“Yeah, I hear it coming. It’s the ‘Thanks, but,’ speech. I’m just saving you the trouble of finishing it.” He released her hand and climbed to one knee, looking down at her. “Kitt told me to wait, but I think it’s time for me to head out.” He grabbed his boots, sliding them on and tucking the loose laces inside with angry movements. “I see I managed to overstay my welcome after all.”
Two seconds later, he was out the door and gone.
Chapter Nine
Truck
“Shit.” He tipped his head back, looking at the tops of the trees as they swayed against the sky. Their sensuous movements reminding him of how Vanna felt in his arms last night, dancing with him across her living room. Bending over, he stared at the ground as he laced up his boots, slapping the leather into the hooks by rote. Beautiful woman like that; inside even more beauty than what she carries on her outside. No way she’d want someone like me around her and her kid.
“Take what you can get,” he muttered, calling up the memories of how it felt to have her resting against him on the couch. Waking up to the scent of her hair. The little noises she made when he pulled away, how she reached for him in her sleep. “I’ll take it. Sweet. Beautiful.” The softness of her lips when he kissed her in front of the Christmas tree and her excited man-boy. I nearly forgot who she is, he thought, remembering the pictures on her wall. Who I am. He saw the clubhouse in Little Rock in his head, long bar stretching out, stools inhabited only by men like him, lonely ones without family. Glad she cut the ribbons quick, before anything tied us together.
Leticia’s voice slipped through his head, sounding somehow fainter than the last time she spoke when she said, You’re selling yourself short, my love.
His steps faltered and slowed as his thumb absently rubbed across his lips, feeling the ghost of a touch there. He hadn’t imagined Leticia for months now. It’s time for you to find someone you can let in, Peter. She’s a perfect fit for you. I see good things.
“You saw good things everywhere you looked, Tish.” He had stopped walking, a breathing statue in the little woods between Vanna’s house and the one he had purchased sight-unseen from an old friend.
Only because there were good things to be seen. You. Our friends. Our life. Does it surprise you I still see good things? Like the possibility of a new life for you, one that doesn’t come with loneliness as its only companion? Her voice was inside his head and he didn’t even have to answer her, he knew she’d heard his rejection of the idea when she laughed, the sound as light and easy as moonlight on a field. Peter, I want to see you happy again. Can’t you get that through your thick skull? I want that for you, want you to feel alive, feel love. To feel treasured. That woman needs something to treasure, why would you want to deny her that?
Leticia had been his girlfriend, once upon a time. Theirs hadn’t been a fantastical love story, made up of incredible coincidences and circumstance, but a normal boy-meets-girl moment in a bar that led to a night of satisfaction, which in turn led to what should have been a lifetime of the same. “I loved you.” I know you did. You do, or you wouldn’t be doing this to yourself.
Her death had been sudden. Shocking in its swiftness. Two years they’d been together, a year of her living with him. Working long hours, she wore herself out and caught a cold. She had a stupid common cold, went to bed feeling like crap, and never woke up. Nearly twenty years ago, he had gone in to wake her for supper to find her cold and still, resting peacefully, head on the pillow and covers pulled to her chin.
Her death was what led him to the life of a wandering outlaw and eventually brought him to the Rebels. He counted himself lucky that he had found a club like them on his first go-around. “I miss you.” I know you do. There’s a hole in you that needs filling, Peter. See if this woman can help fill it. Right now, she needs you more than ever.
With a sigh, he shook off the stillness that had settled on him and started his legs moving, striding forward and away from Vanna. Tromping through the woods, he was muttering to himself about fools and their feelings when he heard shouting coming from behind him.
The shouting came again, and he recognized Vanna’s voice, fear threading through him as he heard her yell, the words terrifyingly clear. “Kitt, where are you?”
Anxiety jolted in his chest, squeezing his heart, and without hesitation he turned and ran back the way he’d come. Through the trees and towards the sound of her voice. His long legs ate up the distance as he dodged around trunks and jumped over deadfalls. Kitt, he thought, skirting a tree to see a path crossing from left to right in front of him and he quickly veered to run along this open space. What the hell did you do, boy?
Vanna’s shout was much closer when it came a second time, and as he rounded the next muddy corner he saw her standing in the middle of the path. Still in her pajamas, her feet bare, she looked frantic. Hands cupped around her mouth, she was swinging in a circle, her eyes wide and frightened, calling for her son. “Kitt! Where are you?”
Within a heartbeat, he had reached her and gripped her shoulders, turning her to face him. He was about to give her a little shake when her face began to crumple, eyes clenching tightly shut, lips pressed painfully together. Instead of shaking her he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. “Darlin’, talk to me.” He dropped his chin, mouth beside her ear, firmly urging her, “Tell me what happened.”
“He-he-he ran out-out of the ha-house.” Voice hitching, her shaking words were hardly loud enough for him to hear. “He was so ma-mad.” Shoulders shaking, she sucked in a hard breath and he squeezed her.
“Slow down, Vanna. Take a breath, darlin’. Talk to me.”
“He gets mad like that sometimes, but he’s never run away like this.” Pushing against his chest, she fought for room between them and leaned back, looking up at him with tears streaking her cheeks. Her voice dropped to a whisper when she repeated, “He was so mad.”
“Where would he go?” Even as he asked the question she was shaking her head.
“I don’t know. He’s never done this before.” Tipping her chin, she rested her forehead against his chest, desperation flowing through her voice. “I don’t know.”
“Easy, darlin’. Think. Did you check your car? The garage?” Without lifting her head she shook it back and forth, weight pressing against him as she moved.
“I ran out right behind him but he was already gone.” The deep breath seemed to come easier this time, and she blew it back out slowly. He stroked one hand rhythmically up and down her back, caressing and calming her as she had with Kitt last night, and he felt her sag into him. He knew she’d locked down her emotions and had self-control again when she said decisively, “The creek. His favorite place here in the woods is the creek.”
“Take me there,” he ordered, stepping back and bending slightly, arms out.
He’d intended to scoop her up, but she took his movement as part of his spoken order and twisted out of his grip. Running up the path, she called over her shoulder, “It’s not far.”
Pelting up the path behind her, he watched the soles of her bare feet as she ran ahead of him, the pale flesh darkening with each contact against the earth, hints of red mixing with the dirt. “Is it deep?” He yelled the question, fighting against himself to stay behind her. Fighting the instinct to move his size fifteens and run ahead even without knowing the way. “The creek, is it deep?”
Without slowing she called back, “In places, yes.”
His next question forced out of him by fear, he shouted, “Can Kitt swim?”
Her neck twisted, head turning to cut a terrified glance back at him and he knew exactly why she was running as fast as she could. “No.”
Chapter Ten
Kitt
The water swirled around the edges of the rocks and branches Vanna Mom had used to extend the pool of water, building a barrier the water had to work to get around. That made it stay longer in one place, and Vanna Mom said it didn’t hurt the creek to wait a litt
le while before it left them. This notch in the creek bank had been created one spring in a flood. Blocked by a downed tree, the rushing water had carved out a broad circle before it ran in a wall down the creek, taking the bridge with it, breaking the road where the creek flowed through. “Creek, stream, waterway, river, crick.”
Vanna Mom said the pool was deep on one side. She stayed in the shallows when she looked to find his treasures. Shiny, flat rocks, smoothed by giant’s feet. Wiggling tadpoles, sometimes with frog feet poking out on either side of their tadpole tail. Possible frogs, Vanna Mom called them. Pinching crawdads, dragged from their safe, blind burrows in the mud to the bright light of day, their actions as confused as his brain felt most days. “Crawdad, crawfish, crayfish, mudbug.”
He took a step forward, looking around. This was the only place he wanted to be after he came downstairs to see Truck hadn’t waited. And Vanna Mom was sad because Truck was a treasure. So sad Kitt couldn’t stand to be there, her sad beat in on him from all sides and he wanted her not sad.
This was a good place, one where he saw happy faces. Where Vanna Mom found so many treasures. He’d lost count of the things saved, as well as the treasures gently transferred back to the water. Hands clutching the hastily wrapped present against his chest, he tightened his grip on the rectangle, the edges of the unsecured paper fluttering in the breeze. I wanted to find her a treasure, he thought.
Another step forward, looking around again, nearly on top of the rushing water. “Scary water. Fast water.”
The bank crumbled underfoot and he fell, his cry of fear cut short when the water closed over his head.
Chapter Eleven
Truck
He heard Kitt’s shout over the noise of running water. Heard it stop. Truck exploded through the bushes and into a small clearing right behind Vanna, to see…nothing. The sound of water came from directly ahead, but he couldn’t see the creek. Couldn’t see Kitt. Couldn’t hear him, either. Truck’s steps faltered and Vanna flew ahead. Then he saw it, recognized the dip across the field that hid the waterway, meandering alongside the edge of the clearing where it butted up against the woods. Head down, he put on speed and passed her, a dozen strides later brought him to the edge of the bank to see a fresh scar where the edge had given way.
Without a thought for his own safety, he launched himself off the bank and into the water, bones jarring in his body when his boots unexpectedly met the gravel of a solid but shallow sandbar. Laughter came from behind him and he turned, twisting in the calf-deep water to see Kitt lying just below the bank. Mud smeared on his face, the boy was flat on his back in about ten-inches of water. Kitt was holding onto something with one hand, the soggy wrapping paper losing its glitter as the gently flowing water tugged at the edges. He was gleefully slapping at the water with his other hand, splashing and making waves.
A shadow cut across Kitt’s form and Truck looked up to see Vanna teetering on the edge. She held her balance for a moment, then stumbled as the bank let go again and she fell towards the water. With a lunge, he caught her in mid-air, arms wrapped around her back, her feet swinging and hitting his knees with the force of her arrested fall.
Still laughing, Kitt pointed at Truck where he stood in the middle of the creek holding his mother, and said, “Truck came.”
Truck held her for a moment, savoring the feel of her even in this situation, before he let her slide down his front. By then she was fighting to get free, pushing and twisting in his arms. She let out a single shocked hiss when her bare feet hit the freezing water, and then she was gone. Turning away, high-stepping it through the waterway, she slipped on moss-covered rocks covering the creek bed. Truck moved with her, hands hovering to catch her again if needed. Stumbling backwards, she nearly took a tumble twice before collapsing on her knees beside Kitt.
The depth of her understanding of how the boy’s head worked was proven when she reached him. There were no angry shouts from her, no furiously terrified threats to confuse Kitt. Instead she carefully gathered her son in her arms and Truck heard her say, “Brave boy. My Kitt’s such a brave boy. Look at you, all covered in creek water. Sitting right here in the water, the biggest treasure I ever found. Look at you, my boy. My Kitt. How brave you are.”
“Water,” Kitt said and shrugged, struggling to sit up without losing his mother’s touch. He held out the tattered thing he had been cradling to his chest. His gaze was stuck on the surface of the water, but the top of his head angled towards Truck. “Present.”
“I see you have something for Truck,” Vanna said. She shifted beside Kitt, and finally lost her battle to retain her feet, slippery rocks and swiftly-flowing water winning the day as they conspired to knock her on her ass. Her teeth had begun to chatter when she asked, “Can we go home first, Kitt?”
Kitt’s gaze lifted from where it had been focused on watching the water flow around his legs and he looked at his mother. Drawing the package back to his chest, he reached out with his other hand, tapping two fingers against Vanna’s shoulder, he said, “Treasure.”
“Yes, Kitt. We’ll come back and find treasures again, when the water’s not quite so cold.” Truck heard the tremble in her voice and knew it to be a combination of things. Relief at her boy safely found; the draining adrenaline drop following their successful rushing chase; and the December chill of the water seeping into her flesh. It was that last one he was most concerned with. Not only was she barefooted, the t-shirt and shin-length pajama bottoms she wore were thin and—soaked as they were—would offer no protection from the cold-for-Florida December day.
“NO!” Kitt shouted and his gaze lifted to Truck. “Truck’s treasure.” His hand thumped Vanna’s shoulder again as his gaze dipped. “Home.”
Chapter Twelve
Kitt
Truck helped Vanna Mom up the bank and away from the fast water. Not scary. Not now. Kitt scrambled up behind them, gripping roots one-handed, toes digging for purchase in the moving dirt. He laughed aloud when the hands lifted under his bottom and pushed, laughed louder when he heard the woman say, Such a big boy.
Vanna Mom stood beside Truck and Kitt moved to them, looking down to see Vanna Mom’s toes curling up and away from the mud, while Kitt’s toes dug down in, and Truck’s boots stood on the surface. “Different,” he said, and agreed when he heard, Different isn’t always bad. “Up, down, on.”
“Kitt,” Truck said and Kitt tipped the top of his head to indicate he heard. “You okay to walk home, son?”
“Walk, pace, hike, stride, skip, hop.” He could do any of those today. He could do all of them. He’d do better if he had shoes on, but he could walk home. I know you can, Kitt. “Can, could, would, should.”
“Okay, let’s get your momma home.” Truck bent and picked up Vanna Mom, ignoring her protests that quivered in the air, making her sound like a bowl of jelly looked. She clattered like their dishes behind the little doors in the kitchen did when the trucks drove up and down their road, back before the water claimed the bridge. Kitt glanced up, saw her hands were folded in her lap, fingers grub-white and holding on tight to the ones next to them. Packed as tight as people in a church. “Here is the church, and this is the steeple.” Let’s go home, Kitt. “Home, house, building, residence, structure.”
He turned to walk up the path, trying to match Truck’s pace, his legs stretching far to make up in extension what he lacked in length. Truck laughed and Kitt sighed to hear the woman’s laugh, too. “Maybe you could walk a bit faster, son?” Walk, pace, hike. He could hike. He hiked with Vanna Mom a lot; he could hike, even without boots. He hiked up the path and heard Truck say, “Good job, son.”
Chapter Thirteen
Vanna
So cold, she thought. Eyes closed, she leaned against Truck’s chest, feeling the swaying jostle of his every boot fall to the path winding through the woods. Kitt’s footsteps preceding them, his bare soles slapping against the mud and dirt leading them home.
Her terror when he bolted from the house
had been nearly paralyzing. He had always been a wanderer, but not a runner. She didn’t anticipate his actions like she would have if it had been a common occurrence. But it wasn’t. I could have scripted it, otherwise.
Thank God, Truck hadn’t gotten far and heard her screams. Otherwise she might still be roving the paths through the woods, not thinking, just reacting. And Kitt would be lying in the water, cold and still. She shivered at the thought and Truck’s arms tightened around her, his voice murmuring, “Nearly there, darlin’.”
I really, really like it when he calls me that, she thought and allowed her head to tip sideways, pressing her cheek against his chest. There was something she wanted to tell him, but after he jumped to the wrong conclusion this morning, it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. What I’d like to tell him is “You got it wrong, Truck.”
“What’d I get wrong, darlin’?” In her imagination, his voice deepened, gained an edge of roughness.
Secret Santa Page 5