. He wasn’t usually a big drinker, although if he was to be believed, he stopped at Mickey’s most days on his way home, even though he was married. His wife was here tonight, talking to her sister, who’d come, too. The sister, Soledad, was a pretty woman, with a huge smile and a wealth of wavy black hair. Cole had met her once before, but they hadn’t been at the same table. Tonight, she was right across from him, and definitely flirting.

  He was out of practice when it came to responding, and grateful that the football game gave him an out except during commercial breaks. Not that he didn’t like what he knew of her. He did. Soledad worked for a well-drilling company, answering phones and bookkeeping. Her smile came easily, and she wasn’t pushy. Rico wouldn’t have gotten them a table for four tonight if he didn’t think she and Cole should hook up.

  But how fast would that change when he found out Cole was an ex-con? He should go for it, anyway. Worry about what would happen down the road when it did happen.

  The Seahawks had to punt the ball and then a truck commercial came on. Soledad leaned forward and raised her voice.

  “I heard you talking about playing football. I’ll bet you were really good.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Not dedicated enough. Or maybe I just wasn’t smart enough to think about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.” And wasn’t that the truth.

  She made a face. “In high school? Who is?”

  “There are always some serious jocks, plus the students angling for acceptance by good colleges.”

  “Did you go to college?”

  “A few classes here and there.” Oh, by the way, while I was in prison. “I’ve signed up for the fall semester at the college here, a couple night classes. What about you?”

  “I got an AA from Skagit Community College. Going on would have meant leaving West Fork, and...I don’t know...I like being close to family. It wasn’t as if I had any big plan for what to do with a four-year degree.”

  He wished he’d followed the path his father had laid out as his only acceptable option, but for Soledad’s sake, he smiled in a vague way he hoped she took as agreement. The game resumed, and he pretended more interest in it than he felt.

  Pretended? Why would he do that when a pretty young woman was smiling at him, her eyes holding an open invitation? He’d decided a one-night stand would feel sordid, especially in comparison to what he’d had with Erin. This would be different. He could have a girlfriend. He’d spend the night at her place sometimes, or she at his. He didn’t have to be lonely.

  Why did he feel so sure he still would be?

  But he knew. Soledad would be a fill-in for what he really wanted. Who he really wanted.

  Despite the burst of cheers around him, he closed his eyes in resignation. None of his fears about a relationship with Erin had left him. They carried the same weight as shackles that made every step drag.

  He had a long way to go before he could approach her, and by then it might be too late—if it wasn’t already. But having fun with Soledad in the meantime wasn’t something he could do. He’d never make love with one woman while he was thinking about another.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket as if it had vibrated and looked at it. “I’ve got to go,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Sorry to run.”

  Both women and Rico protested, but he just shook his head apologetically and fled.

  Had running away become a habit? Didn’t matter, he told himself. Better to run than get himself into something he’d regret.

  * * *

  ERIN SMILED AS Laura Carlson came out the kitchen door carrying a tray, calling, “Who wants s’mores?”

  Even the badminton players turned at that. The shuttlecock dropped to the grass.

  “Really?” asked Jeff Abbott, a nice young guy, fresh out of grad school, who was a research librarian at the West Fork branch of the county library system.

  Laura, the branch librarian, laughed. “Of course I’m serious. Why let those coals go to waste?”

  Accepting the invitation to the barbecue at the Carlsons’ house had been another way for Erin to push herself out there. She’d been living in limbo, but that was changing.

  This gathering had been good. She liked most of the people she’d met; they reminded her of her colleagues at Markham. Some she knew from the library, but those people had brought husbands, wives, friends. Laura’s husband was an assistant principal at the Lake Stevens high school, so some of his colleagues were there, too.

  With a fire crackling in the barbecue pit, Erin chose a seat beside a woman named Monique Murphy, whose profession she hadn’t heard. Probably in her mid-to late-thirties, Monique had come alone.

  “I can’t even remember the last time I made s’mores,” Erin commented.

  “I think I was about ten,” the other woman said, laughing.

  “Are you with the library?”

  “No, I teach English at the high school here in Lake Stevens. Oh, and I coach basketball.”

  “Really? I...used to coach girls’ softball and volleyball at the college level.”

  While they shared their experiences, George Carlson handed out sharpened sticks. In no time, they were all roasting marshmallows—or burning them to a crisp, in a few cases—then squishing them between graham crackers and chocolate bars.

  She and Cole should have done this. He’d uncovered an old concrete and rusty metal grill out in the backyard that Erin had forgotten was there. Once she saw it, she remembered how much fun cooking outdoors, over an open flame, had seemed to her when she was a little girl. He might have enjoyed it.

  Looking around, she tried to imagine him here. Would he have fit in? Did it matter? The answer was no, it didn’t, not for her, but she thought he would’ve been fine. This was an eclectic crowd, with ages ranging from midtwenties to George’s late fifties. Another high school teacher had visible tattoos on his brawny arms. There was also a librarian who’d transferred from West Fork to the library headquarters in Marysville before Erin started. She was a quiet woman who watched more than she spoke, like Cole. He would’ve had no reason to feel uncomfortable.

  And why was she even thinking about this? He knew where to find her, but he hadn’t stopped by, hadn’t called, in the six weeks since their encounter at Safeway. Message received.

  She pushed thoughts of him out of her mind and joined the increasingly lazy conversation. This felt like days’ end at summer camp, with the glowing coals, the circle of contented people, the darkness beyond.

  Suddenly uneasy, Erin stiffened. She’d meant to be home before dark. Which was totally silly, but she�
��d developed a sort of phobia about Highway 9. She felt as if she was breaking some rule when she had to take it. Plus, the scenery had a way of giving her flashbacks. Really, she hadn’t had that many reasons to drive there since she’d given up her speeding hobby, but in a rural county like this, there weren’t always a lot of choices. The Carlsons lived closer to Lake Stevens than to West Fork. She’d asked one of the women earlier, and learned that Laura had accepted a promotion to branch librarian in West Fork only a couple of years ago.

  Erin hadn’t minded the drive so much this afternoon, but in the dark, with her headlights spearing the road ahead... She hid her shiver and said, “I’m afraid I need to be going.”

  Monique went with her into the house, where they both collected dishes that had held their contributions—in Erin’s case, a coffee cake made from Lottie’s recipe. Both said their goodbyes and thanks.

  Walking back out, Monique suggested they have lunch someday, and they exchanged phone numbers. By then, others were leaving, too. In fact, she followed two other cars along the narrow country road until they reached the highway. By then, she’d almost convinced herself she could relax. She’d be part of what was in effect a convoy.

  She concentrated on the taillights of the car in front of her. The highway wasn’t deserted like it was in the middle of the night, anyway. There was a surprising amount of traffic. Saturday night, no wonder.

  Duane—whose last name she couldn’t remember, only that he was the high school band director—turned off well before she needed to. As she accelerated again, she had to squint. An oncoming driver needed to turn down his brights. Or maybe it was one of those pickups high enough up that the headlights always blinded anyone approaching. Irritating.

  Suddenly, another set of oncoming lights was in her lane. Really? Somebody was that desperate to pass? She eased her foot from the gas to give the idiot more space, but... Were the superbright lights approaching faster? Panic started to elevate her pulse, and Erin glanced in her rearview mirror to see that a big SUV was riding her bumper, too. Steer to the shoulder, she decided, hoping she didn’t get rear-ended.

  She tapped her brakes, flicked on her turn signal—and felt the jolt of being bumped from behind. Her Cherokee rocked. Blinded by the oncoming headlights, all she knew was that she’d lost control.

  Her door crumpled inward, the impact painful. And then her car was flying off the highway. A monster evergreen tree loomed in front of her. She was going to die. Metal screamed, and she blacked out.

  * * *

  SHIT! DID I not set the alarm?

  Cole reared up in bed, his appalled stare on his digital clock. Damn it! He’d swung his feet to the floor before he woke up enough to think, Sunday. I don’t have to get up.

  Groaning, he flopped back down. After a minute, he yanked the pillow from beneath his head and pressed it over his face. It didn’t take him long to recognize that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again.

  As a teenager, he could have—and sometimes did—sleep until noon or even later, which irked his father to no end. The last ten years, he hadn’t had any choice about when to rise. Now, the five-day-a-week schedule had him up at six thirty. Apparently, he was incapable of sleeping in.

  Grumbling under his breath, he pulled on shorts and made his way to the kitchen, where he remembered he hadn’t set the timer for his fancy new coffee maker last night. Because he was going to sleep in.

  While he waited for the coffee to brew, he turned on the TV. Local news was running, something about the Seattle city council, which he couldn’t care less about. He picked up the remote and was about to change channels when the newscaster declared, “One fatality and two people in critical condition after a multicar accident that occurred last night on Highway 9 in north Snohomish County.” A camera panned the cleanup phase of the accident. Lights flashed atop police cars, and a tow truck had backed up to a sedan now compressed like an accordion. Cole winced. The fatality almost had to be that driver. A big pickup had its share of dents and hung halfway off the road. One of those big SUVs like a Suburban—what was left of it, anyway—was perpendicular to the road, blocking both lanes.

  The camera kept moving as the on-scene reporter talked. Cole stared in disbelief at a smaller SUV crumpled around a tree. His heart slammed into overdrive. The driver’s-side door had been smashed in, right where she’d have been sitting. He couldn’t read the bumper sticker, but it was in the same place and the same color as the one Erin had on her Cherokee, saying, Markham College. Was that—Could it be—

  Frantic, he paid attention to what the reporter was saying in a gravely concerned tone. One person involved had been pronounced dead at the scene. Another had been transported by helicopter to Harborview Hospital in Seattle. Injured passengers from one vehicle, as well as a woman driver, had been taken to the hospital in West Fork. The police weren’t yet releasing names.

  Had Erin gone out last night? Had she caused this mess? Cole had trouble believing it. As he watched, the news moved on to another story. Wishing he had a computer, Cole found his phone and tapped in some keywords. The article that came up repeated information he’d already heard—except he saw the time of the accident. Around 10:30 p.m.

  Thank God. If that was her Cherokee, she would have been coming home from someplace. Frustrated, he reread the meager information, turned off the coffee maker and went back to the bedroom to throw on some clothes.

  Unless she’d moved on, into a new relationship—and he didn’t believe that—she’d be alone at the hospital, and she didn’t have to be.

  * * *

  ERIN LAY IN the hospital bed, not bothering to open her eyes. The white-curtained cubicle with a machine reading her pulse and who knew what else hadn’t changed.

  Dazed, probably drugged, she hurt. It was hard to focus on anything else. Top of the list—her head felt like a bass drum being rhythmically pounded. Her face, probably because of the air bag. Arm. Shoulder. Chest. Breathing hurt, too. She struggled to remember what the doctor had said. The cast on her arm was a clue, but the rest was a blank. Déjà vu.

  “Erin?”

  At the sharp inquiry in that deep voice, she did lift her leaden eyelids. “Cole?”

  “Yes. God.” His shoulders sagged as he gazed down at her. He looked haggard, at least a day’s stubble darkening his jaw and upper lip. “You’re okay.”

  “Don’t feel okay,” she mumbled.

  “I know.” He sounded impossibly gentle. After glancing around, he dragged a chair to the bedside and sat down, reaching over to carefully enclose her right hand in his. On the good-news front, the broken arm was her left.

  “They let you in.”

  “I told them we’re close friends.”

  The bewilderment was likely caused by painkillers, but maybe not. She did know she’d been unconscious for several hours. “How’d you find out?” As if that made any difference. But the little things were a place to start.

  “About the accident? You’re on the morning news.” His mouth twisted. “You haven’t been identified, but I recognized your Jeep.”

  “I wasn’t trying.” She felt a desperate need for him to believe her. “I said I wouldn’t.”

  “I know you weren’t.” His free hand lifted to her face, gently stroking. With his fingertips he massaged her temple, the undamaged part of her forehead.

  Her eyes wanted to roll back. Keeping them open took a real effort. “Not my fault,” she whispered.

  “I know that, too,” he murmured. “I talked to a state patrol officer on the way in. They’ve been reconstructing the accident and talking to the people who weren’t as badly injured. Another driver saw it happen, too, and pulled over to help. Apparently, an oncoming car was trying to pass a pickup, driven by an eighteen-year-old guy who viewed that as a challenge and sped up. Nobody was passing him,” he said sardonically.

&nbs
p; “Oh.” Suddenly her vision blurred. “I thought I was going to die.” It just burst out of her. “I was so scared. Why was I scared?”

  Even as he swore, he shifted from the chair to the bed. He flattened his hands on each side of her shoulders and bent to touch his forehead to hers. It felt like an embrace, probably the closest he dared come with her so obviously battered.

  “Because you don’t want to die.” Breath warm against her lips, he spoke softly, but his voice was ragged, too. “You already found that out, remember? It’s not your time, Erin.”

  Hot tears ran down her face, blinded her. She tasted salt. “Maybe I can’t die,” she whispered.

  “Please don’t. Please.”

  She started to sob. She could, because he was here, but, oh, it hurt. His arms came around her and he half lifted her so she could cry against his shoulder, let him soak up her tears and her pain.

  If only he didn’t withhold so much. If only he’d let her take on some of his pain, too.

  One second she savored his strength, tried to gather her weary mind. The next she slid into darkness.

  * * *

  WITH NO WARNING, her cheeks still wet, Erin fell asleep. Cole hoped she was actually asleep, and hadn’t plunged back into the coma that had kept her unresponsive for almost four hours last night, according to the doctor.

  After laying her carefully back on the pillows, he studied her. The rise and fall of her chest was slow, even. Her lips were slightly parted. Movement flickered behind her eyelids. REM. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen her sleep.

  Finally relaxing, he eased off the bed and settled himself in the chair again to wait. The relief he’d felt when she talked to him was so profound he was still weak from it. She was alive. Injured, but conscious and already beginning to recover.

  He’d brought a day pack with his school stuff, but he hadn’t been able to do anything other than stare at her and will her to open her eyes. Now that she had, he unzipped the pack and pulled out a book.