by Jillian Hart
Heading straight for him.
Heath didn’t move. A small voice inside him whispered, “This is it. Let it happen. Stand still and it will all be over.”
It was tempting, that voice, inviting as it tugged at the shards of his heart still beating. All he had to do was not move, that was all.
He held his breath, letting it happen, feeling time slow the same way a movie did when the slow-motion button was hit on the remote. His senses sharpened. The rain tapped against his face with a keen punch and slid along his skin. So wet and cold.
The wind blew through him as if he were already gone. His chest swelled as he breathed in one last time. He smelled the distinct sweetness of wet hay from some farmer’s field and the petroleum exhaust from the truck. The headlights speeding toward him bore holes into his retinas.
Just don’t move. It was what he wanted with all his being. He felt the swish of the next moment, although it hadn’t happen yet. The truck gaining speed, the squealing tires and the stillness within him as he wished for an end to his pain.
But even the wish was wrong. He knew it. His spirit bruised with the sin of it. At the last moment he sidestepped, the same moment the pickup veered right and careened off into the rain. Time shot forward, the rain fell with a vengeance and his lungs burned with the cold. He listened to the subwoofers thumping as the truck vanished.
Lightning split the sky. The sudden brightness seared his eyes and cleaved through his lost soul, and then he was plunged into darkness again.
Alive. He was still alive.
Wind drove icy rain against him like a boat at sea and wet him to the skin. Water sluiced down his face as he stood, shivering from the cold and a pain so deep it had broken him. Being alive was no victory. He felt that death would have been kinder. But not by his own choice and, once again, hopelessness drowned him.
“Are you all right?” Her concern came sharp and startling as the thunder overhead.
Heath turned toward her, like a blind man pivoting toward the sound that could save him. But nothing could. Lost and alone, he was aware of what he must look like to her. His clothes were soaked through. His hair clung to his scalp and forehead. Rain dripped off the tip of his nose and the cleft in his chin.
There, in the cheerful glow of the diner’s windowed front, the two women stood framed in the light. Two women, one a half inch or so taller than the other, with blond hair pulled back from nearly identical faces. They had to be related. The classic features of girl-next-door good looks ought to be a reassuring sight.
Except both women were watching him with horror-filled eyes. He must look like a nut.
With the darkness tugging him and the brutal rain beating him back, he ducked his head and plowed into the storm. He splashed through puddles and the water seeped through the hole in his left boot. As he went, his big toe became wetter and his sock began to wick water across to his other toes.
“Goodness, you gave us a scare!” The waitress was holding the door for him. Concern made her seem to glow as the light haloed her.
He blinked, and the effect was gone. Maybe it was from his fatigue or the fact that adrenaline had kicked in and was tremulous in his veins. He still had the will to live, after all.
Thunder crashed like giant cymbals overhead, and it felt as if he broke with it. As he trudged up the steps and into the heat of the diner, bitterness filled him. There was shelter from this storm, but not from the one that had ripped apart his life.
No, there was no rest and no sanctuary from the past. Not tonight.
The waitress moved aside as he shouldered by, and he felt her intake of breath. The concern was still there, for she wore it like the apron over her jeans and blouse. As sincere as it was, he had no use for concern or sympathy. Those paltry emotions were easy to put on and take off and the words, “I’m sorry for your loss” came back to him.
Words meant to comfort him, when for a fact they were for the speaker’s benefit. To make the speaker feel safe from the brutal uncertainty this life sometimes had to offer.
He’d learned it the hard way. Life played tricks with a person. Get too much, become too happy and bam! It could all disappear in the space between one second and the next.
It was a lesson he would never forget and he doubted the pretty waitress with her big blue-violet eyes and lustrous ponytail of gold would ever understand. What tragedy could happen here in this small little burgh miles from frantic big cities and desperation?
None, that’s what. His boots squished and squeaked against the tile floor as he ambled down the aisle. The faint scent of perfume stayed with him, something subtle and sweet that made him think of dewy violets at dawn’s first light and of hope. That’s what that fragrance smelled like, and he wanted nothing to do with hope.
He didn’t look back as he lumbered the length of the diner to the booth where his burger waited. He reached into his back pocket and hauled out his wallet. Dropped a ten on the table. “I’ve changed my mind. I want this to go.”
“Sure thing.”
She’d said that phrase before and just like that. Politely cheery words held up like a shield as she efficiently went about her work. Amy, her little gold nametag said. Amy. She didn’t look like an Amy. Amys were cute and sweet and bubbly, and this one was somber. Polite and nice, but somber. She liked to keep people at a distance. He knew enough about shields to recognize one when he saw it. He had too many of his own.
She returned with a container and he took it from her. He didn’t like to be waited on. He tipped his plate and the burger and fries tumbled into the box.
Ever efficient, the waitress reached into her crisp apron pocket and laid a handful of ketchup packets on the table. That annoyed him. He couldn’t say why. Maybe because he felt her gaze. Her heavy, questioning gaze as if she were trying to take his measure. Trying to figure him out.
He’d given up long ago.
“There’s no charge,” her voice followed him like a light in a bleak place. “For what you tried to do.”
“I pay my own way.”
Whatever kind of man he looked like, he had standards. He had pride. He had no use for handouts. He wasn’t looking for a soup kitchen and a quick revival meeting to patch up the holes in his soul.
He doubted even God could do that. So he faced the storm. What was a little wind and rain? Nothing.
He was so numb inside that he didn’t feel the icy rain streaking in rivulets along the back of his neck. He didn’t feel the water squish into his boot as he crossed the unlit parking lot and became part of the chill and the night.
Chapter Two
“What’s with you?” Rachel asked as she tied off a bulging black garbage sack. “You’re attacking that floor as if it’s your own personal enemy.”
Amy put a little more shoulder power into the mop. The yellow sponged head compressed into a flat line, oozing soap bubbles as she wrenched the handle back and forth. “I’m trying to get the floor clean.”
“Yeah, but we don’t want the tile to come off with the dirt.”
She had a point, Amy realized as she gave up on the faintest of black streaks—she’d need to buff those out. Otherwise the floor sparkled. She dunked the mop into the bucket, surrendering, and rubbed at the small of her aching back. “Is this day over yet?”
“Go home. I can finish up.”
“No, I told you I’d stay and I will. We leave together.”
“What about Westin? He’s waiting up for you. I don’t have anyone at home for me. You go on.”
“No. We share the work. And that’s low, using my son to get me to do what you want.” Amy loved her sister, who meant well. Who always gave too much. “You know I’m thinking of him.”
Was it wrong that she was thinking of someone else, too?
Yes. Determined to sweep the lone stranger from her mind, she lugged mop and bucket to the industrial sink and, with a heave, emptied the dirty, soapy water. There. The bucket was clean and so was her…well, her list of distraction
s. Westin came first. Always first. She had no business thinking about some man whose name she didn’t know.
Men always led to trouble. Sure, there were a few good ones in the world, but they were as rare as hen’s teeth, as her grandmother used to say. And you couldn’t always tell the mettle of a man, no matter how wonderful he seemed, until it was too late.
That was the truth. There were so many things she wished she could go back in time and change. She’d right every mistake and every problem that had blown up into a bigger problem.
But there was one thing she would never regret, and that was deciding to keep her son. It hadn’t been easy for either of them, but they were a team, and somehow they’d get through this. With the good Lord’s help. And, of course, her family’s.
Rachel wrestled a second garbage bag out of the industrial-sized bin and tied it off. “If you want to trade shifts tomorrow, let me know. Or, if you need me to sit with him so you don’t have to pay a baby-sitter, I’m available. You know how I love to spend time with my nephew.”
“Thanks, I’ll let you know. This means I’m doing the early-morning shift tomorrow?”
“Paige gets back in two days. We just have to survive until then.”
Amy dumped a dollop of soap into the bucket and ran fresh hot water. “Survive? I think we’re doing really good on our own.”
“Except for the short-handed part.”
Paige was their older sister, who ran everything perfectly and was out of town. And while chaperoning the youth-group trip to the Grand Canyon was great, no one had known ahead of time that the cook was going to up and quit out of the blue and leave them shuffling to fill his position and cover most of Paige’s duties.
Rachel, her soft heart showing, straightened from garbage detail. “You’ve been working way more shifts than I have. I know, you don’t mind. You can use the extra tip money. Speaking of which, please take me up on my offer to baby-sit. I know you think it’ll be imposing, but I really want to help. I’m supposed to spend tomorrow doing the books, so it’s done for Paige’s inspection when she gets back. I can just take everything over to your place. Maybe alternate posting to the ledgers with playing a few games, video and otherwise.”
There was no way Amy could say no to her sister’s big doe eyes. And Rachel knew it. Not to mention it would help with the baby-sitter’s bill. But that wasn’t the driving reason she agreed. “I’m sure Westin would love to spend his day with his Aunt Rachel. He’s been wanting to play Candyland with you.”
“Oh, that’s my very favorite game. Probably because I’ve always had a sweet tooth.” Rachel cheerfully grabbed the bulging garbage bags, one in each hand. She was gone with a slap of the door.
Thunder cannoned overhead, echoing in the empty dining room. Amy rocked back on her heels. Wow, that was a good one. As she turned off the faucet and hefted the bucket from the sink, her heart went out to her son miles away. Had he heard it, too? He didn’t like storms.
I’ll be home as soon as I can, baby. Just one patch of floor left. Moving fast, she leaned the mop against the wall and hustled down the aisle, flipping the chairs onto tabletops as she went.
She stopped at the last booth. It was where he’d sat. The stranger. The image of him remained as brightly as if he’d been on a movie screen, how he’d stood with feet braced and shoulders wide in the rain. How he’d faced down the oncoming blaze of headlights and refused to move. He was either really brave or he had a death wish, and she’d nearly fainted with horror watching as the truck had careened toward him. Certain he was about to be hit, she’d started running toward the door until, at the last moment, he’d stepped out of harm’s way.
Then, as if he’d done nothing of consequence, he growled at her, refused her thanks and left the diner with his meal in hand. He just stalked out the door, eager to be on his way, solitary and remote.
Wasn’t that just like a man?
Oh, well, he was gone. She wished him luck. She didn’t know what else to do. She would add him to her prayer list tonight. He’d made her feel things she’d worked hard to keep buried. Feelings and memories she’d banished after her son was born and she’d come home a different woman from the girl who’d left for big-city excitement with a chip on her shoulder and something to prove—only to find out that home wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.
The back door blew open and slammed against the wall. Rachel came in with the wind and rain. “Whew. It nearly blew me away out there and it’s getting worse. Let’s hightail it out of here while we can.”
“I’m almost done.” Determined to finish, Amy upended the final chair. Something dark tumbled to the floor.
She knelt to retrieve it. Mercy’s A’s was scrawled in worn gold-and-white letters on the black fabric of a man’s baseball hat. The bill had curved into a sagging humped shape as if from years of wear. Her loner had sat at this table, but had he been wearing a hat? She didn’t remember one.
It had been a busy day and a busier evening rush. Anyone could have left that cap any time during the supper hours, but there was something about it that made her think of him. Maybe it was the color; her loner had been wearing black.
Her loner—that’s how she was thinking of him, as if she knew him. Maybe it was that she recognized a part of herself in the man. Maybe because she understood it wasn’t only courage but something stronger that had made him stand motionless staring down death.
Yeah, she recognized the feel of despair that clung to him. She knew a like soul when she saw it.
She stowed the cap in the lost-and-found box, tucked it beneath the cash register and got back to work. Rachel was clattering around in the back office—it was little more than a closet, which it had been years and years ago when their parents had run the place.
But after their death, Paige had taken over and decided the front counter was no place to work on the books. So she’d checked out a how-to guide from the library and put them all to work. Amy had chosen the soft yellow paint because it was her favorite color. Of course, she was nine years old at the time. Now the color only reminded her of times best left forgotten. So she was happy to finish the mopping while Rachel muttered about over-rings in the cramped little office.
Amy glanced at the clock—ten thirty-eight—before rapping on the door, which was open. All she saw was Rachel’s back as she hunched over the plywood desk built into the back wall. That didn’t look comfortable. “I’m done out here. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nope. This tape is a mess. I need to talk to whichever of the twins did this today.” Frustrated, Rachel slid back in the folding metal chair and rubbed her forehead with both hands. “Those two are giving me a serious headache.”
Their teenaged cousins were not the most faultless of employees, but they were eager and worked hard. “They just have a lot to learn.”
“I know.” Rachel’s sigh spoke more of her own tiredness than of her upset at the girls, who had both turned seventeen last month. “I’m just going to throw all this in a bag and take it home. I’ll make the deposit tomorrow.”
“Sounds good to me—”
The lights blinked off and stayed off. Pitch black echoed around them.
Amy didn’t move. “It looks like we lost power. Do you think it’s off for good?”
It stayed dark. That seemed like answer enough. Amy was trying to remember where the flashlights were when Rachel’s chair creaked and it was followed by the rasp of a drawer opening. A round beacon of light broke through the inky blackness. Leave it to Rachel. Amy breathed easier. At least they’d be able to close up without feeling their way in the dark.
Lightning flashed, and immediately thunder crashed like breaking steel overhead. Closer. The front was coming fast and moving toward home. She thought of her little boy. Westin was safe with the baby-sitter, but he’d be worried. She couldn’t call to reassure him. It wasn’t safe with the lightning crackling overhead and besides, if the power was out, then the phone lines were probably down, too.
She grabbed her purse from the shelf and her jacket hanging next to it, working in the near dark, for Rachel was hogging the flashlight to zip the cash receipts and the day’s take into her little leather briefcase. Once that was done, Amy hurried ahead and rechecked the front door—locked, just as it was supposed to be—and followed the sound of Rachel tapping through the kitchen toward the back door.
Outside seemed just as dark. An inky blackness was broken only when lightning strobed overhead and speared into the fields just out of town. It was definitely heading south. All she wanted to do was to get home before a tree or a power line blocked the road out of town.
She manhandled the door closed and turned the key in the dead bolt. The wind whipped and lashed at her, strong enough to send her stumbling through the puddles. In the space between lightning bolts, she could feel the electric charge on her skin. It came crisp and metallic in the air.
Rain came in a rage and it bounced like golf balls over the battered blacktop lot and over them. She hadn’t gone two yards and she was drenched to the skin. Following the faint glow of Rachel’s flashlight, she let the wind hurl her toward two humps of shadows that became two parked cars as they stumbled closer. The windshields gleamed, reflecting the finger of fire sizzling overhead. Lightning snapped into a power pole a block or two away. The thunder boomed so hard, Amy’s eardrums hurt with the shock.
Maybe that’s why she didn’t see another shadow until headlights flashed to life. She recognized the row of piercing fog lights blazing atop a pickup’s cab. Oh, heavens. It was the two men who’d hassled her in the restaurant.
It happened so fast. The truck screeched to a halt inches from Rachel, who’d been in the lead. The passenger door thrust open and suddenly there he was, the dark form of a stocky man, muscled arms held out with his hands closed into fists. Everything about him screamed danger. He stalked toward Rachel like a coyote ready to strike.