She’s Gone Country

by Jane Porter; Jane Porter

  She pats me on the shoulder as she crosses back to the stove to turn off the oven light.

  My smile turns crooked. That brisk pat was Mama’s way of saying “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next three weeks are busy with basketball practice beginning for Bo, and with Coop resuming his lessons with Dane. Hank is the only one with time on his hands, but he doesn’t seem interested in spending any of that free time with me.

  Hank isn’t the only one avoiding me. Even though I’m still driving Cooper to Dane’s three times a week, Dane doesn’t always come out to the truck to greet me. In fact, more often than not, he doesn’t come out at all. The first week I put it down to him just being busy, but as the second week melts into the third and I’ve spoken with Dane only a handful of times, I realize Dane is being deliberately distant.

  I rack my brain trying to think of a reason why he should suddenly be so aloof, and I come up with nothing. The only thing I can think of is that he regrets being so open with me, and I tell myself to give him time. He’ll eventually forget. We’ll eventually get back to a more comfortable footing. But then on Thursday, one week before Thanksgiving, Coop announces at dinner that Dane’s girlfriend has moved into Dane’s house.

  It’s all I can do to keep my jaw from smacking the oak table.

  “Who is his girlfriend?” Bo asks, his mouth full of meatball and sauce.

  Coop twirls his fork in the spaghetti noodles, wrapping them around the prongs. “Her name’s Lulu. I don’t know her last name. But she’s really nice. And really pretty. She always brings me a snack during training. Dane tells her not to, but she says I’m growing and I need it.”

  Bo hoots with laughter. “Maybe she likes you.”

  Cooper grins. “Maybe she does.”

  I choke on my mouthful of pasta. Lulu is now living with Dane? I had no idea they were so serious.

  But an hour later, as I put away the clean dishes and wipe down the counters, I lose my temper and throw the damp sponge across the kitchen, where it bounces off the laminate counter and skids into the sink. Why? I want to demand.

  Why Lulu?

  Why Shellie Ann?

  Why not me?

  Two days later, I’m in the truck driving the three boys to Dallas to catch their flight to JFK to spend Thanksgiving week with their father.

  I haven’t talked to John since I called him from Puerto Rico, but John has phoned the boys a number of times. They’re all looking forward to seeing their dad, although each one seems to have some concerns about staying with Dad now that he’s living with Erik.

  Fortunately, the boys are experienced travelers and know how to handle themselves at the airport. I printed off their boarding passes at the house, which means I can just drop them at the curb and say our good-byes there. It seemed like a convenient plan when I booked their tickets and then printed their boarding passes, but now that I’m just leaving them on the sidewalk, I feel like hell.

  “Call me when you get through security,” I insist, hugging each one in turn.

  “Yes, Mom,” Coop agrees.

  “And then once you’re on the plane,” I say, pushing Bo’s hair back from his eyes as I kiss him good-bye. Bo rolls his eyes.

  “And once we land and find Dad,” Hank concludes, giving me a brief hug. “Yes, we know. Got it. Gotta go.”

  I nod, jam my hands into my jeans pockets. “Have a good time.”

  “We will.” Coop gives me one more hug, this one even tighter than the last. “Love you, Mom,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll miss you.”

  I squeeze him back, hard. “Love you, I’ll miss you. Travel safe.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  And then they’re gone, walking into the terminal, and I return to my car even as airport police approach to issue me a ticket. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” I say breathlessly, sliding quickly into the driver’s seat and starting the truck to make a speedy getaway.

  As I head toward the freeway, my cell phone beeps and I surreptitiously check the text message from Hank: Thru security. At gate. Flt’s on time.

  That’s good. I’m grateful there are no delays. And yet my heart is heavy as I speed up to merge with traffic.

  I will miss them.

  I already miss them.

  I expect Thanksgiving at Blue and Emily’s to be excruciating, especially with Brick and Charlotte away at Carolyn’s, so I bring two bottles of wine—one red and one white—along with the two dishes I was asked to make.

  Blue answers the door and while hugging me, he mutters that Emily is feeling a bit tense, which is bound to be a huge understatement. He takes the wine and flowers from me and sets them on the round table in the middle of the marble foyer, and then together we walk to the truck to get the casseroles.

  “Is this the sweet onion casserole or corn pudding?” he asks as I hand him one foil-covered dish.

  “Baked onion,” I answer, closing the truck door with my hip. “Although I don’t know why I bother. No one ever eats it.”

  “But it’s a Callen family tradition.”

  I grimace. “Mama already here?”

  “She got in Tuesday night, spent yesterday baking pies and making the stuffing, and then woke up early this morning to do the cheese grits and sweet potato casserole.”

  “She’s going to be tired,” I say.

  “She already is.”

  “No one needs this much food.”

  “But that’s not the point,” he says, glancing at me. “Is it?”

  I follow him through the front door, down the hall, and into the kitchen. Blue and Emily’s kitchen is the size of most people’s living room, the result of an extravagant remodel several years ago. The remodel took six months, and the elegant cream cabinets were built on-site by a carpenter Emily flew in from England. The stone on the counter and floor is a French limestone. The backsplash is made of glass artisan tiles from Italy. It’s a beautiful kitchen, but too grand for me. Even though I’m tall, I always feel a little lost in it.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask, opening the refrigerator. I try to make room for the casseroles, but it’s so packed that they end up on the counter.

  “Mama’s on the phone with Brick, and Emily’s in the bedroom with her feet up.”

  “Why is she tense?” I ask, wondering if tense is a euphemism for tipsy.

  He grabs a beer out of the fridge and then a chilled mug from the freezer. “Want one?”

  “I’ll wait for dinner.”

  He pops the cap off the bottle and fills the mug. “You know Emily. She wants everything just so, which contributes to the stress.”

  I lean on the counter. “How are you holding up?”

  He takes a long drink, half drains the glass. “Today’s a great day for football.”

  I go to the oven to peek inside. The turkey is just starting to turn golden. “And my nieces? Where are they?”

  “Megan’s out somewhere, and Andi is probably in her room on the computer.”

  “Facebook?”

  “Or Twitter. Megan says Andi’s a Twitter addict.”

  I’ve heard about Twitter but don’t do it myself. In fact, I don’t do anything online other than check my e-mail a couple of times a week. “What does she Twitter about?”

  “Lord knows. But her thumbs are permanently attached to her iPhone. She’s either texting, Twittering, or posting updates on Facebook.” He lifts his chilled mug. “Welcome to adolescence in the twenty-first century.”

  Emily emerges from her room a half hour later, appearing in the family room, where I’m watching the Dallas Cowboys get roughed up more than Blue would like. He isn’t exactly hollering at the TV, but he’s coming close.

  “Blue, it’s Thanksgiving,” Emily complains from the doorway, a hand to her head. “Must you shout at the TV today?”

  “We’re only down by nine, but it might as well be thirty-nine the way the refs are calling the game,” he growls, st
aring at the huge flat-screen TV that takes up most of the family room’s dark-paneled wall.

  “They’re always blowing the calls when it’s your team down,” she answers dryly before glancing at me. “Welcome, Shey.”

  “Thank you, Emily.” I rise from the couch. “How are you feeling?”

  “Blue told you I was feeling poorly.”

  “He said you were putting your feet up. Is there something I can do? Toss the salad? Set the table?”

  “Table’s set. Salad’s made. Mother’s making the gravy once the turkey comes out.”

  “Girls,” Blue says from his leather armchair, “can you take this to another room? I’m trying to watch the game.”

  I smile at the pain in Blue’s voice, but my smile fades as I catch sight of Emily’s face. She’s livid. Her lips are compressed, her jaw set.

  “You know, Blue,” she says, “you might be more successful if you cared about your job as much as you cared about football.” And then she walks out.

  I slowly sit back down, ball my hands in my lap.

  Blue glances at me, shrugs. “I told you she was a little tense.”

  It’s hard to hear my older brother take a tongue-lashing, and I gulp a breath. “That’s tense?”

  Blue laughs wearily. “Shey, hon, that’s nothing.”

  I’d expected a rough Thanksgiving at Blue and Emily’s, and it doesn’t disappoint. The girls don’t appear until dinner is on the table, and then it’s a fight to get Megan to eat—she’s borderline anorexic, Emily tells me with pride—and to get Andi off her phone. Blue pockets the phone when Mama catches her texting under the table after she’s been told to wait until dinner is over. Andi’s then mad at Mama, and Emily’s angry at Blue. I just sip my wine and keep my head down so I can finish eating and run.

  I’m back home by seven forty-five and totally content to stretch out on the couch with a blanket, a pillow, and the remote control. I flip through the channels until I find an HBO movie that I haven’t yet seen.

  I watch the movie, pausing it partway using our DVR to get a slice of the pumpkin pie I bought at the store yesterday and put in the fridge just for this occasion. Mama makes a better pie, but it was easier to buy my own than try to ask for a slice or two to bring home.

  Movie finished, pie consumed, I head to bed. It’s after eleven, and I know tonight I’ll have no trouble sleeping. And I’m right. The moment my head hits the pillow, I’m out, dead to the world.

  And then sometime in the night, a thud wakes me.

  It’s such a loud sound that even asleep I feel it all the way through me, jolting me awake with a vibration that hums from the floor, through my bed, and into my breastbone.

  My first thought is that one of the boys must have fallen from bed, and I groggily push back the covers and struggle to my feet.

  Then my second thought is, The boys aren’t home.

  They’re in New York with their dad. There’s no one here. I’m home alone.

  Then I hear another bang and the sound of wood splitting. It’s my door. My kitchen door. Someone’s breaking in.

  And just like that, I realize I’m not alone anymore. Someone’s in the house.

  A chill rushes through me. I freeze, rooted to the spot.

  I’ve always thought in a moment of danger I’d be strong. Fierce. Quick on my feet. Instead, I’m made of cement. I can’t even think clearly enough to move.

  I need the phone. Where’s the phone? The cell is in my purse. The only other phone hangs on the kitchen wall.

  I long for a gun, not that I know how to shoot. But I feel so helpless, suddenly aware of how isolated I am on the ranch, how vulnerable I am if threatened. And with Brick and Charlotte at Carolyn’s in San Antonio, our nearest neighbor is a good ten-minute drive away.

  Glass shatters in the kitchen. The sound of splintering glass is followed by thuds as drawers are upended.

  My knees go weak, and nausea rushes through me. I’ve got to get help. Have to get away.

  And then I remember Coop’s phone. He left it behind by accident, and his room is next to mine. I have to leave my room to go to his, but my legs are impossibly heavy and walking is a herculean task. Finally I reach his room and feel around his desk in the dark, careful not to make a sound.

  Binder. Notepad. Pens. Stapler. Pencil sharpener. Phone.

  Phone. Thank God. Trembling, I punch in 911.

  “Nine one one. What is the emergency?”

  I nearly cry with relief. “There’s someone in my house.” I whisper the words, terrified of being heard. “And I’m alone.” The fear rises up, bigger, blacker, colder than before. “Help me.”

  The female dispatcher verifies my address and promises that the sheriff has a car on the way. In the meantime, she tells me to find a secure location, lock the door, and stay low. I’m not to open the door until the sheriff instructs me to.

  Chunks of ice freeze my blood. I can’t move again. I can barely speak. “I don’t have a safe room,” I whisper.

  “Go to a room that locks. Your bedroom. Your bathroom. Sit on the floor and stay there.”

  She stays on the phone with me until the first sheriff squad car arrives. I think she’ll hang up then, but she remains on the line as the deputies search the ranch house, going from room to room and inspecting every closet and possible hiding place. Periodically she asks me questions about the house that the sheriff deputies are wanting to know. Are there any hidden closets, secret entrances, unsecured storage areas? No, no, and no. It’s a seventy-year-old house. What you see is what you get.

  But finally they’re done, and the female dispatcher lets me know that the officers want me to unlock the door to my bedroom. I rise from the floor, my legs still shaky, and unlock the bedroom door.

  Turns out they found no one. Whoever broke in left before he could be apprehended. The sheriff deputy who interviews me and fills out the paperwork speculates that the patrol car sirens must have scared off the intruder. Unfortunately, the house is no longer habitable. The kitchen door’s been kicked in—the point of forced entry—and the living room has been ransacked. The kitchen is nearly as bad, with the refrigerator door left open and glass and Tupperware smashed and scattered across the floor.

  After the deputy establishes a timeline, he accompanies me around the house, asking me to identify what’s missing. The living room is in such a state of chaos that I can’t even begin to figure out what’s missing. We don’t have valuables here other than the big TV, the boys’ laptops—which they took with them to New York—and their various electronics. I’ve never been a jewelry person, and I have no cash stashed anywhere. However, my purse is missing from the kitchen, and that’s scary because in it were my all my credit cards, ID, keys, and cell phone. Essentially my lifeline to the world. Replacing all of that will be a hassle and incredibly time-consuming.

  But I’m not hurt. Just scared, just inconvenienced.

  In the kitchen, I step over an upended lime Jell-O salad with its lonely bits of pineapple and the remnants of the pumpkin pie and walk the deputies to the front door.

  Having finished dusting for fingerprints and documenting the crime scene, they’re ready to go. They ask if there is anywhere they can take me. Someplace they can drop me off. I can’t think of anyplace I could go, not at two-fifty in the morning the day after Thanksgiving.

  “You might want to go to a hotel,” the younger deputy urges me as he heads to the door. “It’s not exactly safe to stay here.”

  I must be in shock, because I insist I’ll be fine. I watch the four men pile back into the two cars and then head off down my driveway. It’s not until the red taillights fade into the night that I’m hit by the reality of my situation.

  My kitchen door is gone. I have no truck keys. No money. No ID.

  What if the intruder comes back?

  What if he’s never left?

  What if there’s still something here he wants?

  The nausea returns, even stronger than before, and I sit
down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs.

  I should have gone with them. Should have let them drop me at a motel. Why didn’t I say yes? What was I thinking?

  And then the thought comes unbidden.

  Call Dane.

  Cooper’s phone has Dane’s number saved as a contact. In fact, he’s number 6 on Coop’s speed dial, and I press the number.

  My teeth chatter as the phone rings. I know it’s three in the morning. I know it’s Thanksgiving night. But Dane has to answer.

  And then he does, his voice low and rough with sleep. “Hello?”

  “Dane, it’s Shey. Someone broke into the house tonight. The sheriff just left, but the door’s smashed in and my purse has been stolen and Brick’s gone—”

  “Where are the kids?”

  “In New York.”

  “You’re alone?”

  “Yes—” My voice breaks.

  “I’m on the way.”

  Dane arrives in about fifteen minutes, which is damn near impossible from his property. But even fifteen minutes can feel like forever when you’re scared out of your mind and jumping at every sound.

  I almost cry as I spot his truck headlights shine through the night, cutting the darkness, and I’m outside, shivering on the front steps, as he pulls in front of the house.

  I’m suddenly excruciatingly emotional as he swings open his door and steps to the ground. He looks me up and down as he approaches the steps. “You okay?”

  I just nod, tears not far off.

  “You don’t know who it was?”

  I shake my head.

  “They dusted for fingerprints?”

  I nod again.

  Dane now looks past me, his gaze sweeping the house. “How’d he get in?”

  “Kitchen.”

  “How did he get out?”

  “Bo’s bedroom window.” My teeth are chattering. “Window’s open and the screen’s been cut.”

  Dane heads for the kitchen then, walking along the front of the house to the back door. He knows the house well. Growing up, Dane spent as much time in our house as he did in his own.