Take Me Back (Paradise, Idaho Book 4)

by Rosalind James

  Hallie had wanted to tell her that people didn’t necessarily get what they deserved. Eileen already knew that, though, so instead, all she’d done was hug her back and say, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  The truck turned onto the main road and disappeared from sight, and Cletus transferred his attention back to Hallie, looking up at her with his tail waving gently. She said, “Yeah, buddy. Tough stuff,” and released his collar. He gave her hand a nuzzle, then leaned hard against her legs and let her thump him.

  “Come on,” she told him. “Let’s go get the mail.” She hadn’t bothered to look for days. Now, she ran down the driveway with Cletus romping beside her, opened the big black old-fashioned mailbox at the bottom of the drive and pulled out a stack of envelopes and flyers, then headed back up, sorting through it along the way.

  “Junk,” she told the dog. “What a surprise.”

  There was one actual letter, though. Her address typed on the envelope, a first-class stamp, but no return address. Probably more junk, disguised to look like something else, but she ripped it open anyway and pulled out the single folded sheet inside.

  No salutation, and no signature. Just anonymous typing.

  Go home libtard. We dont need more of your kind in Paradise.

  “Well, that’s nice,” she said. “Way to antagonize the local populace, Hallie.” She looked at the postmark. Friday. The day after open house. That hadn’t taken long.

  She went back into the house with Cletus and dumped the rest of the mail into the recycling, almost sent the letter to join it, then hesitated. She’d hang on to it, just in case any of the parents really did start complaining to the principal.

  What did she care if they did? She was making a whopping eighty-five dollars a day as a sub. She’d earn more waitressing, and it wasn’t like she needed the money. And yet . . . and yet, the thought of being driven out of the job, of somebody trying to run her out of town—it stung her pride, and it stung her heart. She was a good teacher, damn it. They’d never get anyone more qualified, and she wasn’t going to let somebody win in her life—again—just because they were meaner and more ruthless than she was.

  She gave the anonymous letter writer her two-word assessment of his or her efforts, stuck the letter into the rack under the wall phone, and forgot it.

  The next day, she parked her car as usual in the teacher’s lot at Paradise Middle School, opened the back door, snapped Cletus’s leash to his collar, and said, “Hop down.”

  He jumped down and pranced around excitedly, and she said, “You’re eight. I feel compelled to point that out.”

  He looked at her as if he were saying, So? She laughed and said, “You’re right. Age is just a number. Let’s go.”

  She took off, her running shoes hitting the sidewalk very satisfactorily indeed, and pushed through the initial resistance until her muscles settled into the rhythm. Then it was her usual winding route down Haynes, turning west through the modest houses at the south end of town, finally climbing the hill and heading north again. Down gravel alleys, past neatly tended yards, all quiet in the calm of six twenty in the morning, with barely a car rolling by. Past the purple house that the owners had resolutely kept the same shocking color all these years, on beyond the frame house across from the Presbyterian church that had once been her favorite, with its pointed roof like a steeple of its own. It was looking shabby now. Probably turned into a student rental. That was a shame. It was such a cozy-looking place with its lilac bushes and crabapple tree.

  Her breath puffed out in a cloud of vapor, and she took in the deep autumn-blue of the sky, the crisp, spicy aroma of turning leaves, and let the contentment settle into her bones.

  Autumn. Her favorite season. Some people thought it was melancholy. Hallie thought it was homey. Autumn in Paradise was red and yellow leaves blazing like flame against the blue sky, the twirling helicopters of maple seedpods drifting around you as you walked from the high school to the library. It was hot cocoa, a woolly afghan, and a fire in your fireplace. It was a cozy interlude before the bleak cold of winter. Although she liked winter, too. Really, every season was beautiful in Paradise.

  There was a man stretching against a fence ahead of her. Bouncing on his toes now, facing away from her, then doing a few jumping jacks of the type she hadn’t seen since high school PE. Nice shoulders. Great butt. Shorts and a sweatshirt.

  Then she came closer, and he turned at the sound of her feet, and it was Jim.

  She slowed, then stopped, and he said, “Well, hi.”

  “Um . . . hi.” She hoped she wasn’t turning red, and was afraid that she was. But then, it was cool out here, and she’d been running.

  Cletus was wagging like crazy, of course, the big doofus, even though he’d never met Jim, and Jim said, “Ah. The trade-in,” and gave him exactly the kind of thumps on the shoulder and hind end that a big dog liked best.

  “Yep. Cletus. You running?” That was stupid, though. “Well, obviously. Ah . . . is this your house?” Small—tiny, in fact—and modest, but neatly painted, the lawn mowed and the leaves raked. What you’d expect from Jim.

  “It is, and I am. Just starting. Want some company?”

  “Sure. I’m dropping Cletus at Anthea’s, and then ending up back at the school. I guess we’re safe running. I mean, running isn’t sexual.” She was blushing again. She could tell.

  All he said, though, was, “Sounds good.”

  She took off again with him running beside her and said, “I’m sure I’m slow.”

  “Nah. I don’t care.”

  “Is Mac at home?” That was a safe topic.

  He shot a quick glance at her. “Yeah. I’ve been doing that for a few months if I go out to exercise early. She’s asleep, and we have good neighbors. She’ll be twelve in a couple months. I come back by seven, and we have breakfast. What do you think?”

  “I think you probably know her best.”

  He said, “Mm,” and after a bit, “So. A dog.”

  “You told me to be careful, so I got a big dog. Aren’t you impressed by my ability to follow directions?”

  Whoops. She might be flirting again. She got another look for that, and a hint of a smile.

  He said, “Now, see, if I didn’t know better, I’d think saying that fell into the same category as taking your clothes off while you talked to me on the phone.”

  “Good thing you know better. This is my guard dog, so watch out.” They’d reached Anthea’s house, and Hallie ran up the driveway with Jim following, opened the kitchen door, took off Cletus’s leash, and hung it over the hook.

  Ben was in there, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, and Hallie said, “Hey,” while Cletus galumphed over, skidded to a stop in front of Ben, and did some wagging.

  “Hey,” Ben said back. He saw Jim and raised his eyebrows. “Got company?”

  “Running company, that’s all. Gotta go. See you later.”

  Ben raised his coffee cup at them, and Hallie closed the door and ran out again, then headed north again, into the classy side of town.

  “Yep,” Jim said. Hallie was out of breath by now, but he sounded like he was taking a walk. “That’s a real killer you’ve got there. What’s he going to do, lick the guy to death?”

  “He’s got a good bark, though.”

  “So you leave him at Anthea’s during the day?”

  “Only Mondays and Wednesdays, when I run out here. Other days, I take him running from the house before work.”

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “Long time for a dog to be in the house alone, though, isn’t it?”

  “I put in a dog door.”

  “Oh. That’s good, then. How’d you get that done? I know it wasn’t Ben. I love the guy like, well, a brother, but nobody could call him handy. You could’ve called me.”

  “I could have. But I did it myself.”

  “Really.”

  She looked sideways at him. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. A jigsaw, a drill, an
d some caulk. Half an hour.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize you could. Maybe because you were on that chair with the antelope. Didn’t give me the finest impression of your do-it-yourself skills.”

  “I told you. I didn’t want to go into the garage that day. I got over it. I knew how to put in a dog door because my father wanted a son. I can change my own oil, too, not that I do.” She debated with herself a minute, then said, “I don’t know why my father—our father—didn’t try to get to know Cole better. It seems like Cole would’ve been the answer to his prayers, although it’s probably just as well for Cole that Dad steered clear. I’m wondering, though, if he did try, and your mom wouldn’t allow it.”

  A long pause, then Jim said, “I’d guess you might be right. And you know—you’re so much tougher than you look. I’m realizing that more all the time.”

  That had her muscles tensing. “Installing a dog door isn’t tough. It’s just knowledge. Women doing things men have traditionally done—that’s not the definition of tough.”

  “Whoa, there,” he said calmly. “No argument from me. I’ve got a daughter, remember? And I know about all the ways a woman can be strong. The dog door’s not what I’m talking about, or not entirely. Going into the garage, going into teaching, and turning your back on millions of dollars and your dad and everything he stood for—that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh.” There was that sneaky glow again, lighting her up. It was like he saw her, and admired what he saw, in the same way she kept admiring him more. That was almost harder to fight than the attraction. Almost.

  “So Cletus goes to day care two days a week,” Jim said after a minute. “That’s one lucky dog.”

  “He does. After I took him, it dawned on me how much more complicated he was going to make my life. But sometimes, complicated is better, you know?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “And on Thursdays,” she went on, “Eileen brings her little boy out to play with him while she cleans. At least, she has twice now. I thought it would be good, but I suspect it’s sad when they have to leave. For them, at least, since Cletus doesn’t exactly hang on to the negative thoughts.”

  “Mm,” he said. He was still breathing easily, even though she’d picked up the pace. “That was a good thing you did there. Eileen told me the rest of it, about the registration and insurance and all. I was impressed.”

  He was doing it again, with the admiration. “I did it for myself as much as for her,” she tried to explain. “It made me feel better. The truck, the dog. It was about evening the scales some, that’s all.”

  “Winning. Living in your father’s house, and proving that there’s another way to live.”

  “You remember.”

  He looked at her again. “I remember everything.”

  Maybe the glow wasn’t just in her heart. She upped her speed some more, since they were headed downhill toward the school now, and after a silent block, he asked, “You done anything with that Cadillac of Henry’s yet? You might want to let me know, so I don’t pull over any more unfortunate souls. I don’t think my own heart can take it. I’d have said I’ve seen plenty, but her little girl about did me in.”

  “You thought that, too.”

  “It’s the way she looks at you out of those big eyes like she’s trying to be brave. The same way you always looked. Like you didn’t expect anything but the worst, and you knew you’d have to take it anyway.”

  Something was twisting in her chest, tightening her throat. She fought her way past it and said, “That Cadillac has been sitting on the lot at Paradise Motors since Saturday, and I’ve got some money in my bank account I need to give away.”

  “Which wouldn’t be you doing a good deed. You’d be doing it for yourself again.” At her startled glance, he said, “Just trying to get the jump on you.”

  “That’s how it feels. I want to do the right thing with it, though. After what my father did to Eileen and your mother, too . . . I’d like it to be something specifically for women. Something to help.”

  “Cal Jackson’s got a foundation, all about helping underrepresented students go to school in science and engineering. Women, minority students, like that. Cal’s kind of a powerhouse with that, no surprise. It’s a good deal.”

  She considered. “Sounds great, but . . . not quite. Maybe, selfishly, because I didn’t want to go into science or engineering. I want to . . . help. Really help.”

  He was silent for another half block. She let him think, and finally, he said, “Kayla Jackson—Luke’s wife—got some scholarship money a while back. It was for women headed to college when they were older, I think. Single moms, especially. And I know she got help from . . .” He stopped, then went on. “I don’t think this is a secret. From a shelter for battered women, when she first came to Paradise. That could be a thought. I could send you the information, if you wanted.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Both. Perfect. Women starting over. Getting a boost to help them build their new lives. Maybe half and half?”

  “I think they’d be thrilled. That shelter does important work, but they have to do it on the quiet. I’ve referred plenty of women to them who didn’t think they had any options. I’d guess you could feel good about what you did.”

  “I won’t have done anything. Nothing but write a check.”

  “No,” he said. “Choosing to write a check, instead of all the other things you could have done with that money. That’s not nothing.”

  “All right,” she said. “Knock it off.”

  She put on a final sprint down the sidewalk to the pieces of fitness equipment that stood near the entrance to the gym, and he didn’t pull ahead, which she appreciated. When she slowed on reaching the blacktop and started to walk, he said, “Better tell me what to knock off, or I’ll do it again.”

  “Being so nice. All understanding.” She got to the slanted sit-up board, looked at him, and said, “Anyway, I thought the bad boys got the hot girls.” Then she dropped onto the board, tucked her feet under the bar, crossed her arms over her chest, and started doing sit-ups.

  Ha, she thought obscurely. What are you going to do about that, Deputy?

  What he did was as adolescent as this place. He went over to the bar, jumped up to grab hold, and began doing chin-ups.

  He must have finished more than ten when she stopped pretending she was doing sit-ups and just lay there on her board and watched him. His arms were shaking as he lowered himself, and still he hauled himself up another time, and then another and another. Going slowly, but getting there. Biceps swelling, chest heaving. And his T-shirt riding up, showing the end of a thick white scar that ran diagonally down his side.

  Quite a performance. Quite a man.

  Finally, he dropped to the ground and swung his arms, looking at her, but not saying a word.

  She bit her lip, realized she was doing it, and said, “I’ve wanted to be able to do those.”

  He shrugged. “It just takes practice. Working up to it. Come on over, and I’ll get you started.”

  She hesitated a second, then got to her feet and came over to stand facing him. Not too close, but then, if he wanted her closer, he knew what to do.

  “Right.” He put a big hand on either side of her waist and turned her around. Maybe his touch was impersonal, and maybe it wasn’t. “I’m going to hoist you up, and you grab hold. Overhand will be easier.”

  He lifted her, and she grabbed and held on, and so did he. His hands were tight and strong on her waist, and it didn’t feel like he was going to be letting go. “We’ll do five for right now,” he said. “I’ll just give you a little boost.”

  He was right there behind her, lifting and lowering her, as close as he needed to be. Or maybe closer, because every time she dropped, she brushed down his body, and every time she pulled herself up, she brushed up against it again, until he said, “Last one,” and lowered her to the ground.

  He didn’t let go, and she didn’t move away.
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  She was in front of him, their bodies barely touching, but it was enough. His hands were still there, too. He shifted them, and she held her breath. They stopped on her rib cage, stayed there. And she leaned back.

  He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulled her in closer, put the other hand under her chin, and turned her head, and all she thought was, Yes. And when he kissed her, she gasped again. He had her pressed up tight against him now, he was hot and hard and so solid, and his mouth was as demanding as it had been in her garage. As it had been on the hood of his car.

  “We’re . . .” she said when he turned her to face him. “We’re outside. We can’t.” But she didn’t move.

  He looked around. At the door to the gym. “When does security start?”

  “Eight.” It was a breath.

  “Inside.” He had her hand, and she pulled her keys out of the pocket of her shorts and shoved one in the lock with a hand that insisted on shaking, and then he followed her in.

  The basketball court. Site of school dances she hadn’t attended, and school assemblies she had. Bleachers and pine flooring and metal rafters high overhead. And Jim Lawson pushing her up against the concrete-block wall, his hard mouth on hers, his hand inside her shirt, cupping her breast through the sports bra, like the high school dream she’d never dared to have.

  He had a hand underneath her, was hauling her up higher, grinding into her, and she was whimpering.

  “C-cameras,” she finally managed to say. “Come on.”

  She led him through another door, down another echoing hallway. A push of a door. “No cameras in here,” she said. The girls’ locker room.

  He didn’t answer. He had his arm around her again, his other hand behind her head, and he was kissing her again, too. Backing her up, right through another doorway. Into the shower room. And then into a tiled cubicle.

  He had her T-shirt up before she could blink, and was yanking it off before she could protest. Not that she felt capable of it. He looked at her bra, said, “How?” and she said, “Hooks. In back,” and he was unfastening them, tossing it on top of the shirt.