Love in Due Time

by Smartypants Romance

  Thank you, goddess next door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dewey Decimal Classification: 306.87 Parenting

  [Nathan]

  What a fucking night and it isn’t over yet.

  I’m totally beat when I reach my house after a statement to the sheriff. I don’t know what exactly will happen next for the Hendersons. Junior admitted what he’d done to his father. Both kept quiet on what they did to Naomi, though, and I had no problem bringing that part of the evening to Sheriff James’ attention. He’s a good man and I know he’ll look into the matter. For now, Dwight will be in the hospital for surgery and recovery, along with an arrest as an accomplice in the kidnapping of Naomi Winters. Junior’s headed for juvenile detention and hopefully some mental care. His guilt could eat him alive. I know all about that.

  I’m torn between heading next door and going home to my girls, but the blood on my hands needs to be washed away and the ruined jacket needs to be replaced. I need to clean myself up before I go to Naomi. Despite Sheriff James’s assurance that she is safely in her home being interviewed by his son, Jackson, I need to see Naomi for myself.

  It is more than that.

  I need to touch her. Her hair. Her face. Her lips. I need personal confirmation she is whole because this evening, I’m broken.

  I could have lost Dahlia.

  I could have lost Clem.

  I could have lost Naomi.

  The final thought hits me hard in the chest. It isn’t that Naomi ranks higher than my children, but she rates among the most important people in my life—the people I never want to lose—and the people I love most.

  After I toss my construction jacket in the trash and take a quick shower, I stand outside Clementine’s door, watching her sleep. My heart expands with love and fear. What if those boys had taken her? What if they had touched her? Emotions swirl within me. In her pink room with a nightlight projecting stars on the wall, I want Clem to remain as innocent of this world as she is in this moment. Yet, the reality is, she’ll grow up. She is becoming a woman in her own right: intellectually as well as physically. I think back to the books I checked out at the library. The ones which re-introduced me to Naomi, rekindled my attraction to her, thus beginning this wild ride. My sweet Clem was part of the universe reconnecting Naomi and me, all because I needed books to help her understand her changing body. There needs to be an adult book titled I Have a Heart. The subtitle could be how to understand the constantly evolving emotions within it.

  Speaking of a child growing into a woman, I sense Dahlia behind me in the narrow hallway. Not quite a woman. More than a child. Who knows what could have happened to her this evening at the Fugitive if my brother hadn’t been there? She might have given her virginity to a boy, who was lost, who got called away, who followed his head instead of his heart.

  “Is she okay?” The small sound of my daughter’s voice turns my head. She looks young again with her hair freshly washed, long and straight around her face. She wears baggy pajama pants with giant smiley faces and a faded pink T-shirt. Why can’t she stay like this?

  “Clem will be okay. She’s pretty resilient.” When I moved Clem away from her mother, I worried about the repercussions of her not seeing Margie as often. A young girl needs her mother. Clem has never once hinted she misses her mom or wants Margie more than me. “She isn’t hurt physically. I just hope she doesn’t have a nightmare.”

  “I didn’t mean Dandelion, but if she wakes up, I can get her. She’ll probably come to me anyway.” I search for sarcasm in my daughter’s voice. She’s hinted often enough lately that she feels responsible for Clem in a way she doesn’t appreciate. On the other hand, if Clem does have a bad dream, I usually return her to her own bed as I feel she’s too old to crawl in with me. Since our return to Green Valley, I have found Clem in Dahlia’s room if she’s had a nightmare. Dahlia’s head lowers, as she swipes hair behind her ear. Sheepishly, she adds, “I meant Miss Naomi.”

  I take a deep breath, shuddering when I consider that my daughter knew how this night might play out, and she didn’t tell me. I pause with my hand on the doorjamb, taking a deep breath to steady myself before I face her.

  “She’s shaken up and frightened, which I’m sure was their intention.” The boys didn’t appear to know what to do next with Naomi, despite what they said about burning, and who knows what Dwight was thinking. After the initial capture, there wasn’t a physical plan. Junior Henderson was too wound up to confess anything other than the idea of capturing the witch, reviving an old legend and proving themselves to a bunch of men—the Iron Wraiths—who could have cared less about the child’s play of kidnapping an innocent woman. If I told Dahlia the names of the offenders, I have no doubt she would recognize them. She already told me who was talking in her school. My only hope is she isn’t mixed up with either of them.

  “I’m sorry something happened to her.” The quiet tone is disconcerting. Dahlia isn’t often contrite or sincere, especially since we moved to Green Valley. Uprooting her to this small town has spurred her sarcasm levels off the chart.

  “I’m going to check on her,” I say hesitantly, although I don’t need my daughter’s approval. She nods slowly.

  “I didn’t mean what I said,” Dahlia states, lifting her head and swiping loose hair behind her ear again.

  “Which time?” It appears my sarcasm has resurfaced, but I’m not in the mood to argue with my child.

  “That I hated you.” A single tear slides down her cheek, but she quickly wipes it away. My shoulders fall, and I step toward my girl. I have already forgotten those words from this evening. I wrap her in my arms, tugging her to my chest.

  “I know, baby,” I tell her, because while she might say she hates me, her words are only words, lashing out for attention. Her slim arms wrap around my middle in a surprising reciprocation of my embrace and she hugs me tighter. My hand cups the back of her head and I kiss her hair. Why can’t she always be like this? Instead, I tell her how I feel, with words I do mean. “I love you, sweetheart.”

  A sharp inhale escapes her. The phrase isn’t something I say often enough to my children, and I need to do better.

  “I love you, too, Daddy. And I meant the other thing I said.”

  I pull back to look down at her. Liquid eyes the color of fresh-tilled earth stare up at me. With her face clear of makeup, her youthful beauty makes my heart ache. “Naomi did make you smile more. Do you think you can win her back?”

  My thumbs swipe at my daughter’s checks. “I’m hoping I can get her to make me smile again.”

  Dahlia’s lips twist in a knowing smirk. She nods once before whispering, “Go get her, Dad.”

  Another quick hug and I’m down the hall and out the back door but not safely in my truck yet. A large body looms against the side of my garage. I’d prepare to fight if I didn’t recognize the outline and have expected him to show up sometime.

  “Curtis.” The use of his given name reminds us both of a time long gone. Nights when he stole to my home needing refuge from his uncle.

  “Wolf.” The use of my biker name reminds us both I’m still obligated to him outside of our past friendship. We stare in the dark at one another, both nothing more than an outlined shadow. If he’s going to kill me, I wish he’d get it over with as I have somewhere important to be other than my own funeral.

  “You saved my life.”

  I’m stunned a moment, remaining silent as I repeat the statement in my mind. I saved his life. Honestly, we have no way of knowing if Junior Henderson intended to kill Catfish, or merely shoot him. Either way, a bullet could have been fatal. Or not. My head lowers, shaking side to side. I don’t know what made me jump over him, taking him to the floor. Maybe it was our long-gone friendship, a relationship once valued by both of us. Maybe it was some sick obligation to him for setting me free.

  I shrug.

  “Not many would do that for someone they owe.”

  Oh man, here it comes.

&nb
sp; “So I’d like to consider us even. A life for a life.”

  My head shoots up and I glare into the darkness at his imposing form. I clear my throat before I speak, not wanting to betray my surprise. One was taken too soon. One was saved tonight. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’ll still be watching out for you, but I think you’ve proven you aren’t going to take us down.” The collective us really means him. He’s a Wraith now, in more ways than one.

  It’s the closest I’m going to get to any gratitude from him. Not that I expect any. I did what I had to do, just like I tried to save Dwight the dweeb. Just like I wanted to save a dying man on a dangerous road. It’s all more of a reminder I’d never fit in with a club, not one like the Wraiths.

  “I hope the chick’s okay.” He references Naomi and I’m hopeful he understands. Maybe he has a conscious after all. His heart certainly belongs to Daniella Payton.

  I tip my chin. “I’ll see ya around.”

  “Let’s hope not,” he responds, stepping back into the dark shadows at the side of my garage. I hear him walk away and hold my breath until the gentle hum of a motorcycle breaks into the late night somewhere off in the distance.

  Finally, I turn for my truck.

  No more waiting, Naomi. I’m on my way.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dewey Decimal Classification: 269 Spiritual Renewal

  [Naomi]

  I sit outside by the firepit, holding a glass of wine in my hands. I can’t seem to get warm although I stood in the shower for the longest time. I scrubbed at my hair and my face, removing the makeup and powder as best I could. It’s the rest of my body that trembles with the grime of them touching me. Nothing sexual, thank you, Mother Earth, but enough manhandling to make me feel dirty.

  I reflect on the night. Sheriff Deputy Jackson James arrived at my house shortly after I got out of the shower. He wanted details of my night and it was hard to recall them all. I’m not a good witness under the stress, but I explained to him how I followed Clem, and found her in the middle of three teens outside the community center.

  “Not men, but definitely young adults. I recognized two of them, but I don’t know their names,” I told him. One was Dwight Henderson’s son, whom Jackson said has been taken to the station for shooting his father.

  “He shot his dad?” My heart breaks a little. What would make a young man pull the trigger on his father?

  “It’s a little messed up but we’ll get to the bottom of it. He clearly needs some help.”

  I nodded. The younger Henderson does need support and guidance. “Will he go to jail?”

  “Juvie.”

  Wow. “What about Dwight?” I don’t want to care about him, but my religion centers on concern for all humans equally.

  “Shot in the leg. He’ll need surgery, recovery, and some jail time himself for what he did to you.”

  Dwight Henderson was being charged as an accomplice in my kidnapping even though he wasn’t present for the actual capturing. I don’t know how this will play out and I’m exhausted just thinking about testifying in court if I need to.

  “What about the other boys?” I asked but Jackson just stared at me.

  “What other boys?” He pauses a beat. “Why don’t you start at the beginning again?”

  I exhale with frustration and recall the evening’s events one more time.

  It will never happen again, I told myself, but my heart did not believe me.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” I recall saying in defense of Clementine and myself, trying to keep my voice calm. My hand throbbed and I cupped my left with my right. Blood dripped from the stinging wound. Clem looked at me over her shoulder and took one giant step in my direction. Thankfully, all eyes seemed trained on me.

  “Broom, broom, broom, look who’s under the moon?” Dwight’s son said.

  “Seems the witch has transformed to a skeleton tonight.” The blond from the Stop-and-Pump spoke.

  “I’d like to check out her bones.” Another boy sneered.

  “I’d like to bone her,” the blond added. I shuddered with the thought.

  “Ewww … she’s old,” Dwight’s clone replied. They’re children in the form of men which made them no less ruthless or strong, I reminded myself.

  “Clem,” I muttered. “Go back inside.”

  “Before she casts a spell on you, my pretty,” Dwight’s son mocked in an evil witch imitation. He looked exactly like his father once did. On the verge of muscles. Spiky dark hair. Questionable eyes.

  My heart pulsed in my ears and my hand throbbed. My only concern was Clem.

  “Let her go. She has nothing you want,” I warned.

  “Except her older sister.” One of the other boys chuckled, and my stomach rolled. Dahlia.

  I stepped forward, hoping to place myself between Clem and the boys. In doing so, I entered their circle.

  “Clem,” I hissed. “Run.” I turned as she did, watching one of the teens bump into her and knock her to the ground. I screamed her name as one grabbed my waist. Lifting me off the ground, I kicked back at my captor while my hands pulled at the arms around my belly.

  “We’ve got ourselves a fighter here,” the boy at my back said, his voice slithering around my neck. “Grab her damn legs.”

  Another boy stepped forward to clutch each of my ankles. I twisted my hips hoping to loosen the hold they had on me. I remembered dropping, and gasping, but I was caught before I hit the ground. My hand shot up and I weakly connected with the chin of the teenager holding me.

  “Bind her hands.” Someone stepped forward and cuffed my wrists at my waist. I saw Clem smacking at the back of the boy at my ankles.

  “Clem, run,” I said. “Tell someone.” It’s part of the advice I’ve given her on being bullied. Tell a teacher, the school social worker, or a friend. Tell someone until they listen. She’d been afraid to tell her dad and I didn’t understand why.

  “Get her,” one of the three demanded, but Clem made it around the building before someone could snatch her.

  Sweet Goddess, don’t let anything happen to the child, I prayed.

  I screamed “Run!” until a hand covered my mouth. A bag went over my head.

  “There were two other boys. One blond. One with pink streaks in his hair,” I told Jackson.

  “They weren’t at the crime scene, but we’ll investigate further,” he assured me.

  “I can’t believe it happened again,” I muttered, not realizing I said it aloud.

  “It won’t ever happen again,” Jackson stated, although how he can be certain is beyond me. There will always be someone who doesn’t understand a religion or political view or sexual orientation. And there will always be discomfort and disconnect from prejudice. Someone will always have a differing perspective, and either act or react based on it. And yet, I don’t get the sense any of what happened tonight revolved around my religious practices.

  What a cluster …

  I nodded as Jackson closed his tablet and stood to leave.

  “What about the Iron Wraiths and Nathan Ryder?” Did something happen to him? He defended me, but we certainly didn’t have time to chat about what was happening. From the moment Nathan had entered the house, my heart raced. Was he hero or foe? I hated that I doubted him. It was all so confusing.

  “Nathan Ryder gave a statement. He was holding his jacket to Dwight’s wound when we arrived, trying to staunch the blood flow. There weren’t any other men present. Just the boy. The other kids must have run off, but we’ll find them. Some of the Wraiths were present, you say?”

  I pause a second, considering how I should react.

  “I must have been mistaken. They were all wearing leather and such,” I lied, waving off my absentminded assessment and hoping Jackson falls for it. See, terrible witness.

  “Will you be okay alone tonight, Miss Winters? Want me to call someone? Your sister maybe?” There’s nothing Beverly could do for me and Scotia would never come. For a momen
t, Jackson lingered, and I worried he was about to suggest himself for comfort.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, still shaky and spent, but I had something I needed to accomplish this night.

  “We’ll be patrolling the area again later tonight. Lock your doors, but you’re safe now,” he said, confident in his protection.

  When Jackson left, I dressed in a simple shift nightgown. It’s gauzy and light and slightly opaque, but it brought me comfort to be dressed in the vintage linen. I had an obligation to myself this evening and it involved a celebration of life and gratitude despite my recent scare.

  Currently, a small pyre is assembled in my backyard, contained within an iron fire-safety ring. A traditional bonfire isn’t permissible so close to the trees surrounding my property, and as I’ll be a singular dancer for this celebration, there’s no need for a raging flame. Tonight is Samhain, and I intend to honor my obligation to remember the dead. It feels especially appropriate this year as recent events have brought so many reminders of my brother’s passing. I’m hopeful the ritual of bread for the deceased, a fire for life, and the spiritual dance will finally put my brother to rest in my heart. I’m ready to release my guilt.

  I take a sip of the celebratory wine. This is the rare occasion I drink, and tonight, I need it.

  With the fire started, and my bare feet slowly warming to the cool earth under my toes, I sit with my knees bent and my shift tucked around my legs. The late October mountain air ripples through the light material but I patiently wait for the fire to heat me. The wine warms my insides and I take another sip of the crisp berry, fall harvest red as I stare at the flames, forming their own dance in the nighttime breeze.