She paced up and down the wooden deck of the front porch of the new house. The rocking swing thing would be good. She curled into one corner and cupped her hands beneath her cheek.
She wondered how long they would stay this time. She was almost five, and she was getting tired. She always hoped the next house, in the next town, would be the one where they stayed and stayed. Fat chance with that dumb woman in there, though, she was such a big grouch. She fell asleep.
Chapter Three
Mac’s sneakers slapped a lazy cadence against the hard-packed earth, her breath frosting the air in easy bursts. She was not a particular devotee of power running, and her pace rarely edged out of jogging range. Mac ran because being outdoors was one of her favorite ways to greet a morning. She had run across arid desert plains, peaceful farmlands, and lush mountain trails in her time, and the pleasure never diminished. Her eagerness to explore the grounds had propelled her out of bed at first light.
Vivian hadn’t exaggerated her descriptions of the pastoral splendor of the shelter’s remote setting. Forested hills rolled gently around the perimeter of the grounds, dotted with fragrant, snow-spangled clusters of spruce and pine. The morning sky was cloudless, an inverted bowl of pure blue, and the weak sun glinted off the swells of snow on either side of her path.
Mac couldn’t wipe the grin off her face, in spite of her chilled front teeth—the air was stinging cold. She adjusted the soft muffler around her chin, catching the faintest scent of cinnamon in the warm fabric. She’d found the long scarf draped over the doorknob to her bedroom that morning, a thoughtful gesture by one of her housemates—Abby, she assumed.
She was glad she rarely heard those invisible footsteps following her during these morning runs. It was disconcerting enough when they crept up behind her at an amble—if they ever chased Mac at full gallop she would probably freak. She hoped the spectral beastie who plagued her would make itself scarce for a while. She could usually count on weeks or even months between these ghostly stalkings.
She rounded the edge of the west wing and caught a glimpse of a coat-and-scarf-shrouded figure, hunched against the cold. She recognized Degale, who gave her a friendly wave. Little Waymon, comically rotund in his layers of snow clothes, scrambled on all fours in the frosty yard, pushing a toy truck in industrious circles. Mac loped on, past long, flat patches of ground that might have been gardens before they were blanketed in white, and then up to the main house.
Mac was still stomping snow from her sneakers when the door opened to a much warmer welcome than Cleo’s offering the previous night.
“It’s the waif!” Vivian Childs drew Mac into a brisk hug. She had skin the color of burnished mahogany, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with warmth behind oval glasses. Mac had liked her upon first meeting, and her instincts about women were rarely wrong.
“Hello, waif.” Vivian released her, but retained a gentle hold on her shoulders. “Lord, I’ve never seen eyes that green, except in a cat or two. I wonder if cats drink coffee.”
“This one does.”
Vivian wound Mac’s arm in her own and led her down into the large living room. With an abundance of windows, even the tepid sunlight bathed the space in a friendly glow. The light aroma of fresh-ground coffee drifted to Mac pleasantly.
“I hotfooted it up here this morning in hopes of beating Cleo to the percolator.” Vivian steered her toward the breakfast nook in the corner, a recessed deck framed by a large bay window. Cleo sat hunched over the small table, her broad hands wrapped around a steaming mug. “Cleo’s coffee is like gasoline. We use it to season the firewood.”
“Morning, Cleo.” Mac draped one leg over a chair.
“Mmph.” Cleo’s eyes were closed.
“Didn’t we sleep well?”
“Mmph.”
“We don’t expect civilized conversation from this child until noon.” Vivian lifted the coffeepot and filled their cups. “After we lace her wrists to a shower spigot for a few hours. If she tries to speak, Mac Laurie, please push a bagel in her mouth.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mac hooked a sesame bagel from the basket before her. “We can cut Cleo some slack this morning, though. We had a pretty eventful night.”
“Yes, I heard a harrowing account,” Vivian said. “Well, I heard that Cleopatra single-handedly held off an attack by a terrorist cell. But I was able to eke out the truth that our new counselor conducted herself ably and well.”
“Aw, Cleo, did you say that?” Mac nudged Cleo’s arm. “You sweet ball of mush.”
“I told Viv the part about you crashing on your bootie. That’s my favorite part.” Cleo grunted at the basket and raised a finger, and Mac slipped a bagel over it.
“Coffee! Vivian’s coffee, there is a God.” Abby emerged from her infirmary office, dressed in a beige sweater and blue slacks, looking impossibly bright for this hour of the morning. She was folding back her sleeves, and Mac’s gaze was drawn to the subtle dance of muscle in her slender forearm. She remembered the smooth feel of Abby’s arm in her hand when she’d steadied her on the stairs last night.
“We were going to let you sleep in, Counselor, after your dramatic first shift. Did you rest well?” Abby plucked Mac’s denim sleeve. “You need to get a proper coat.”
“I slept like a rock.” Mac shucked off her jacket and unwound the muffler from her neck. “Thanks for this, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.” Abby accepted the scarf and folded it neatly as she came around the table, then draped it on top of Cleo’s head. “But I must admit it’s not mine.”
Mac grinned broadly. “Cleo, you sweet ball of mush.”
“Anyway.” Cleo pulled the scarf off her head, her bloodshot eyes open at last. “Do we have an agenda today or what?”
Vivian had been sipping her coffee quietly, but Mac noticed she was studying her new team with alert interest. It was hard to place Vivian’s age. She could have been forty or sixty. She looked every inch the nonprofit executive, in a simple but classy gray shirtdress, her wedding ring glinting from her gracefully folded fingers. Mac thought she looked pleased.
“We do indeed have an agenda.” Abby settled in the fourth chair and withdrew a small notebook from her back pocket. “We try to gather about this time to go over the day, Mac, and we have a full one ahead.”
Vivian nodded. “I understand the mother and child—is it Theresa and Robin?—are due back by noon. We need to know her husband’s status by then, Cleo.”
“I’m on it.” Cleo was fully awake and she looked hungry now, for justice rather than bagels.
“I’ve got well-child checks scheduled for Degale’s Waymon and Ginny’s youngest.” Abby drew a pen from behind her ear, and the sun caught the copper lights in her hair. “And I need to drive into town to stock our dispensary. Remember the sobriety group tonight, Cleo. Mac, you’ll want to sit in on that.”
“And I have an intake at nine o’clock,” Vivian added. “A woman and child for Two West.”
Mac’s mug stopped halfway to her mouth. “You do intakes, Vivian?”
“Each and every one.” Cleo refilled Vivian’s cup. “Viv’s smiling face is the first thing women see when they tap on Fireside’s door.”
“Who answered the door when you got here last night, Mac?” Vivian asked. “Abby, I hope?”
“No, Cleo.”
“Lord, Lord,” Vivian sighed.
“I’m still here, though.” Mac’s liking for Vivian rose another notch. “I’ve never known the director of a shelter to welcome every resident personally. They’re usually off writing grants and hobnobbing with donors and such.”
“Oh, I nob with the best of them, I just like to be a presence here too.” Vivian touched a napkin to the corner of her lips. “Scratch is stocking Two West now, and he’s hanging new curtain rods. I gave him some fresh bedding, and he found a whole slew of coloring books for the little girl.”
“Scratch?” Mac raised her eyebrows. “He?”
Vivian nodded.
“My husband. He’s honored to be our representative example of a peace-loving man.”
“Our residents know Scratch, Mac,” Abby said, “and they’re comfortable with him quickly. He takes charge of our vegetable gardens in the spring. He’s been a farmer, and he grows the most beautiful tomatoes you’ve ever seen.”
“A farmer, a mechanic, a pastor, and a host of other things too notorious to mention in polite company.” Vivian’s face softened with affection, and then she patted Mac’s hand. “Well, Mac Laurie, with all the hoo-rah last night, did anyone get around to showing you your office?”
Mac perked up. “My office?”
“The twinkie just met with people in the big fir out there.” Cleo jerked her chin toward the bay window. “She nourished their tree-hugging awarement. But if you really need special privileges…”
“I think we can do better than the fir.” Abby rose, smiling. “This way, Ms. Laurie.”
Mac had the general layout of the house down. Whatever the builder’s original intent, the place served well now as their multiservice headquarters. Staff offices on the first floor, even the bedrooms upstairs, were spacious and filled with light.
Mac figured she’d have last choice of working space, so she was prepared for a storage closet of an office. Abby opened a door near the base of the staircase and waved Mac through with what, for Abby’s economical gestures, qualified as a flourish.
Mac stepped over the threshold and stood transfixed. The room was fairly small, true enough. But there was a fireplace. She had her own fireplace. And in front of it, two battered armchairs, a small couch, and a worn footstool.
She drew in her breath and walked to the couch, brushing its back with her fingers. She noted an oak desk and filing cabinets in the far corner, but she drank in the area where her real work would take place.
Mac had always carried the title of counselor, or advocate; that’s what shelter workers were called. She’d helped women steer through storms of pain and rage, taught stress management and coping skills, eased families through crisis. Usually in the corner of a crowded dayroom, with kids shrieking around piles of toys, or on long walks in the neighborhoods surrounding shelters. And she’d done well by her people. Whatever demons might plague Mac’s personal life, she’d always known she was good at her work.
But she’d never had a private office, her own space. She felt a light prickling in her hands. Now she would have months at a time to work with these women. Long weeks when she could do more than help them with housing applications, explain welfare benefits, arrange daycare. Time enough to move beyond survival skills and watch them touch the patterns of their lives. Here, Mac could offer them the privacy to explore their choices, and the safety to attempt change and healing. She could imagine that happening here, in this room, this smaller fireside a microcosm of a more benevolent world.
“You should see your eyes,” Abby said quietly. “They’re shining like candlelight.”
Mac slid her hands in the front pockets of her jeans and let out a long breath. “I like it here.”
“We were hoping you would, Mac.”
Now Mac noticed other touches, recent efforts to ready her space and make it welcoming. A bowl of crisp apples on the desk, a scented candle on a window ledge. Packets of tea and an electric kettle on a side table. The hearth laid with fragrant wood, ready for lighting, music playing softly from a small radio on a bookshelf.
“We would have hung a few pictures, but we thought you’d want to choose your own.” Abby straightened a small pillow against the arm of the couch. “You don’t seem to want a lot of frilliness, so we kept it fairly simple.”
“You did it all this morning, didn’t you?” Mac waited, but Abby didn’t raise her eyes from the couch. “The apples, the candle, the other grace notes in here. You got up early to make my room friendly.”
A faint blush crept up Abby’s slender throat, but she met Mac’s gaze. “Cleo laid the hearth before I was even out of bed. I think she’s trying to atone for the grilling she gave you last night. Or perhaps she just thought it would please you.”
“That sweet ball of mush,” Mac murmured.
“She’ll deny it, if confronted.”
“Thank you, Abby.” Mac touched people as naturally as she breathed, but she studied Abby a moment, never assuming touch was welcome. Her body language was receptive and relaxed. Mac stepped closer and drew her into a light hug, her hand rising to cup the back of her neck. Abby returned the embrace easily, her arms enclosing Mac’s waist with a pleasant answering friendliness. Then Mac felt her go still.
Mac had held many women in her arms in the course of her work, and many children. She found that tears that needed to be shed could find release in the safety of a friendly embrace. Touch could convey encouragement or comfort more tangibly than words. Mac had been told more than once by her clients, and her friends, that her hugs were healing.
There was nothing clinical in her intent now as she held Abby, just appreciation and the beginnings of affection. Her hand, cradling the back of Abby’s neck, was gentle and platonic. Abby’s head rested comfortably on the curve of her shoulder. But the quality, the essence of their touch was changing. Abby was relaxing against her, warming the formality of embraces usually exchanged between women new to each other.
Mac became distinctly aware of the firm swells of Abby’s breasts, pillowed beneath her own, and she swallowed. Their bodies melded perfectly, as balanced and easy as if they’d been carved together from living wood by a master artist. A muted swirl of sensual pleasure trickled through Mac, igniting a heat she hadn’t known for a while.
Hallelujah, it’s back, she thought. She hadn’t seen her libido in so long she assumed she’d left it in Wyoming. Like her ghostly footsteps, lust had found her again. She was pleased to see it, but this was certainly not the time, the place—or the woman. She released Abby gently, and straightened.
Abby’s blush had deepened, filling her cheeks with color. The blue of her eyes seemed more vivid, but she looked almost dazed. Abby blinked. The simple happiness in her delicate features faded and became confusion, and Mac half lifted her hand to her, an instinctive offer of reassurance.
“You two getting high in here or what?” Cleo stepped through the open doorway, and Abby took a small step back from Mac. “Scratch is making breakfast. This is your only notice. You’re not at the table, I get yours.”
Mac couldn’t tell if Cleo had seen what had happened between her and Abby. She seemed unfazed. Mac was unhappy for Abby, and angry with herself. She must have revealed her sudden desire as they held each other, through some subtle shifting she wasn’t even aware of. No wonder Abby was rattled.
“Reach for my eggs and you’ll draw back a bloody stump.” Abby’s voice was a bit bright, but she threw Mac a smile before walking quickly out of the office.
Mac started to follow, but Cleo lowered her arm lazily across the doorway, blocking her path.
Cleo appraised her for a moment, her dark eyes calm. “Just checking to be sure you recognize a healthy boundary when you see one, Counselor.”
Mac rested her hand on Cleo’s forearm and answered her honestly. “I do, amiga.”
Cleo nodded. “Bueno.” She dropped her arm and sauntered toward the living room.
Mac followed, but her inherent honesty had kicked in. Abby might have sensed her growing arousal, yes. But Mac hadn’t been entirely alone there. She remembered an answering heat in Abby’s eyes. And with one memorable exception, her instincts about women were rarely wrong.
Mac stepped down into the living room and stopped short. Unless she was mistaken, Satan himself was carrying a platter of scrambled eggs to the breakfast nook.
Vivian was seated at a table near the entry, tapping on a laptop. She peered at Mac over her glasses. “Ah, Mac. That elderly gentleman over there is my nearest and dearest.”
Satan rested the platter on the table and turned to Mac. He was as tall as she was, a rail-thin black man, his grizzled
iron hair cropped short. He ambled over to her, his movements slow and relaxed, which gave him an air of courtliness. The effect was only slightly spoiled by the red cap on his head, which sported two small curved horns on either side.
“I’m William Childs, Mac.” He extended the longest fingers Mac had ever seen. “Please, call me Scratch.”
“Mac Laurie.” Mac noticed his swollen knuckles, and took his callused hand gently. “I’m pleased to meet you, and I can’t stop staring at your head.”
Scratch chuckled. “Well, my head comes to you courtesy of Ms. Cleopatra Lassiter. This fine hat was her gift to me on the occasion of my last birthday. Her comment, I believe, on my past vocation as a minister of the gospel.”
Mac smiled. “It seems to suit you, Scratch.”
“Doesn’t it?” Scratch said. “Degale laughed fit to bust when she saw me this morning. Said the Lord had finally seen fit to mark His male children with a symbol consistent with their character.”
“Her male children,” Cleo corrected from the breakfast nook. “Amen.”
“Ah, Ms. Lassiter.” Scratch turned back to the breakfast nook. “Your sudden piety does not distract me from the fact that you offered to help me chop the rest of the kindling after breakfast.”
“Chopping? Wood chopping?” Abby stepped off the stairs from the second floor, and Mac noticed her face was freshly washed. She avoided Mac’s gaze, went to Scratch, and lifted his hand. “I’d rather you not chop anything until we get this swelling down, Scratch. I’ll refill your Celebrex while I’m in town.”
“Now don’t you pamper that man, Abby Glenn.” Vivian was still typing with quick efficiency. “He’ll claim mortal frailty every time I ask him to make a bed.” She glanced out the bay window, and Mac saw a police cruiser pull up into the circular driveway.
“Lord, my intake’s here. She’s early.” Vivian flapped her well-manicured fingers at Scratch. “Honey, you shoo. Last thing this woman needs to see this morning is a demon man in a devil hat.”
“My lovely wife knows best.” Scratch moved with new energy to the table and lifted the platter of steaming eggs. “Breakfast in the kitchen, my friends.”
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