“Matthew, wait. Please.” Tears streamed down her face. “If you…make it, when will you be back?”
“Three days, maybe four. No more than that.”
She hugged him tightly, then looked up into his face. “I’ll be waiting. No matter how long it takes.”
His eyes shined overly bright. “I’m one lucky man.”
“Stay that way.” She swallowed hard. “Come home to me, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.” He turned and left the bridal room.
Sara held it together until the door clicked closed. Then her knees folded. In a heap on the marble floor, she prayed hard. I’ve never asked for anything. Not in my whole life. But I’m asking now. I’m begging. Keep him safe. Bring him back to me. Please…
A heavy feeling settled in her chest. Dread and fear blanketed it. The darkest, most bleak fear she’d ever experienced. Shunning it, she denied it any place. No. No, that’s doubt. That’s not real, it’s doubt.
He’d be back. Three days, four at most. He would be back….
* * *
On the third day, Sara received official notification from sober-faced uniformed authorities.
On the fourth, Matthew returned in a casket that would not be opened. He’d been shot seventeen times at point-blank range, identified by his DNA. The assailants eluded capture.
On day seven, Sara stood in the cemetery next to an ancient oak and buried him beside where she’d buried his uncle Paul. Certain she had run out of tears, she cried anyway. Anger at Matthew for dying and leaving her to battle with the devastation and knowing she’d never again see him. Never again feel his kiss, his arms around her. Never again see that special look he reserved just for her shining in his distinct eyes.
There was only one grave on the right side of his—a woman’s. Sara wondered about her. Was she loved? Did she leave someone behind? Had she loved some man enough in her time with him to last him a lifetime?
The service went on. Sara separated, present yet apart from herself, lost behind her black net veil in memories of the first time she and Matthew had met. Chen’s Chinese restaurant was crowded and he’d invited her to share his table. She’d taken one look into his eyes and seen something remarkable. Something she’d never before or since seen in any man’s eyes. It wasn’t a twinkle, it was more significant than that, though she still couldn’t describe it—and felt she probably wouldn’t be able to when she was old and gray. But oh, she’d felt its magic—she still felt it. The look in his eyes had touched her soul and captivated her. Totally, completely and irrevocably.
Love at first sight. What a miracle. And wonder of wonders, it’d been that way for Matthew, too. A fresh wave of tears rolled from deep inside, burned the back of her nose, stung her eyes. She’d loved him well. He’d loved her well. Maybe one day she’d find peace in that. But not today. Today, there was no peace.
She pulled in a shuddery breath. That kind of love happens to a woman only once, if it happens at all. She was a lucky one. She’d known it. And though she’d never know the feeling again, she’d spend the rest of her life knowing exactly what she was missing. That was both blessing and curse, but she couldn’t regret it. She’d never regret it…or stop mourning its loss.
The minister’s voice claimed her attention. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
* * *
Sara stooped down and pulled stray weeds from Matthew’s grave.
Happy anniversary, honey. One day bled into another and another and turned into months, and now two years had passed. Where’d they go? A tear dripped from the corner of her eye down her face and splashed onto the grass. She placed the fresh flowers near his headstone and began their Sunday-afternoon chat. “I landed the Kramer account,” she told him. “It’ll subsidize the firm for the next five years all on its own.” She snagged a drooping green leaf with her thumbnail. Matthew had loved her talking about her marketing ventures. He’d been such a good listener….
Movement caught the corner of her eye. Startled, she jumped.
“I’m sorry.” A man stood before the woman’s headstone.
Sara had seen him from a distance for months. He too visited the graveyard every Sunday afternoon. The woman buried at Matthew’s right had died seven years ago, and from this man’s dedication, she had indeed loved him enough. That comforted Sara. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” She’d wondered where he was today; he was typically already here when she arrived.
He walked toward her. “Has it started yet?”
Sara stood up. “What?”
“Everyone telling you it’s way past time you moved on?”
“Oh, yes.” She smiled, bittersweet. “They just don’t understand.” Seven years for him; he understood. She dusted her hands. He had brought the woman yellow carnations today. Daisies, carnations, irises, but never roses. Odd…
“What do you say to them?” he asked.
Whether looking for something that could be of use to him or gauging her feelings to compare to his own, she didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. Talking to a stranger was easier than talking to a friend about this—especially a stranger who had been through it. “Mostly just to leave me alone. It takes what it takes.” Sara’s purse slipped off her shoulder. Why wouldn’t he look at her? He kept his gaze fixed on the woman’s grave. Shadows from the afternoon sun slanted across his jaw and chest. “When you love someone with your whole heart, you don’t stop loving them because they died. The love stays with you.” She shrugged. “They don’t understand that.”
“I do.” He turned and looked directly at her.
The twinkle. Sara bit down a gasp. How could it be? His face—totally different. Surgery? Why—the job. The men who’d shot him… Protection. She checked again. The twinkle remained. Matthew! Why hadn’t he let her know? Her protection.
Angry? Happy? Feeling both, she wasn’t sure what to do or say—and then she understood. He should stay away from her but couldn’t. She extended her hand, buying herself time to tamp her emotions, certain if she revealed knowing him, he’d walk away and she’d never see him again. Why so certain of that, she didn’t know, but the instinctive nudge rammed her like a shove so she heeded it. “I’m Sara English.”
“Adam Davis.” He clasped her hand and shook.
The voice. The voice…the eyes…definitely her Matthew! Her heart soared and the pain of grief, such a heavy part of her for two years, vanished and fell under a surging wave of joy. Sara smiled.
Adam smiled back, and his stomach growled. “Sorry, I missed lunch.”
“I was about to go for Chinese.” She squeezed his hand, released it. “Would you care to share my table?”
Relief washed over his new face. She recognized him, eyes to eyes and heart to heart, and now he knew it. His tone dropped, deep and husky. “I’d love to, Sara.”
She linked their arms, and together they walked out of the cemetery and into their future.
* * * * *
THE HONEYMOON
Julie Kenner
On Elizabeth and Tom’s honeymoon, things don’t simply go bad. They go really, really bad. Brace yourself for several jolts.~SB
“There,” Elizabeth said. “That’s the cutoff to Balmorhea, and—oh, shit. Now you’ve passed it. Turn around, Tom. We need to go back.”
Tom kept his hands at the ten- and two-o’clock positions. “Balmorhea’s off the highway. We’d have to go out of our way. The interstate goes right through Van Horn.”
“Yes, but I’m exhausted. I need sleep.” She rubbed her hand along his thigh. “And sex. New brides need lots of sex.”
He was tempted, no denying that. But the thought of getting out of Texas and closer to their honeymoon was even more tempting.
“Nap now, have wake-up sex in the morning. Or Van Horn sex in an hour. I promise
I’ll be up for it.”
“Tom…”
“Come on, sweetheart. The whole point of driving to Disneyland was so that we could watch America roll by outside. And trust me when I say that this part of Texas is better in the dark. My dad used to take me hunting in West Texas. It’s a whole lot of nothing.”
“Hunting?”
“Hey, Texas boy here. Handguns and rifles and an oil well in the backyard.”
She laughed. “You’re so typical.”
“Nah, just lucky. Anyway, if we make it to Van Horn, then most of tomorrow is New Mexico and Arizona. And those deserts are much prettier.”
“I’m a Texan now, too, remember?” Her fingers brushed his hair, and when he looked over her irritated expression was gone, replaced by that sweet, vulnerable face he fell in love with. “That means I love every part of your state, even the dusty, dry parts.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” He smiled at her, still not quite able to believe she was his wife. Wife. Man, his parents were going to shit bricks when they found out. “Let me see it.”
She cocked her head. “Tom.”
“Please?”
She shook her head, then released an indulgent sigh as she held up her left hand and wiggled her ring finger.
“My mother’s going to want a big wedding, you know,” he said.
“Seems silly since we’re already married.”
“Married by a judge in Austin doesn’t cut it for her.”
“Hey, it’s your family’s money. If she wants to spend it on a big wedding, then more power to her.” She shifted in her seat and frowned.
“What?”
“What if we can’t find a room in Van Horn?” she asked, as he gritted his teeth and told himself this was the “for better or for worse” part of the vows.
“Do you really want me to turn around?”
She let out a long sigh, then shifted in her seat, looking out at the stretch of highway lit by their headlights in front and the wall of black behind them. “I guess not. We’re already a million miles from the turnoff and we’d have to find someplace to double back.”
“On we go, then. Tunes?” He had some classic Lyle Lovett in the CD player and cranked the volume. “Why don’t you go online and see if you can book us a room,” he suggested, as Lyle crooned about M.O.N.E.Y. “You can do that, right? Wasn’t that the point of buying that thing?”
She smirked and pulled her new iPad out of her bag. She’d bought it before they set out on the road, her first purchase as his wife. “I guess I don’t have to say thanks anymore, do I? I mean, now it’s community property.”
“Yours, mine and ours. For richer or for poorer, so don’t buy too many of those toys or we’ll be hitting the poorer side of that equation.” Not exactly true. He had his trust-fund money plus the cash he’d got when he’d sold his stock options at the height of the tech boom. He was barely past thirty, had a beautiful wife and never had to work a day again. Life was good.
“Let’s see what I can find, then.” She tapped on the iPad and the screen illuminated the interior of the car in a glowing blue. A light flashed in his rearview mirror, and he flinched.
“Tom?”
“Sorry. I—” He rubbed his eyes.
“What?”
“I thought I saw a car behind us.”
She shifted in her seat. “It’s pitch-black back there. Doesn’t Texas have the money for a few lights on their highways?”
“Like I said—middle of nowhere. And it must have just been a trick of the light. Any luck with the room?”
“There’s no signal. It’s a great toy, but it’s not connecting to the internet, and we’re not making phone calls. So don’t get a flat, because there’s no way we’re getting through to Triple A.”
“The car’s fine. Don’t be paranoid. People drove across the country long before cell phones were invented.”
“And iPads and CDs. Can you imagine? Eight-track tapes? I mean, what kind of world was that?”
“My dad had an old eight-track player in the garage,” he said. “I used to— Fuck!”
Lights flashed on behind him—right behind him. Filling his rearview mirror and getting bigger by the second.
Beside him, Elizabeth yelled, reaching out to steady herself with a hand on the door. “What the— Oh, my god. He’s crazy. He’s right on your ass!”
“I know! I know!” His heart was pounding in his chest. He told himself this was no big deal. The guy was drunk. He was being an ass. But all they had to do was let him get by and they’d have the road to themselves again.
He lifted his foot off the accelerator.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was high, terrified.
“I’m slowing down. Letting him pass.”
“I don’t think—”
Wham!
They both jolted forward as the car behind them—no, it was a truck—tapped the rear bumper.
“Jesus, Jesus,” Elizabeth said. “Do you have a gun? A weapon?”
“I don’t have shit.” He had his knife, like always. A folding blade that was spring-loaded and pretty much lived in his pocket. But that wasn’t much good against a crazy pickup truck. “Fuck. Call 911.”
“There’s no cell service! I just told you!”
Wham! Tapped again, and this time from an angle, so that his sweet little Mercedes shifted a bit to the right. “Just fucking try again!”
“All right, all right! You don’t have to scream at me!”
“Babe, I’m sorry. I’m freaked is all. Okay, look. I’m going to floor it.” He did as he was talking. “We’re small and fast, and see? We’re already pulling away. So just watch the phone and the second you get a signal, you call. Okay?”
She nodded, and he kept his hands tight on the wheel and his foot flat on the floor.
And for a second—one beautiful, wonderful, fabulous second—he thought it was going to work. And then the gap started closing. Those lights started growing bigger. And soon the truck’s headlights consumed the small back window of the Mercedes.
Tom tensed. Waiting to feel another smack against the bumper. But none came. The truck just tailed him. Ten, maybe fifteen inches away from the back of his car, tracking him as they whipped down the highway.
The minutes sagged by.
“Signal?”
Beside him, Elizabeth shook her head, her eyes wide and terrified.
“Restart the phone. Sometimes it finds a network when you restart.”
She nodded and rebooted the phone.
“Do you think it’s over? He’s just going to tail us all the way to Van Horn?”
“It’s at least half an hour away,” Tom said, which technically didn’t answer her question. “But he’s stopped hitting us. Maybe he’s just drunk.”
“I bet he’s drunk as a fucking snake. Bastard.”
“So, we just drive, and we breathe in and out, and we will be fine.”
The lights behind them snapped off, leaving a gaping black chasm behind them.
“Is it— Did he—?”
Tom reached over and grabbed her hand. “I don’t know.”
That’s when he heard the sharp crack. And at the same time the car skidded.
“What was that?” Elizabeth asked.
“I don’t know.”
Another crack, and that time Tom figured it out, because the car started to fishtail. He tried to steer into it, which was easier said than done, but they just kept skidding in a circle, right off the road until the car tumbled sideways into a ditch.
His right arm was thrust sideways across Elizabeth’s chest, a protective cage. She was breathing hard, her fear filling the car along with his.
“He shot out the tires,” he whispered. “The crazy son
of a bitch shot out the tires.”
“What do we do?”
“Stay here. Maybe he’s had his fun. Maybe he’ll just go. Is there a signal yet?”
“Oh, God.” Panic made her voice rise. “I dropped it. Oh, shit.” She bent over and scrabbled on the floorboard. He could hear her murmured, “Please, please, please.” Then, “Shit. No signal.”
“This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to stay in the car. Simple. Straightforward.”
“Do you see him?”
He twisted in his seat, scouring the darkness behind them. “No, I—”
And there he was.
Not some drugged-out kid, or some bearded, wild-eyed desert survivalist. Just a dude. In a white button-down under a denim jacket and jeans. He had a crooked grin and he didn’t look the least bit psychotic.
Tom didn’t move a muscle.
“Hey!” the Dude called. “Are you okay? Shit! That fucker blew your back tires right out!”
Tom glanced sideways at Elizabeth, who was staring past him at the Dude, her mouth open as if she couldn’t quite believe this.
“You—you saw it?”
“Shit, yeah.”
Tom swiveled in his seat, trying to see through the oily darkness. “How?”
“My car,” the Dude said, pointing vaguely behind them. “I was sleeping—too much driving, you know—and I saw the crazy bastard rail down on you.”
Tom rolled the window down—but only about half an inch.
“You—you saw him? Where—”
“Floored it right on by while you were spinning. Man, he’s probably in New Mexico by now.”
“Do you have cell service? Can you call a cop? A tow truck?”
“Signal picks up in about five miles. Right now, it’s like the Wild, Wild West.”
“Could you—I mean, would you drive ahead? Call someone?”
“Sure thing.” He took a step back, then stopped. “Or, you know, I could help you change the tires. This ditch ain’t so deep, and this car’s not even as heavy as my sister.”
“I don’t know…”
Beside him, Elizabeth shifted. “I don’t want to wait here, Tom. What if that freak comes back?”
At Risk Page 33