When He Found Me (Road to Refuge Book 1)

by Victoria Bylin

  Cody flopped against the couch, his mouth in a pout. “No. I just don’t want to go.”

  The poor kid. He wanted roots. So had Shane at that age. Instead he’d spent long, hot summers in his mother’s van, setting up at craft fairs, and leaving just when he made a friend. The school year wasn’t much better.

  He draped a foot over his knee. “I know what that’s like. Moving is hard, but your mom knows best.”

  “She said we should pray about it, so we did.”

  “That’s good.”

  Not that it would help. In Shane’s experience, false hope collapsed like a building pancaking in an earthquake. It went down one floor at a time, crushing people and their dreams as it fell. His knee hurt today, and the blond actresses in commercials all reminded him of Daisy.

  He waited for Cody to ask another question, but the game came back on.

  The Meteors’ shortstop took some practice cuts, swung at the first pitch, and missed. He took the second pitch for a strike, then hammered a grounder to third. JP Tyler, the man who had replaced Shane, dove for the ball but missed by inches.

  Wincing, Shane stretched his bad leg.

  Cody looked up at him, worry evident in his blue eyes. “Does your knee hurt?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You should call my mom. She knows how to make things feel better.”

  Yes, she does. Shane wished she had come over for the game. “I’m all right.”

  “You could still call her.” Cody sounded a little like a car salesman. “She could bring more Yogi Bear cartoons and we could watch them here. She likes the ones with Cindy Bear.”

  “Who’s Cindy Bear?”

  “Yogi’s girlfriend.”

  A casual suggestion? Shane doubted it. Cody was playing matchmaker, a dangerous venture for a boy who wanted a father. The instinct rivaled the drive that sent salmon upstream. Compared to human beings, salmon had it easy. They didn’t have to worry about hurting fatherless boys or protecting women from runaway sperm. Neither did the females worry about diseases or sexual assault. He thought of Daisy with Eric Markham and felt sick.

  Instead of answering Cody, he took the easy way out. “The game’s just about over. Your mom’s expecting you to come home.”

  “Can we bring her pizza?”

  “Sure.” A single mom could always use leftovers, so Shane had quizzed Cody about MJ’s favorite toppings and ordered an extra medium.

  The last batter struck out, ending the game and giving the Cougars the division title. As the crowd roared, the players pounded backs and bumped shoulders, jumping and pumping their fists in the air. Shane would have given anything to be in that crowd.

  Really?

  The thought gave him pause. Would he give up the chance to find Daisy? Would he trade buying shoes for MJ and Cody for a World Series ring?

  A handheld camera followed the Cougars into the locker room, jostling in a way that put Shane in the middle of the crowd. Players squirted champagne at each other. He could smell sweat and alcohol, leather, and steam from the showers. Reporters jammed microphones into Manny Jackson’s smiling face. As the all-star beamed, Craig Hawkins doused him with bubbly.

  Cody, whooping as if he belonged, raised his hand for a high-five. Shane saw the light in the boy’s eyes and found his answer. As much as it hurt, today he would choose the shoes.

  “High-five!” he said, slapping Cody’s hand.

  His palm stung. So did his conscience. Before the accident, he wouldn’t have given the same answer. Shane the Hypocrite died that day, but the cost was too great—if God was all-powerful, loving, and kind, surely he could have gotten Shane’s attention without crippling him. Surely he could handle shoes for a boy and a man’s dreams? And what about Daisy and her black eye? And MJ . . . Where was Cody’s father? Had she been seduced and abandoned, even raped?

  Where were you, God?

  Champagne splattered the camera lens, dripping like spit, or tears, on the flat-screen TV. Shane blinked and thought of Christ carrying his cross to a skull-shaped mountain, destined to suffer and die for an uncaring world. Why did people have to hurt? Why did Almighty God make dreams come true and snatch them away?

  Shane wasn’t the only person with holes in his life. Cody had a giant one meant to be filled by the man who gave him half his DNA. In Shane’s estimation, God had dropped the ball yet again, and he’d done it to a child.

  Why, God? Why?

  Lips sealed, he stood and clicked off the television. “Time to go.”

  “So no Yogi Bear?” Cody chewed his lip in that hopeful way of a worried child.

  “Another time.” Shane handed him the pizza box holding leftovers “Give this to your mom, okay?”

  Cody took the box in both hands and headed for the door. Shane watched him cross the driveway, then went inside the apartment to catch up on schoolwork. God had let MJ and Cody down, but Shane wouldn’t. The next move was hers, but he’d be waiting and watching like the good Christian he didn’t want to be.

  With Cody occupied, MJ went to the bedroom holding the remaining boxes from the attic, opened the next one in the pile, and found her grandfather’s vinyl record collection. The old album covers should have enchanted her, but she couldn’t concentrate enough to enjoy them. Giving up, she retreated to her bedroom to pray about her mother’s offer.

  She longed to go back to school, but she couldn’t be twelve years old again. If she moved into the condo, she’d have no privacy. Her mother would see her mail, including statements and reminders from Dr. Hong’s office. MJ would have to tell her about the HPV, which meant subjecting herself to questions, second-guessing, and her mother’s ongoing disappointment.

  “Please, God,” she prayed. “Show me what to do.”

  Silence.

  Crickets.

  Nothing but her own breath scraping in her ears. With her eyes still closed, she recalled Lyn’s words. “God wants you to do more than survive. He wants you to thrive.”

  MJ didn’t see herself thriving. Surviving? Just barely. But that could change if she moved in with her mom. She hoped God was listening, because she needed an answer that wouldn’t make her stomach hurt like it did now.

  She opened her eyes and fetched a Coke with the hope that it would calm her nerves, then she went to her room again. Needing a distraction, she nestled against the stack of pillows on her bed and opened the box holding the attic letters. The mustiness mixed with the faint breeze spilling through the open window, and the candles, though unlit, scented the air with a hint of vanilla.

  Aware of the fragile, aging paper, she pinched the corner of the next letter from the reverend to Little Miss and started to read.

  Dear Little Miss,

  Is there a reason you have not written? Three weeks have passed without word from you. Daughter, I am sick with worry. My heart tells me you are in grave danger, perhaps of a moral nature . . .

  MJ imagined outlaw Adam Carter taking a swig from the whiskey flask, wiping his mouth with a dark sleeve, and mocking the reverend with his dead eyes and a hollow grin.

  Inwardly MJ winced. Just as she had veered into uncharted territory at UCLA, Little Miss perhaps was exploring similar ground in Cheyenne. A crusading schoolteacher and a hardened outlaw made for either romance or tragedy.

  Mentally, MJ wandered down the streets of 1890s Cheyenne. She pictured hotels made of reddish stone and dress shops showing gowns with muttonchop sleeves. The day Little Miss arrived from Indiana, locomotives would have chugged into the depot, announcing themselves with gray puffs of steam and high-pitched whistles. Wagons laden with flour, coffee, and tools would have rattled along the cobblestone streets.

  MJ took a sip of Coke, then read the next few letters, each full of worry and unanswered questions until a page dated November 19.

  Dear Little Miss,

  Today my sermon came from the story of the Prodigal Son. When I spoke of the father embracing his wandering child, I could only imagine his joy. Sadly, I know well
the weight of his grief.

  As you may or may not know, I wrote to the headmistress of the Broderick School. She informed me you are no longer employed but declined to say more. Judging by her discretion, I must conclude you left your teaching position reluctantly and in shame.

  My beloved daughter, if you are with child, come home. If you are alone, come home. If you are afraid, come home. If I do not hear from you soon, I will travel to Cheyenne. I will bring you home, my daughter. And if there’s a child, it will be embraced by us all.

  Your loving father

  Come home . . . A child . . . Embraced.

  MJ stared at the reverend’s words, her mind awash in memories of the weeks after Cody’s birth. Instead of being embraced, she had been abandoned by everyone. Exhausted and muddled by hormones, she had paced the floor like a crazy woman, worrying about her job, the rent, colic, diapers, groceries, and more.

  Her college friends had visited to see the baby but then stopped calling. Neither could she talk to her mom. The one time she admitted to being overwhelmed, her mother had pushed again for adoption. That memory still hurt. So did being in labor alone. On the way to the hospital, hoping her mother would relent and come to be with her, MJ had called her cell phone.

  No answer.

  She left a voicemail, labored alone, and gave birth. At midnight her mother finally called back, panicked and apologetic because she received the message hours after MJ had left it.

  MJ assured her she was fine. “So is the baby. Mom, he’s beautiful.”

  There had been no questions about her labor, no interest in the baby’s nose or the color of his hair.

  Instead her mother broke her heart. “It’s not too late, Melissa. You can still give the baby to a loving family.”

  MJ had murmured good-bye, then cried until an RN brought Cody to nurse. He latched on hard, and her tears had stopped.

  The next two months were brutal. She yearned to talk to her mom about bottles and burps but didn’t call. The tug-of-war didn’t end until Cody’s first birthday, when her mom sent a card signed “Love, Grammie” and a stuffed dog Cody still treasured.

  MJ barely survived that first year. She took a sales rep job at SassyGirl, a mom-friendly store where the manager kept a crib in the back for her own son. She let MJ use it for Cody, and they traded baby clothes and diaper coupons.

  The two women helped each other, but it was Grandpa Jake who enabled her to provide for Cody. Every month he sent a check and a note that read, Buy something for my great-grandson—and yourself.

  Now, tearing up with gratitude, MJ took in the paned windows and built-in shelves in her bedroom. She thought of Cody’s tree in the yard, almost six feet tall, and the pine her grandparents had planted for her, now mature. How could she sell this house? She didn’t want to let it go, but Grandpa Jake would have understood. “Life has seasons,” he used to say. “Be ready for change.”

  Leaning back against the pillows, MJ closed her eyes. The offer from her mother glittered like a diamond—or cubic zirconium. Had Little Miss wrestled with a similar mix of hope and dread about going home? Probably. What family didn’t have squabbles? But mere squabbles came to an end. The struggle between MJ and her mom was an endless tug-of-war.

  She looked again at the reverend’s letter. A single line leaped off the page. If there is a child, it will be embraced by us all. He was offering his daughter more than a solution to a problem. He was giving her what Lyn called grace. Forgiveness. A clean slate. No veiled I-told-you-so’s or taut puppet strings. Those encumbrances cut both ways. MJ, too, needed to forgive and respect her mom.

  Could they forget the blood on the snow and start fresh? Her chest ached with a soul-deep longing for homemade vegetable soup, but her stomach churned at the same time. Scars healed, but they didn’t disappear.

  She lifted the next letter from the box. Instead of the reverend’s cursive, she saw an unfamiliar scrawl. Bold, angular, and full of purpose, the words played through her mind in a baritone.

  My dearest one,

  I promised to stop loving you, but it is a promise I cannot keep—a promise I will NOT keep. Your father believes you are with child. He confided to me in a moment of tearful prayer, and I am honored that he did.

  I love you, my darling.

  I loved you when you told me good-bye. I loved you when you told me you would not marry a minister. I loved you when you stopped writing to me, and I love you still. Come home now and marry me. If you are with child, it will bear my name. I long to be the man who honors you in every way. Come home, my love.

  Marry me. Marry me now. Say yes, darling, for I love you with all my heart.

  Have I convinced you yet? If not, I’ll ask until you are persuaded and pleased to be my wife.

  All my love,

  Thomas

  MJ read the letter again, savoring every word. How would it feel to be loved so deeply that nothing else mattered—neither the past, nor its footprints on the present? The memory of Shane’s kiss tingled on her lips and nestled low in her belly. Kissing him had been a mistake, but it was the best mistake she had ever made. For that moment she was free of the HPV and the shame. When his lips first met hers, she had thrived, even reveled, in being desired.

  “Mom, I’m home.” Cody’s shout blasted up the stairs.

  MJ put Thomas’s letter in the box. She wanted to know what happened to Little Miss, but Cody needed a bath and a story, so she put the letter away and headed down the stairs.

  She met him at the bottom of the straight staircase. “Who won?”

  “The Cougars.” He swung a pretend bat. “Shane said to give you the extra pizza. I put it on the counter.”

  Her stomach growled. “That’s nice.”

  Cody didn’t budge, a sign he had something on his mind. Finally he said, “Can Shane have dinner with us sometimes?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he rents the apartment.” Before he could ask why that mattered, she clasped his shoulders and aimed him up the stairs. “It’s bath time. Get started and I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He swept back his arms to make wings like a jet and rocketed up the steps.

  MJ went to the kitchen and saw the pizza box. Expecting a few slices of plain cheese—Cody’s choice but not hers—she opened the lid and saw her favorite toppings on a thick, doughy crust. Shane didn’t know what she liked, but Cody did. He must have quizzed her son. His thoughtfulness touched her to the core. So did the sudden picture of him sitting on her grandfather’s couch with Cody, watching his team win without him. It had to hurt.

  Tonight he needed a friend. She felt it in her marrow, her heart. But she couldn’t go to him. A knock on his door, even a phone call to thank him, would make them both vulnerable to an uncertain future.

  She put a slice of pizza in the microwave. Thirty seconds later, the oven beeped, but MJ ignored it. Instead she looked out the window over her kitchen sink, craned her neck, and peered up at Shane’s apartment. Plantation blinds, partially open, gave her a glimpse of the lit lamp on his desk.

  He passed by with something in hand, stopped halfway, and peered down at her. Her kitchen was dark. She doubted he could see her even in silhouette, but she saw him plainly through the slats.

  A prayer took flight in her soul. Please, God. Heal his knee. Bless him the way he blesses Cody. Amen. Longing to do more, she blew a kiss to his window. For now, she had nothing else to give.

  Chapter 14

  Daisy stood by the cash register in Mary’s Closet, tapping her fingernails on the glass counter as she counted the minutes to the end of her shift at five o’clock. When she was free, she planned to meet her friend Chelsea at the coffee shop across the street and pay her back for the abortion money.

  A lot had changed in the past month. The abortion was behind her, and tonight she would receive her thirty-day chip from AA, a coin-like token that recognized a month of sobriety. She missed Eric but not his moods.
Mostly she treasured her room at Maggie’s House, a pastel haven where she slept in peace, munched Fig Newtons, and had heart-to-heart conversations with her new friends. Some of the women were Christians, and Daisy liked them a lot better than she liked Shane. When they talked about God loving her, Daisy listened.

  “God isn’t a bully,” one of the women said at a Bible Study. “He lets us choose for ourselves. Me? I’m trying to choose good things now.”

  Daisy intended to do exactly that. If she could choose not to drink, she could make other good choices as well.

  But what were those choices? She had no idea because she was numb inside. When the other women at the Bible study wiped away tears, Daisy sat stiffly on a hard chair. Sometimes she thought about the seagull pooping on Lyn and wished she could laugh like that again, or even cry.

  Lyn stepped through the door to the back of the shop, her keys jangling in her hand. “I’m going home to change clothes. Tina is sorting a delivery in the back. Just give her a shout when you leave. I’ll be back at six, and we’ll head to the meeting.”

  “Sounds good.”

  When Lyn left, Daisy glanced at the clock. She had ten minutes to wait, so she leafed through a devotional on the counter. She liked the pretty photographs and upbeat stories, but mostly the book made her wonder about God.

  At her first AA meeting, when she admitted to being bitter toward religion, especially Christianity, an old man named Lionel suggested she talk to an empty chair. Daisy had tried it in her room. At first she felt silly, but now she looked forward to those conversations. The chair didn’t talk back, but it seemed to listen. That was a lot more than Shane ever did.

  A silver Mercedes sports coupe glided to a stop in front of the thrift shop. Anticipating a donation, Daisy closed the devotional and tucked her hair behind her ears.

  A woman pushed through the door, approached the counter, and asked to see the manager.

  “She’s gone for the day.” Daisy hoped she sounded professional. “May I help you?”