by Chris Pike
“What happened to him? The man I prosecuted was nothing like you’re describing.”
“Our senior year of high school, Cole’s mother finally got the courage to leave.” Holly snuck a peek at Dillon. “Cole told me she had packed a bag to leave and his father shot her dead.”
“It keeps getting better, doesn’t it? Did Cole’s father get life or the death sentence for that?”
A big breath escaped Holly’s lips. “He got a death sentence, that’s for sure, but not in the way you think. He took the coward’s way out and killed himself with a 12 gauge he stuck in his mouth. Cole came home from school and found him on the front porch sitting in a rocking chair dead with half his skull blown off. He found his mother in the bedroom, still breathing, but there was nothing he could do. She died in his arms.”
“That’s awful,” Dillon said. “I’m starting to understand now.”
“Cole was never the same after that. He dropped out of school and became sullen. He even started becoming abusive toward me. I was scared to tell him I was pregnant and I hid it from everyone, including Cole. I was so embarrassed. It’s small town America and good girls don’t do things like that. I finally told him about the pregnancy because I was beginning to show. Baggy clothes can only work for so long.” Holly glanced down at the pavement. “I didn’t expect his reaction of accusing me that the baby wasn’t his. I was shocked. When I tried to explain to him that he was the only boy I had ever been with, he hit me. He told me he hated me. That was the last time I talked to him.”
“That’s a lot for a seventeen year old to digest. What did your parents do?”
“When I finally told my parents I was pregnant, it was too late to terminate the pregnancy. They told me that unless I put the baby up for adoption they would disown me because they didn’t want anything to do with the baby, saying something about the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“There are equal sets of genes to pass down. Didn’t your parents consider that?”
Holly shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. I had no way to support myself or afford daycare. My mother said she would not babysit. The only jobs in town were at the drive-in, and I couldn’t support me and the baby making minimum wage. I grew up really fast.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“My parents arranged for a couple in town to adopt the baby. After the birth, I got to hold my baby for only a moment until the nurses came. I wanted so badly to keep my baby, but it was too late. You can’t imagine how hard it is to give up your child. I ached for my child for what seemed like forever. I’ve regretted my decision all my life.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“Even after all this time the ache in my heart never leaves. I never saw my baby again, and I wasn’t allowed to know the couple’s name until the baby turned eighteen.”
“It’s been more than eighteen years since you had the baby, right?”
“Yes.” Holly confirmed.
“I don’t understand. There are online registers and open records to search.”
“It was a private adoption, and since my parents died in a car crash before the baby turned eighteen, any hope of knowing who the adoptive parents were died along with my parents.” Holly stopped talking long enough to take a deep breath.
“I still don’t understand,” Dillon said. “Regardless of your history with Cole, that’s not a reason to take him as your client. You don’t owe him anything.”
“It is when he called and told me he knew what happened to the baby and if I didn’t agree to represent him, he’d kill our child.”
“He’s a real saint. You could’ve gone to the police.”
“I could have, except he told me he’d tell me our child’s name if I won the case.”
Chapter 21
Dillon kept the pace steady, figuring they could make it to Holly’s ranch by noon the next day. After Holly’s soul-baring revelation, it became obvious the revered Holly Hudson was human after all. Dillon actually felt sorry for her, surmising that the trauma she experienced as a teenager was one of the reasons she hadn’t ever married. Getting burned like that at a young age had to have impacted her in a way she maybe never recovered from.
A serious case of regrets hit him for what he did the previous night. Surely he hadn’t taken advantage of Holly during one of her weakest moments. Had he? When she crushed her body against his, the rest took its natural course.
Dillon now worried about how she was doing. Her complexion had taken on an ashen appearance and she rarely used the arm that had been injured the day before. Whenever he asked to see it, she refused.
Buster, on the other hand, he didn’t have to worry about. For a dog used to lounging around the house all day, his stamina was surprising.
Intermittently, Dillon glanced at Holly, worried that the ride was too taxing for her. She was a trouper though, never complaining about cramped muscles or the pace.
He took in the vastness that lay before him, from the bare fields and wind-brushed trees, to livestock oblivious to the changing world. Surprisingly, he felt invigorated. The life he had built using brains instead of brawn had come to an abrupt end, a life he thought he’d probably never go back to. The house he shared with Amy sat barren, devoid of the things that make a house a home, among the soon-to-be dying city. He wondered if he would ever see it again, yet without Amy it was only a dwelling, a place to hang his hat and to sleep.
It hadn’t been a home for a long time.
What the future would bring he did not know, and he would live day to day, doing whatever it took to survive, whatever it took to find his daughter. He’d build a life with her, although where, he did not know.
They biked along the two-lane country road winding through the countryside, crossing creeks and passing abandoned vehicles.
A rancher sitting high on a horse checking his livestock acknowledged his and Holly’s presence by a friendly dip of the hat. Dillon returned an equal friendly dip then peddled on.
The bike ride afforded Dillon time to think and to formulate a plan to find Cassie. After getting Holly to her ranch, making sure she’d be safe, he’d saddle the best horse and he could be in New Orleans by late the next day.
That is, if all went well.
Chapter 22
It was early morning and Dillon had been awake for a while, listening to a rooster crowing in a nearby pasture. Holly had been out like a light the entire night, and slept through the rooster alarm clock.
Tentative morning light cast aside the night and streamed low through the countryside, awakening the land. Doves cooed and cardinals chirped a morning melody. The caw-caw of a crow joined in, the chorus unusually loud. He’d never hear anything like this in the city, and he wondered why he had stayed in the rat race for so long.
Routine probably, or the fear of change. It didn’t matter anymore. If Amy was still living they definitely would have been on their way to something different. With Cassie about to be self-sufficient, it should have been Dillon’s and Amy’s time, a new chapter in their life.
So much for that.
Stretching out on the ground with his hands clasped behind his head, he stared at the tree above him until the leaves blurred together. His thoughts drifted back to his wife. He missed her terribly. Missed the way her hair fell to her shoulders; the way she laughed at all of his stories, pretending she had never heard them before; the way she greeted him when he came home. He missed everything about her.
He hadn’t even taken one thing of hers from their house, and he silently cursed at the stupidity of that. Not even her favorite piece of jewelry. Yet, closing his eyes, he could imagine every detail of her face: the dimples in her cheeks when she laughed, the laugh lines framing her eyes, her sparkly eyes. Regardless how much he thought about his wife, the life they had made together ceased to exist the moment she died. Maybe it was time for him to move on, to start really living again instead of merely existing, because that’s what he had been doing for the
past two years.
It had taken Dillon a long time to consider himself unmarried, even wearing his wedding ring up until a few months ago.
He had made camp under an oak tree with a splendid canopy. The grass was soft, rocks a minimum, and being in the country had indeed rejuvenated him. Humans weren’t meant to sit at a desk, staring at a computer for eight hours a day, and Dillon wasn’t any exception. Using his muscles had felt great, though his back and legs were sore, and all the fresh air had reenergized him. He thought the same of Buster. His dog’s eyes were brighter and his senses more alert.
He turned toward Holly, now stirring. A gold chain peeked out from under her shirt. He surmised she had worn it to the courthouse that day. Funny that he hadn’t noticed it during their carnal romp, then again, he wasn’t really looking at jewelry, not when he had his face buried in her breasts. Dillon wasn’t much into jewelry, but for some reason he took notice of it now, wishing he had taken something of Amy’s from the house. He cursed at the stupidity of not getting anything of his wife’s to give to his daughter.
Out of habit he had put his wallet in his back pocket on the way out of the house. Taking it out, he rifled through the useless credit cards, various membership IDs, and insurance cards. He wanted to toss them, yet at the same time it was proof of who he was. If the shit had hit the fan like he thought, although these cards were useless now, they were evidence of his life. He thought it strange how IDs and plastic cards gave validity to a person’s life. A few dollar bills and twenties padded his wallet and he was tempted to throw them away because paper money wouldn’t be used for a while until a new barter system came into effect.
An egg-laying chicken would be worth more than a bar of gold in the near future. Still, he couldn’t muster the courage to toss the cards.
Tucked away in the wallet was his favorite picture of Cassie and Amy. Hesitant to take it out, he glanced at Holly, making sure she was still sleeping. He didn’t want her to know his private pain. Holding the picture in his hand, a wave of sadness overcame him, and he was acutely aware of how empty he felt without his family. His wife had been his partner and equal. Together, they were whole.
The picture had been taken at their favorite steak restaurant on her fortieth birthday. Cassie was smiling. A piece of birthday cake with a sparkly candle illuminated Amy’s smiling face. An opal locket hung on her décolletage. It had been her birthday present, something she’d planned to give their daughter someday.
He put the picture back in his wallet, and glanced at Holly. Her hair was a tattered mess and her fair complexion had turned pale. He had noticed that she continued to favor her injured left arm, and on the last hour of the ride the previous day, she rode with one hand on the handle bars. It worried him. She shifted positions, turning toward him.
Dillon turned on his side, propping an elbow on the ground. “You don’t look so good.”
Holly met his eyes for a moment but didn’t say anything. Rising from the ground which had been her bed for the night she said, “You sure do know how to make a girl feel pretty.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I mean you don’t look well.”
“Wrong answer. Try again.”
“You know what I mean.”
Holly stood and massaged her lower back with her good arm. “I’m not used to sleeping on hard ground, that’s all. I didn’t sleep well. I’ve got a kink in my back that’s been bothering me. As soon as I get a good night’s sleep I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t have long to wait for that. In a few hours, you’ll be in your ranch home.” Dillon rose from his makeshift bed and walked over to Holly. “Let me do that.”
“Do what?”
“Massage your back.”
Holly started to protest, but Dillon had already had put his hand in the small of her back. To steady her, he placed the palm of his other hand over her décolletage, pressing down. Standing, she rolled with the circular strokes of his warm hand, and felt something stir in her bosom. The strength of his arms was noticeable, and she breathed heavy and slow, trying to control her hammering heart. She’d die if Dillon knew her heart was beating at breakneck speed; if he knew that the reason she didn’t sleep well was because she had been thinking about him during the night.
She swallowed audibly.
“How’s your arm?” Dillon asked.
“It’s good.” Holly broke loose from Dillon and turned away. She licked her lips, suddenly aware of her thirst.
“Can I see it?” Dillon asked.
Holly waved him off. She dug around in her backpack, found a water bottle, and took a sip of water. “Let’s get going, okay? I’m eager to get to the house, take a bath, and get into a real bed.”
“Does your back feel better?” Dillon asked.
“It does. Thank you for that.”
“A week ago if I had offered you a backrub, I think you might have called HR on me. Either that or slapped me.”
Holly snuck a hesitant peek at Dillon. After a long pause she finally said, “I think you got your answer the other night.”
“I thought maybe you had forgotten.”
“It was a moment of weakness, that’s all. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I was hoping it would,” Dillon said. He moved closer to her, challenging her personal space.
Holly shot him an indignant look. “Well it won’t, so forget about it.”
How could he forget about it? Holly had practically ripped his shirt off while he carried her to the bedroom. How could he forget the way she arched her back when he touched her? Or the way she nibbled on his ear afterwards?
“Yeah,” Dillon said gruffly. “Forget about it.”
Holly had turned away and bit her lip. She felt something akin to static electricity being generated between them, and if he touched her again, she might not be able to resist. His presence was commanding, and though she wouldn’t admit to it, if Dillon had run for District Attorney like the rumor mill had it, she would have voted for him, courtroom adversary or not. His ethics were impressive and his drive for justice couldn’t be dismissed. Holly admired him for that, although what had happened scared her. She had lived her life one way for so long, and now Dillon had challenged her world. She was rethinking her single life, especially after the way Dillon treated her. She had never met anyone like him. A complicated man. Strong when it mattered, gentle where it counted.
Dillon grabbed her arm and turned her around. “It meant something to me. I want you to know that.”
As she held his intense gaze, for the first time she noted the color of his eyes. Brown, though that wouldn’t aptly describe the intensity of his gaze, and the longer they looked at each other, the more uncomfortable she became. She was the first to turn away.
“It’s only us now, out here, in the middle of Nowheresville, USA,” Dillon said. “There aren’t any clients to impress or juries to sway. No legal posturing. It’s okay for us to lean on each other, to need each other, to help each other out. I give a damn good massage, so anytime you want one, all you have to do is ask.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Holly knelt and struggled to roll the sleeping bag. Her bad arm hurt with every movement.
“I’ll do that.”
“You’ve already done enough. I can manage.”
“I wasn’t asking.” Dillon stepped in, whisked the sleeping bag away, and deftly tucked it into a tight roll.
“Thank you,” Holly said.
“You’re welcome.” Dillon tied off the string and handed the bag to Holly. “I’m sure your turn will come to help me out someday.”
Truer words couldn’t have been spoken.
Chapter 23
It was quiet for a while as Dillon and Holly went about the business of breaking camp. Buster greedily ate his breakfast and slurped a bowl of water. He silently excused himself to a patch of grass where he did his business. Dillon poured a few drops of water on what remained of the smoldering fire then scraped dir
t over it, making sure no embers were left.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you who’s been taking care of the horses at your ranch.”
Holly knelt and retrieved her backpack, and with a heave she slung it over her back. “The ranch foreman, Hector Hernandez. My parents hired him a long time ago. He’s trustworthy and keeps the place up. I pay him from royalty generated from an oil well drilled several years ago.”
“Hmm. I guess the rumor mill was right.”
“About what?” Holly asked.
“About your land sitting on what could be the next Spindletop.”
Holly laughed. “That’s what people talk about? Thinking my land is sitting on some gigantic oil field?” She shook her head. “Spindletop, the gusher that started the oil industry in Texas. It wasn’t far from here, you know?”
“I know. Near Beaumont.”
“Believe me, if the well drilled on our place produced a fraction of what Spindletop did, do you think I’d be playing nursemaid to a bunch of greedy corporations and murderers?”
“It makes you a lot of money.”
“Money doesn’t make you happy,” Holly said.
“What would make you happy?”
Holly thought about that a moment because the question was a little too personal. She had become used to hiding behind an invisible wall, a fortress surrounding her personal space that had a neon sign flashing loud and clear: Don’t get too close.
Dillon was too dense to notice it. Or maybe he did and was surreptitiously chipping away at it as if he was a master carver and Holly was a wooden block. Then again, perhaps he was blind and didn’t see the neon lights flashing.
Here she was, forty-something, never married, never been to a PTA meeting, baked cookies for a soccer team, made homecoming mums, been to a swim meet, or debate competition. She had missed out on so much life because of that damned wall.
