Now and Always

by Lori Copeland

  Katie Addison’s.

  Three

  Well, then those people just need to acquire a taste for soy products!” Katie slammed down the receiver, seething. Oh, Ben was glad to help, only he was taking his own good time locating the horses’ owner.

  “Whoever owns those animals are making a hefty profit,” he’d pointed out with the aplomb of a terrorist. “You really think they’d give them to you instead of selling them for meat?”

  That’s when she’d said the European market needed to acquire a taste for soy products, which made Ben snort.

  Taking a deep breath, Katie drummed her fingernails on the counter, Grandpops’s voice ringing in her head. “It’s a crying shame, just a crying shame.” Life’s setbacks were either the government’s fault or a crying shame with him. Katie must have gotten her faith from Grandmoms. She never recalled a time when Willa complained about anything. Everything was just fine. Really good. Couldn’t be better, happier, or healthier. The roof could be caving in and she’d be praising the good Lord for rain. The day they buried Grandpops, she was stricken with grief, but she commented several times about what a pretty day it was for December. Wouldn’t get many more of these, she predicted, until spring. Then she blew her nose and wiped her red eyes and lived another four years before she joined Grandpops in heaven.

  Those beautiful horses had been on their way to a slaughterhouse. Katie cringed to think what would have happened if she hadn’t come along when she did.

  She sat and started snapping green beans. Rules and regulations — the world was full of them. She snapped a bean and tossed it into the pot. What harm would it do to take the four surviving horses and nurse them back to health? Once the animals’ health was restored — if it could be restored, local children could come to the house and ride on Sunday afternoons — no, think clearly, Katie. You run enough risk by givingprivate riding lessons. You can’t invite more outsiders here becauseof the women, but you could nurse the horses back to health andplace them in a rehabilitation farm.

  Another bean hit the pot. There were compassionate farms that would care for the horses until someone was found to adopt them. Katie’s earlier call to the humane society had proved a dead end. They had no knowledge of the horses and suggested they were owned by a private party. She’d called Ben back, and he assured her that he was putting a trace on the vehicle. He’d promised to get back to her by noon. When she’d asked where the injured horses were, he’d said they were being taken care of. She didn’t want to think what that might mean. She went back over their earlier, brief conversation.

  “Call me the minute you hear anything, Ben. Promise me?”

  “Katie, don’t get your hopes up on a bunch of injured horses. American horses are killed every day so their meat can satisfy the palates of overseas European diners. And Premarin sure isn’t helping the cause. Horses are abused every day to harvest artificial hormones for women. As far as I’m concerned, women have too many hormones the way it is.”

  “These horses aren’t going be somebody’s dinner if I can help it.”

  “Where would you put them? Your barn can’t hold more than five or six animals.”

  “The four surviving horses and my Appaloosa make five, so I’m okay. I also have ten acres, you know.”

  “Your ten acres are full to overflowing with strays, and you’re constantly telling me you’re broke.”

  “I am constantly broke, but I’ve learned to live with it, and I can take care of those horses until they’re ready to be moved. They don’t need to end up in a slaughterhouse.”

  “That’s all you need. A big feed bill.”

  “You just help me get the horses, and I’ll worry about feeding them.”

  “What time is it, anyway?”

  Katie dropped a bean in the pot and glanced up to see Clara Townsend framed in the doorway. The politician focused on her. Smoke rolled from the cigarette dangling from the right corner of her crimson lips. Katie stared — aware that staring was rude. But this woman’s face was plastered on the television in commercials hourly — or a replica of this woman touting Townsend for Congress! The smooth talking, baby-kissing politician that belted out welfare reform, lower taxes, and revamping Medicare looked nothing like this — person.

  Katie’s gaze dropped to her watch. “10:15.”

  Clara stared back through a trail of roiling smoke. “a.m.?”

  Katie nodded, still puzzled by the politician’s radical change of appearance. She’d let her new guest sleep in this morning. By the time she picked her up at the airport, argued over luggage and the lack of a private bathroom, and returned home, it was late. Tottie had been in her nightgown watching the news when they arrived. A dim lamp burned in the study window. Clara said little on the drive, chain-smoking incessantly. Katie should have stated the shelter’s rules, but last night the woman had looked so drained, she decided to wait until morning.

  Last night, the bruises had been less visible beneath heavy makeup. Now with her face void of artifice, it was easier to see the huge shiner beneath Clara’s left eye. The fading bruises were far worse than Katie had first expected. She knew little about the politician’s story, other than that the woman was married to an abusive husband. Who knew how long the abuse had existed, but however long, Clara and her political machine managed to conceal the troubled marriage until this last incident. Now she was in a heated congressional race to win back her seat, and until the seat was sewn up, it was up to Katie to keep her safe and the ugly secret intact.

  Katie didn’t like the assignment. Lying by omission wasn’t something she’d ordinarily condone, but the election was only a month away, and Clara clearly needed help regardless of her political aspirations. When the ballots were counted, Clara would have to decide what she wanted to do about her marriage. Until then, Katie would do her best to protect her. Katie turned to pour a cup of coffee, and Clara stopped her. “Do you have any gin in the house? I could use something to take the edge off.”

  Katie’s eyes flew to Grandpops’s picture sitting on the kitchen shelf, halfway expecting him to leap from the frame and give the politician a scathing lecture on the evils of drink. Grandpops was a teetotaler, and he had no sympathy for the devil brew.

  “Liquor isn’t allowed on the premises.”

  Clara brows shot to her hairline.

  “Nor smoking,” Katie added.

  The cigarette drooped. The politician slowly reached up and extracted the butt. “You must be kidding.”

  “I never kid.” Katie raised her brow. “Get rid of the cigarettes.”

  Four

  Before lunch, Katie gathered the women in the living room for their biweekly group session, planning to lay groundwork for community harmony. She had a feeling Clara and Meg would strike sparks if allowed to do what came naturally.

  Clara sauntered in and took the most comfortable chair, clearly at odds with her surroundings. The others entered and sat down. Meg, whose straight, long hair hung like a dark curtain, was wearing jeans ripped at both knees and a T-shirt that bared her stomach. Heavy with baby, she dropped onto the sofa. Katie sighed and looked away. It was a waste of time talking to Meg about her clothes. She would listen and then repeat what she’d already said — “I didn’t have anything else to wear.” The butterfly tattoo on her right bicep looked particularly garish today.

  The girl was barely twenty with a lot of baggage. In life experience, she was a hundred years old. She grew up with an alcoholic father and had been on her own since she was fourteen. She’d shared some of her childhood and was trying, with Katie’s help and a lot of prayer, to accept and believe that her father’s drinking hadn’t been her fault. Confrontational and outspoken, Meg had an inferiority complex that she tried to cover up with an attitude. Katie had a feeling the girl thought that she didn’t deserve to be loved, so she took what was offered, and what was offered was abuse. Her significant other had used her for a punching bag.

  Janet, short, plump, with a halo of blon
de curls, wore jeans and a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She was the most helpful of the three, always underfoot, always trying to lend a hand whether it was wanted or not. Her husband was a professor in their local college, a pillar of the community, a deacon in the church, and an abuser at home. Katie had a feeling that Janet had spent so many years trying to be the perfect wife, she didn’t know how to relax and just be Janet.

  In their late night talks, Janet admitted she was an enabler, helping her husband cover up his behavior and not holding him accountable, either in church or at home. She had a heart as big as the Grand Canyon, always offering help. She drove Meg crazy trying to mother her.

  Mousey little Ruth was scared of her shadow. Even her manners depicted a frightened soul. She wore her nondescript brown hair scooped up in a ponytail and always sat quietly, wearing a blank expression. She seemed sad, holding herself a little withdrawn from the others. She’d had to leave a child behind. Ruth never spoke of the accident that put her child in the hospital. The courts ruled the fall accidental, but her husband had kicked her out of the house, refusing to let her see their young daughter. When she went to the police with her story, she was given a court-appointed lawyer who was fighting her case, but for now she sought protective shelter at Candlelight. Katie stood before them, four wounded females seeking to put their lives back together. The rules written on the paper were trivial compared to the problems they faced, but there had to be behavioral guidelines. They eyed her expectantly, so she took a deep breath and began.

  “I know you’re familiar with the rules, but I thought we should go over them one more time.”

  Meg jerked her chin toward Clara. “She was smoking on the side porch this morning.”

  Clara shot her a haughty glance.

  Meg’s expression plainly asked, You think you’re special?

  Katie cleared her throat and continued. “Without some guidelines, we’d all be stepping on each other. So let me quickly reiterate Candlelight Shelter’s policy. No alcohol, either on or off the premises.”

  Clara’s expression tightened.

  “No smoking — either in your rooms or outside. Some, including me, have allergies, so we should be aware of each other’s needs and try to support one another. Secondhand smoke is harmful to Meg’s baby. Let’s try to remember we are a family, a caring and supportive family.”

  “I can’t smoke because you have allergies?” Clara’s brows rose. “Well boo-hoo.”

  Meg shifted her position on the sofa. “Really, Mrs. Townsend. Must we spell it out for you? No booze, no smokes, no hassle. Got it? You might be Queen on the Hill, but you’re nothing here. You’re just like us.”

  Katie sighed. So much for family unity. She should just let Meg read the rules and be done with it. She seemed to be doing fine with passing them on. Katie tried again. “Each of you is asked to limit your calls to lawyers and emergencies. Phone calls from the house line will be monitored. No cell phones, and email access is forbidden. You are free to go outside, but you are limited to the house property. If you need something that can only be provided outside these grounds, you will tell Tottie or me, and we’ll arrange to accommodate you.”

  Clara made some sort of unimpressed sound in her throat but otherwise remained silent. The woman was abused; she wasn’t stupid nor did she want her location announced to the world.

  “It really isn’t so bad,” Ruth suggested softly. “We’re all here for the same reason, and the rules are for everyone’s welfare.”

  Voices agreed. Except for Clara. Was she getting this? Could Katie ever penetrate the icy wall the woman — or her circumstances — had erected around herself? Katie didn’t want to embarrass her by singling her out, but she had to be a team player or leave. The consequence of failure to abide by the rules sometimes was a matter of life or death. How could she impress on Mrs. Townsend that this was not a luxury spa with breakfast in bed and seaweed wraps?

  “Clara, because you are so recognizable, you run the biggest risk of being spotted. I suggest that you wear a hat any time you venture outside. Your hair is a most becoming shade, but easily spotted.” Katie smiled warmly, praying to break through the woman’s brittle veneer. “Would you like to tell the others a little about yourself?” Katie always encouraged the women to share, to let them know they weren’t in this fight by themselves.

  Clara shook her head.

  Smiling, Katie made the introductions. “Clara is our celebrity, ladies. She’s running for political office.”

  “I thought I recognized you!” Janet, always the cheerful one — not to mention the only one in the room who looked interested, gushed. “I see you on television all the time! What are you running for?”

  “The county line,” Meg cracked.

  Clara sent a steely glance. “I’m running for the office of the United States Senate.”

  “That’s you on those icky commercials?” Meg’s flabbergasted expression was as authentic as butter. “You’re that slick-talking chick who’s going to solve the world’s problems, cut my taxes, and make my kids rich if we just give you a chance? What happened? Your old man didn’t agree?”

  “Meg,” Katie cautioned.

  Janet reached over and laid a hand on Clara’s arm. “You’ll get used to her, honey. Meg speaks her mind, but she’s got a good heart. Don’t feel bad about being here at Candlelight. The Lord knows we may all be different, but we have one mutual problem we share.” Janet’s gaze singled out Meg. “We’re a sisterhood here. Some of us speak our minds, and others sit back and live and let live. But one thing you can count on. We’re here for each other, and as God is our witness, we have taken a stance. No one, no one will ever strike us, try to strangle us, or try to verbally or physically abuse us. We stand united, and you’re one of us.”

  “Look.” Clara shoved out of her chair. “Don’t think me rude, but keep your pacts and sisterhoods to yourself. This is not something that I will allow to happen to me again. I’m here until the election. November 8, I’m out of here.” She left the room.

  Silence lingered like a bad air.

  Finally, Katie cleared her throat and said. “And the most basic rule — love your neighbor as you love yourself.”

  “Ha.” This came from Meg.

  “Perhaps a study course on servanthood would be helpful,” Janet supplied.

  The young woman rolled her eyes.

  “Can’t we all just get along?” Ruth had said little, but Katie knew dissention unnerved her. Ruth had been verbally abused as a child and had grown up to marry a man just like her father. Withdrawn, unable to trust easily, she shrank from any kind of confrontation. Her eyes roamed the others, bearing a pleading expression. “Isn’t life hard enough without us picking each other apart?”

  Katie agreed. “Ruth makes an excellent point, ladies. I realize that Clara may seem harsh and unfeeling, but we need to allow her time to adjust, make friends at her own rate. She’ll come around,” she predicted.

  If she didn’t, the shelter only had a month to deal with the situation.

  The steel band beneath Clara’s assumed indifference was a brittle front. Katie was sure the woman wasn’t as unconcerned or as boorish as she appeared. Her circumstances were humiliating. Instead of being on the campaign trail, she was hiding away and depending on pretaped ads to excite her constituents.

  Meg struggled to her feet and pulled her T-shirt down, although it wasn’t possible to conceal the bare stretch of skin covering her protruding abdomen. Katie made a silent vow to buy that girl some larger shirts. Longer too. One more thing she needed extra money for.

  The women filed out, and Katie acknowledged that the next month was going to be a struggle, to say the least.

  Father, you’ve given me a path to follow. To the best of myability, I’m following it, but money is a problem, Lord. You knowthat. If I’m to keep the shelter open, I pray you will intervene andshow me the way.

  The guests knew nothing about the shelter’s precarious lack of
funds. Years ago those who knew about the shelter kept it running with donations, but these days everyone had a hand out, and contributions had slowed to a trickle. Given the women’s situations, most didn’t have access to funds in hiding. Katie had never applied for state financial help; her establishment couldn’t comply with government rules and regulations. Candlelight Shelter was an act of love, not a business. She took only special cases, ones that Amy recommended.

  Katie figured she could hold out another month. One month. Like Clara’s destiny, four weeks and the shelter’s fate would be decided. If the money situation worsened, she’d have no choice but to close the facility and sell the property. Her heart ached at the thought of selling Grandpops’s land, but sometimes life didn’t offer many choices.

  Was it possible that Clara, the coarse, ill-tempered woman who opposed almost everything, had the same dinosaurs bumping around in the pit of her stomach that Katie had right now? After all, the woman had been in the spotlight for years; now she cowered in a small corner of Wyoming, fearing the public’s reaction to her plight, terrified of the very source that could send her back to fame and fortune.

  The phone rang and Katie lifted the receiver, still thinking about Clara.

  A raspy voice came over the line. “You’re in the wrong business, lady.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s going to get hurt, sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Who is this?”

  “A friend. Send those women back to their husbands and quit sticking your nose into everybody’s business.”

  Anger surged through her. “You listen to me — ”

  “No, you listen to me. Heed this warning.” The anger spawn from the voice chilled her, though the late afternoon heat had turned vicious. “Close the shelter before you get hurt.”