Hearts Crossing (Woodland)

by Marianne Evans

  Lance grinned at him and Collin knew he had won. He started to grin, too.

  “Well, first of all, my job is far from extraordinary there, Joe College,” Lance said. “Plus, there’s waivers and releases, and not to mention the fact that Mom would kill me, kill me, then do some serious harm if anything happened to you. Then there's Sandy, who I'm quite sure hopes you survive long enough to graduate and make good on that ring you put on her finger.”

  Joe College. For three years running, ever since Collin started attending Oakland University, it was Lance's favorite nickname for him. Collin loved it, though of course he'd never let Lance know that. Collin realized the endearment stemmed from pride.

  “Don't worry about either issue, bro. Didn't you just say how far from extraordinary your job is? It'll be no problem.”

  Collin's shot at sarcasm and needling did the job. Lance stood, adjusting the belt at his waist, which held a night stick, cuffs, pepper spray, and his gun. He was thick muscled and tended toward stocky, but only because he was built like a solid wall. Thick brown hair was worn regulation short, and his hazel eyes—like their dad's—were dark and intent, except when in the company of his family. Then they sparkled with mischief and life—vitality. Affection deeper than an ocean.

  He was Collin's hero. Period.

  “You'll be bored outta your mind,” he warned. But at the same time he grinned. Lance left his desk behind, saying over his shoulder, “Hang tight a sec. Lemme get the forms. I assume since you're sitting here with a notebook you want to go tonight.”

  “May as well get it over with, right?” Collin replied, heavy on the bland and bored.

  Lance just laughed.

  A half hour later they were on the road, Collin riding shotgun, Lance at the wheel of a St. Clair Shores patrol car, taking in everything around them with a gaze that never rested for long. Collin stood by as Lance answered a robbery call at a gas station, settled an escalating bar fight at a somewhat seedy-looking bar. But the time passed mostly in the squad car, and that was fine. Collin talked and joked with his brother like always. Still, Lance's vigilance while on patrol was absolute, and impressive. He was a protector in its truest sense.

  Humm...good observation. Collin jotted it down in his notebook and looked at the darkened, empty streets, trying hard to see it through Lance's eyes.

  Meanwhile Lance explained the radio connection both in the car, and on the shoulder unit clipped near his right ear. Collin was confused by the verbiage.

  “What's that mean? That Ten-Seven code?”

  “Returning to the station. That's Tim Thompson. He's ending his tour for the night.”

  Collin nodded, jotting notes.

  “And the other one that came in right after that from someone else? Ten-Eight?”

  Lance chuckled, still watchful and vigilant. “Means he's back on duty. Ready for the next call.” He reached to the storage compartment at Collin's knees and clicked it open, quipping, “Rookies. Take out that top laminated card. Keep it. I've got more.”

  It gave a run down of 10-Code and its translation.

  “Cool,” Collin replied, studying it.

  “Pretty dull night. Not much for you to go on for your paper.”

  Collin shrugged, sidled him a look. “I could always come back.”

  Lance gave him a glance. “Yeah. You could I suppose. Rookie.”

  The radio crackled and dispatch came through. “Unit 23, 415 in progress, 824 Lattimore.”

  Lance picked up the receiver and clicked on. “Ten-Four. 824 Lattimore.”

  “Four-Fifteen?” Collin asked.

  Lance went all business, his eyes glinting hard, his jaw line set, but he answered: “Domestic disturbance.”

  Lance picked up the pace, moving the car smoothly and quickly to a quiet neighborhood, most of its lights gone dark for the night. Not this house though. He parked in front of an older, time-worn bungalow with lights ablaze. As soon as Lance opened the car door, Collin could hear the shouting, the crash and bang of a heated fight taking place.

  “Stay put. Pay attention and keep your head down if anyone comes out. Hear me?”

  Collin nodded, going tense inside.

  Lance shut the door soundly and moved to the doorway with a brisk, authoritative stride. Collin cracked the window open a couple inches.

  “Saint Clair Shores PD. Open the door.” He spoke into the radio as he waited, a hand resting lightly on the butt of his gun. Collin watched, engrossed. No one answered, so this time Lance banged hard on the door. The cacophony of sound just increased. “Police. Open up.” He cast a quick glance back at the car then Collin saw him glance up and down the street and speak into the radio again.

  He trotted back to the car, opening the door. “I've got a bad feeling about this. I'm calling for back up.” Lance was laser focused. “Stay where you are, and keep alert.”

  “Yeah. Got it.” Collin frowned as Lance barked into the car radio for backup and activated the roof top light bars. He left the car to return to the front door.

  This time his pounding was answered. The door was yanked open, and a hulking, angry man filled the entrance.

  “Step outside, sir.” Lance directed, hand at the butt of his gun.

  Instead of answering the man pushed open the screen door and in the process shoved Lance out of his way. He took off.

  Lance shouted, giving chase.

  What passed through Collin in that instant was an instinct driven desire to help his brother. To help put away a bad guy. That instinct overrode any safety concern as well as common sense. The man closed in on where the car was parked, cursing as he attempted evasion and escape.

  Something small and silver glinted in his hand.

  A gun.

  Collin opened the car door, intending to slam it into the guy.

  Lance tore toward him, shouting. “Get in the car. Stay down!”

  Both men were now distracted. Lance had focused on Collin, worry creasing his face. The man looked back at Lance…and he stumbled.

  The gun went off, its report filling the air like a lethal lightning circuit.

  The man tumbled to the ground and cop cars began to squeal and peel, sirens flashing, strobe light filling the air. Lance went down like he'd been flattened.

  Responding officers swarmed the scene quickly, cuffing the perpetrator and pulling him into a patrol car.

  “Lance! Lance!”

  Collin fell to Lance’s side. Responding officers called frantically, “Ten-Double-Zero! Ten-Double-Zero...”

  There was a hole in Lance’s crisp blue shirt. Right at the heart. Collin stared at the ripped opening, a red stain coloring the fabric.

  Lance's eyes fluttered. He focused on Collin for a moment and tried hard to speak but all that came out was wheezing. He fought for breath.

  Unintelligible words faded into a gurgling whisper. His eyes faded and closed. Collin's stomach rolled and pitched and he felt his chest heave as his lungs clutched for air, trying to drag in enough oxygen to remain conscious while the rest of the world spun wildly out of control. A horrible, wailing cry split through him, straight from the depths of his heart.

  “Lance! No!”

  “Officer down. Ten-Double-Zero. 824 Lattimore. Officer down.”

  The words echoed, searing through Collin like a knife. He pressed his hands down tight against the wound, but Lance's blood tracked steadily against Collin's fingers. He sobbed so hard his entire body shook and trembled.

  Officers pulled him away, settling him into a squad car as freshly arrived paramedics went to work, but only one truth remained, one unalterable fact.

  Collin had distracted them both. He had gotten in the way—against Lance's orders.

  It was all his fault. Shaking horribly, he looked down, and came upon the sight of his tightly clenched fists. Once more his stomach threatened to revolt.

  Literally and figuratively, Lance's blood was on his hands.

  ****

  Collin awoke in a tangle of
bed sheets, his body coated by a sheen of sweat, his breathing labored and rough.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, assuring himself of substance and a return to reality.

  Uttering a soft curse, he climbed out of bed and raked his hands through still-damp hair. In the bathroom he clicked on a light. Light helped push away the remnants of the dream.

  In a pounding silence, Collin considered the matter. He hadn't had the nightmare about Lance's death in probably a year. Ghosts had haunted his mind frequently in the first year or so afterward. Of late, though, Collin had pushed, fought and bullied them into remission. It had to have been prompted by the conversation with Daveny.

  This episode had been bad, though. Horrifically vivid.

  He gulped down some water.

  Coming upon his reflection in the mirror gave Collin pause—haunted, red touched eyes and pallid skin.

  No one, not even the members of his family, knew he had interfered. No one but Collin knew he was the one to blame for Lance looking away, for the reaction of the man who had stumbled and fired off the weapon. Foolish folly and bravado on Collin's part had ended with Lance’s death.

  The burden rested with him always, and Collin had compensated for its weight in ways both emotional and spiritual. Oh, everyone knew he had been there, but no one knew the depth and degree of culpability—and the resulting responsibility he assumed.

  Different memories crashed in, sucking him back into a vortex.

  The eternal ride to the hospital. The smell of the police car he rode in—a subtle but permanent combination of mustiness, cigarettes, sweat and years of grime. The overly bright lights of the ER at St. John's Hospital. The nurses who helped calm the entire gathered family as doctors went to work trying to save Lance's life.

  In the end, it had all been futile.

  Collin gripped the metal basin of the sink so hard his knuckles turned white.

  Despite our best efforts…

  A one in a million shot…

  The blood loss and muscle damage were severe, and irreparable…

  Those memory-bound images were followed promptly by thoughts of Sandy.

  Collin turned away from the mirror and doused the light. The return to darkness was welcome. He went back to bed, sinking into it with a groan.

  Sandy had remained his fiancée until after a graduation delayed by a semester. Separate lives and a failed commuter relationship left them deciding to end the engagement in a civil if not overly friendly manner. The situation had hurt Sandy, and Collin knew it. Trouble was, he had no ability whatsoever to see to her well-being.

  He couldn't even see to his own.

  At that desolate realization, Collin settled an arm over his eyes. Behind closed lids swirled a new image—radiant and refreshing as cool, flowing water in a desert. Daveny. Clear as a high resolution photograph Collin saw her smiling in warm, happy welcome. The thought of her stilled his jangled nerves and soothed his soul.

  That's when he recognized the most startling fact of all: He wanted to see more of her. He longed for her tenderness and innate sense of care. She had awakened something dormant inside of him.

  And so, with her smile as an accompaniment, he drifted back to rest and peace.

  5

  Daveny's back was to Collin. Hedge trimmer in hand, she stood before a tall, somewhat rounded burning bush at the entrance of Woodland. She presented a petite, jean-clad counterpoint to its lush, overgrown state. The dichotomy of the image struck home and rendered Collin stationary for a moment inside the cab of his truck.

  Grooming didn't take her long. While he watched, Daveny trimmed branches, smoothing and shaping until wild became spectacular, until untended turned into polished enhancement, health and beauty revived by the removal of overgrowth and excess.

  Branches fell to the ground at her feet. Galvanized, Collin left his observations behind and joined her. A tall paper recycle bag stood nearby, and he stepped up to help, sliding on heavy duty work gloves. At first Daveny didn't seem to register his arrival. She wore protective ear plugs and moved through the task efficiently. Her smooth grace and confidence left him focused on the motion of her slender arms, the movement of her legs, her hips, the tiny waist he longed to span with his hands so he could draw her tenderly close.

  Collin blinked free of those sensual imaginings and dumped a load of branches into the refuse bag. It was then that he must have entered her peripheral vision. Daveny turned off the trimmer and focused on him with the same kind of large, warm smile that had soothed his recent dreamscape.

  “Hi there,” she called.

  “Hey.”

  Why did her instant openness, that simple but profound happiness, set off a trigger in his heart? In truth, he knew the answer, but quelled the idea of confronting it head on. He reacted the way he did because every moment spent in her company left him keenly aware of a soul-deep thirst that she brought to life, and then quenched, with no effort whatsoever. In her presence, Collin literally felt his emotional defenses slide away.

  “If you keep pruning I’ll bat clean-up,” he offered, struggling to remain steady.

  “That'd be perfect. Thanks, Collin.”

  Again with that radiant smile. Yet there were no wiles in her disposition. Her personality flowed naturally from her core—engaging, charming and lovely.

  They took a break about an hour later, sitting side by side on the warm, soft grass. In near unison, they removed their baseball caps and sunglasses. When Collin got up to find some water and snacks to tide them over for the rest of the session, he watched Daveny stretch out on the grass, extending her ponytail behind her. She crossed her ankles and sighed with delight.

  When he returned she sat up once again, tucking her sunglasses into place and accepting a couple packets of cheese and crackers as well as a dripping wet but suitably chilled bottle of water. “You're awesome. Thank you!”

  “My pleasure.” And he meant it.

  While she ate, she looked around, taking in the grounds. Contentment rolled off her, toward Collin, a compelling, saturating sensation.

  “This makes me feel so good.”

  “It should. Your company has done an outstanding job.”

  She shook her head. “We just designed. The contractors are the ones who do the heavy lifting.” She shrugged. “Besides, that’s not quite what I meant. It’s just that this place? It’s special to me. I’ve always loved the grounds here. They’re peaceful and beautiful. A perfect setting for a church. I’ve always imagined what it might be like to make it, I don’t know, I guess the word is worthy of Woodland.”

  Her comment held Collin's attention.

  “I want people to find peace and tranquility here. I want the grounds to be inviting.” Again she shrugged, stating simply, “This church is important.”

  For so long, before the world had crashed in around him, Collin would have felt the same way. Not any longer. But he didn’t need to go down that road—especially with this spirited, idealistic woman. Instead he delivered a smile and a nod of agreement while internally he worked toward evasion of the subject.

  Her attitude touched upon a soft spot in his heart, though, and that truth couldn’t be denied. Rebuked, yes. Denied, no.

  He took stock of the freshly soiled flower beds along the stone wall of the church front. “I think there are some plants with our names on them over there.”

  She groaned, but the verbal protest lacked authentic heat. She handed him a second packet of crackers and delivered a wink as well. “Keep your strength up, hear?”

  Collin unwrapped the snack, and teased, “I have to, in order to keep up with you.”

  She sashayed away, looking back over her shoulder in playful challenge.

  Right behind you, he found himself thinking.

  This woman possessed bottled-up charisma and the stunning beauty of a lightning bolt.

  ****

  “Oh, man! Ow!”

  Daveny’s startled exclamation left Collin turning her way. He had
become so involved in the layout of the front border of annuals that he jumped a bit when she yelped. Daveny shook out her hand, yanking off her thin, latex glove

  “Dang it! Serves me right!”

  Collin went to her side immediately, motivated by the sight of a red stain on her hand and on the glove she held.

  “What happened?” He took her hand and glided a gentle touch against the side of her index finger. Bearing a neat, shallow slice the digit bled steadily.

  “I need to—I should probably clean it up,” she murmured in a thick tone, looking into his eyes.

  “What happened?” he repeated, holding her in place without even being conscious of the gesture. Automatically, he took the edge of his T-shirt and wrapped it around her finger so pressure could be applied.

  Daveny watched in horror. “Don’t do that, you’ll ruin…”

  “Stop,” he interrupted succinctly. “What happened? And bear in mind, I hope the third time is a charm.”

  She rolled her eyes at that, but Collin just grinned.

  Daveny answered, “I should have worn heavy duty gloves like everyone else, but sometimes I just hate them. You can’t really feel the dirt, and the roots and stems, and—” She sighed in resignation. “I dug the spade in deep and way too close to my finger. My own dumb fault. I’ll be fine.”

  With a bit more insistence this time she moved free of Collin's shirt bandage and started toward the church interior. He let her go, but followed.

  “There’s a kitchen area in the activity center with a shelf of supplies,” she said, squeezing her finger and wincing. “I think I saw a medical kit there once. The facility is right over here.”

  “I remember the center.”

  “You remember?” They entered the building and Daveny paused in her trek down the common hallway. “So once upon a time you did attend church here.”