by Becky McGraw
“Billy can be a hard ass, but it gets better the longer you’re there. He has to learn to trust you,” Dylan said lifting a bale. It had taken Dylan six months to earn Billy’s trust. After he did, it wasn’t something he wanted to lose. So, he’d toed the line Billy drew every time, and didn’t push the limits placed on him.
It didn’t sound like Sharon or Billy had made much progress with Chris. But it took time, he knew firsthand. “I have a question for you, and you can choose not to answer, if you don’t want to,” Dylan said nonchalantly as he carried another bale to the stack.
This was probably a chore he shouldn’t be attempting, because of the stress it put on his shoulder, but he’d needed some hard work to distract him. He was paying for the distraction now. His shoulder was aching again. Dylan didn’t ask again, he just continued to work, and so did Chris. Four bales later, Chris finally spoke, “Ask me.”
Dylan stopped to sit on the flatbed. He needed a break, and Chris probably did too. He shoved his hat back on his head to swipe his brow with his sleeve. He patted the spot beside him on the trailer. “Take a break, it’s hot out here.”
Chris looked hesitant, but he finally stepped on a tire and sat beside him. Dylan took time to formulate his question in a way that would probably get him an answer. “How was the pot you smoked at school? You like how it made you feel?”
Dylan looked at him and saw his hands fist, and didn’t miss the tic in his jaw. He didn’t answer for a long time, and Dylan almost thought he wouldn’t. Finally, the kid’s hands loosened and he sighed. “I don’t do drugs. My daddy was a cop.”
From experience, Dylan knew that didn’t mean a damned thing. He’d been in juvie, and at New Hope with a lot of cops’ kids who did drugs. But he believed Chris was telling him the truth. “How’d you get busted for drugs then?”
“Bad timing,” he mumbled looking down at his hands.
Dylan laughed. “Timing is everything, but that doesn’t explain why you had the drugs, if you weren’t smoking them,” he said evenly. “I got caught once, but it wasn’t timing. I was smoking it. Figured out after the second time I used pot, it wasn’t good. I couldn’t keep my head straight. Once I got caught, it was hard for people to trust me.”
Billy had caught him out in the barn with the joint he’d gotten from one of the other kids. That is what set him back three months on the trust train, and it had almost set the barn on fire when he tried to snuff it on the hay strewn floor.
Chris gasped. “You smoked pot?” His voice sounded disbelieving.
“Yep. Sure did. And it definitely wasn’t worth it.”
“Did you go to jail like I did?” he asked.
“You didn’t go to jail. That was juvie. Jail is much, much worse, and that’s where you’ll end up if you don’t fix things now. If you mess up once you hit eighteen, you go to jail. That’s why you’re at New Hope. That place is the only reason I straightened up in time.”
“They’re pretty damned strict,” Chris grumbled.
“Beats juvie or jail,” Dylan shot back.
Chris looked at him. “I guess so. Let me ask you something now,” he said.
“Ask, me anything,” Dylan replied.
“You won’t tell my mom?”
Dylan resisted pumping his fist in victory. The kid was going to talk, tell him something important. Probably something he hadn’t told anyone else. He shook his head and swiped an X over his chest with his finger.
Chris looked away to ask, “You ever had someone threaten your family because you owed them money?”
Fear for Carrie and Izzy shot through him at the kid’s question. But he couldn’t show it, or Chris would clam up. Dylan had to finish hearing this. He had a really, really bad feeling this kid was in more trouble than Carrie, or anyone knew about. “I don’t have a family,” Dylan replied evenly. “It’s just me. My parents died, and I don’t know where they sent my three brothers. Billy and Sharon are as close to family as I have.”
Chris’s legs started swinging under the flatbed. His hands twisted in his lap, and he just stared at them for what felt like a whole minute. “I know now it was stupid, but I was carrying those drugs to find out who else was involved in killing my daddy,” he finally said with a long shuddering sigh. His whole body deflated, and his shoulders slumped. “They sent Uncle Trace to prison, so I figured he did it. But then I found a log book in daddy’s office, and thought there were other people involved too. The cops weren’t doing anything else after they put Trace in jail. I wanted them all to pay for what they did. I used the contact list in the log book to find the gang to see if I could find out anything. Now, Mom says the cops found out it was dad’s friend Seth who did it all. They let Trace go. And I’m in trouble with the drug gang over the drugs and money.”
Holy shit, holy shit. Dylan’s blood pressure skyrocketed, but he resisted the urge to freak out. If he did that the kid would stop talking. If he came out with, why in the hell did you get involved with that shit?, or how could you be so stupid kid? You could’ve gotten yourself killed!, Dylan knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere either. “Is that why you stole the truck and shotgun?” he asked as calmly as he could manage.
“Before we moved, the gang threatened to kill Izzy and mom if I didn’t give them the money I owed them. I couldn’t. Mom found it and used it for us to move. I know they’re still looking for me. If they find us, I know they’ll do it. They’re that mean. I called the guy I dealt with from Uncle Trace’s house to see if I could work things out. He said if I gave him the pot I have stashed, and meet him to do one more run, he’ll let me off the hook.”
“How much do you owe them?”
“Twelve thousand bucks,” Chris replied with a tremble in his voice.
Dylan sucked in a breath through his teeth. “From pot? What were you carrying a kilo?”
“Only a little of the drugs were pot. The school only caught me with a little pot on me. What I was going to deliver that day. The rest is hid out in an old barn close to where I used to go to school. I made trips there on my bike every day before school to pick it up, then dropped it off after school to different people to get the money for them. Eight thousand bucks was the cash I’d collected, but hadn’t given them yet. I put it under my mattress to hide it,” he shrugged. “Mom found it before I could give it to them.”
“Where did you tell her it came from?” Surely Carrie had asked him. If she knew, Chis would probably not have an ass left. If anyone else knew, the kid would be in juvie until he was twenty-one. Or in a foster home. Dylan shuddered at the thought.
“I lied and told her I found it in daddy’s office. I knew I’d get in more trouble than I was in already. And drag her into it too. She would’ve called the cops. But I’ve got to do something.” He finally met Dylan’s eyes. “I’m the man of the house since daddy’s dead. I can’t let them hurt my mom and sister.”
Dylan wasn’t about to let that happen either. “You can’t go meet them. That’s not people you want to mess with, Chris. They’d just as soon shoot you as give you a run to clear the debt. They wouldn’t have any problem with lying to get you there to hurt you.”
He huffed a breath. “What should I do then?”
“You shouldn’t do a damned thing. They’re not going to find you out here, unless you tell them you’re here. Don’t call them, or you could put your mom and sister at risk.”
He looked at Dylan again. “So, are you going to tell mom?”
The urge to do just that was so strong, it took physical effort not to hop down off the flatbed and head up to the house to tell Carrie. He promised the kid though, and trust was a two way street. If he did that, Chris would never trust him again. “No, I’m not going to tell her. But you are,” he said gruffly.
“I’m not telling her,” Chris said folding his arms over his chest. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you anything.”
“I’m glad you told me, but you know what you need to do. I’m not going to force you to tell her, but
if you’re half the man you say you are, and you’re concerned about your sister and mother, that’s exactly what you’ll do. She can help you. Call the police or come up with another plan to help you.”
“She can’t call the cops! I’ll go to jail! They’ll find Mom and Izzy and hurt them!” he screeched, his voice cracking in typical thirteen-year-old boy style, as he hopped down to face Dylan. “Goddammit!” he growled then turned to storm off toward the big house.
Dylan caught him right past the front of the barn. He grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Do not use that language again,” he growled.
“You’re not my fucking daddy!” Chris shouted.
“Thank the good Lord for that too!” The words fell out of his mouth and Chris’s face fell. Hurt entered his eyes, and he pulled his arm out of Dylan’s grasp. Dylan’s anger fled, leaving a queasy feeling in his stomach. “I didn’t mean that, Chris. Any man would be proud to call you his son. I just don’t have kids, so I don’t know how to handle this situation. All I do know is I’ve been in your shoes. The best thing you can do is come clean. You have a mother who loves you and wants to help you. You have a lot more going for you than I did.”
“What happened to your mother?” Chris asked, his jaw still tight.
“She killed herself when I was thirteen,” Dylan replied, and that sick feeling in his stomach worsened. “My three brothers and I were put into foster care. None of the homes lasted because I was a badass. I have no idea where my brothers are. I haven’t seen them since the day we were separated. You have your mom and you have Izzy. Both of them love you. Talk to them.”
Chris was quiet a minute then he nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
Well at least that was better than nothing. “I’m not going to tell her. I promise.” It wasn’t his business. This kid wasn’t his son or his responsibility. He wanted to help, but unless Chris asked for help, he wasn’t going to step in. “Now you have a truck to pay for, and we have work to do. Let’s get to it,” Dylan said walking back to the flatbed. He didn’t look to see if Chris followed. Until the kid decided to do the right thing, Dylan had done all he could do for him.
If Sharon and Billy found out what was going on though, he would be out of New Hope. They helped kids who were in trouble, but they didn’t help kids who didn’t help themselves.
Until Chris decided to do that, the best thing he could do would be avoid Carrie. If he saw her, he would be too tempted tell her himself.
That wouldn’t be doing the kid or himself any favors.
***
Carrie hadn’t seen Dylan in two weeks. He was laying low, evidently trying to be done with her after their rendezvous at his love shack in the woods. And with every day that passed, the more upset she became. She’d thought better of him. He could at least give her the brush off to her face. What he was doing, avoiding her, was cowardly. He hadn’t be up to the house for anything. Chris had come for visits and gone twice, but still no Dylan.
Chris said he’d seen him at the barn, worked with him out there, but still he hadn’t bothered to come to the house to see her. And she definitely wasn’t going out there. Well, if he didn’t want to see her, talk to her, then that was fine with her. She wasn’t going to find him, that was for sure. Emotion built in her chest like a boiling kettle, and she blew out a breath to relieve some of it before turning her focus back to the cake she was baking.
This was the third one she’d baked since she’d seen Dylan last. The third weekend party she was baking for. Two weeks, three parties. “Heartless low-life bastard,” she grumbled as she folded the creamed butter and sugar into her cake flour.
“I resemble that remark,” Joel said, stopping at the counter to swipe his finger in the batter bowl. He popped it into his mouth and sighed as he slid it slowly back out.
Carrie shot him a hot look, and growled, “Stay out of my batter, Joel.” The best thing they could all do was leave her the hell alone. Especially Penny. That woman was going to get a piece of her mind if she came back in here bitching about how messy her kitchen was. When Carrie was in here working, this was her kitchen. She looked back down at the bowl and scraped the sides with her rubber spatula. “Best thing you can do is stay out of the kitchen.”
“Man, you’re in a bad mood. What’s up?” he asked casually, sitting at a bar stool.
“I don’t have time for this, Joel,” she grated, as she yanked the plug of the mixer out of the socket and carried it to the sink.
“You’ve been a bear to everyone for over a week,” he said in a flatter tone.
She felt like a fucking bear right now. Frustration rumbled in her chest as she spun back toward the breakfast bar to put her hands on her hips. “I’m about to start my period. I have PMS. Is that enough of an answer for you?” Definitely her problem at the moment, but far short of all of it. It was all the answer Joel was going to get though. The rest was her business.
Joel’s eyebrows shot up and his cheeks turned bright red. The stool scraped on the floor, he stood so fast. “Yeah, that explains it. I’m out of here. Let me know if you, um, need anything.” Carrie almost laughed he left so fast.
But she just didn’t have it in her. She was pissed and hurt. As pissed as she’d been in a long time. Dylan Thomas had done that to her. She’d let the no-account cowboy do that to her.
The back door flew inward on its hinges, and Izzy ran in grinning from ear to ear. “Mom! Mom! Dylan got me a pink bridle for Snowy!” she said breathlessly as she stopped beside Carrie, proudly holding up a muddy hot pink rope bridle.
A chunk of dirt fell onto the floor. Carrie’s eyes tracked down to Izzy’s muddy sneakers, then followed the footprints to the door. It had rained last night. It looked like there was no mud left in the yard, because her filthy daughter had just tracked it all inside. “Isabella Grace!” she screeched, pushing off the counter to head to the pantry for a mop.
“Ut oh, two names. I’m sorry, mommy,” Izzy said as she quickly plodded back toward the door, leaving retreating mud footprints on top of the ones she made coming in.
Carrie had to get the damned cakes in the oven, and now she had another mess to clean up. It seemed her life was all about cleaning up messes these days. Her son’s messes, her daughter’s…her own. Her lower lip wobbled, as she jerked the mop up and grabbed the mob bucket. Sleeping with Dylan Thomas had created the biggest mess of all. Letting him near her kids made that worse. They were getting attached to him too. He was making them love him, and he knew he was leaving. Just like he’d done to her.
Bastard.
Carrie slid down the door jamb to sit on her butt and let the handle of the bucket fall. She released the mop then covered her face with her hands. What the hell was she going to do?
Deal with it. Just like she did all the other disappointments and devastations in her life. Carrie didn’t have the option of quitting. She was a mother, and by having her kids she’d made a commitment to love them unconditionally. Even if they tracked mud over the floors, even if they looked for trouble at every opportunity, Carrie loved them with all her heart. Would always love them, and try to help them clean up their messes.
That’s what mothers did.
Dylan was another story, but one she didn’t want to think about anymore. She couldn’t let herself think about him. She had work to do. With a deep sigh, she stood back up and grabbed the mop handle.
She’d give herself time to think about him tonight. When she was in bed alone. When she could cry until she got him out of her system. Izzy had her own room now, so Carrie could at least lock her door and find relief there, if not sleep. She hadn’t been sleeping well at all, so she came down here and baked at all hours of the night. Even when she didn’t have orders. As long as she had things cleaned up before eight a.m., when Penny rolled in, things were okay.
Her recipe for relief wasn’t working this time though. It just gave her quiet time to think about him. To wonder why he hadn’t spoken to her in two weeks.
S
he was tired of thinking about him. Carrie was just tired.
And dammit if she hadn’t just started her period, but she could only deal with one mess at a time. With a sigh, she walked back into the kitchen and stopped at the sink to fill up the bucket. The door open again, and she groaned, then glanced that way. A tremor rocked her when Dylan stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“Well, I think I’ve just seen a ghost,” she said angrily, as she shut off the tap. “Thought you’d taken off like you love to do, coward. What the hell do you want?” Tell me you love me. Tell me you came up here because you missed me.
Fantasy. Not gonna happen.
Carrie hefted the bucket out of the sink and water sloshed on her boots as she set it on the floor. Dylan was there in a snap, picking up the bucket for her, but he didn’t beat around the bush for the reason behind his sudden visit. “I came to see if you’d…well, to see if you found out if you’re pregnant yet.”
Those words made it patently clear to her that avoiding her is exactly what he’d been doing. And he couldn’t give a shit less about her, or her feelings. “I’m great, thank you for asking. Funny you should pick now to ask that,” Carrie replied acidly. “Aunt Flo just came to visit, so you can crawl back under the rock you slithered out from under to ask, asshole. I have nothing else to say to you.”
She grabbed the bucket from him, and carried it around the counter. It sloshed again on her feet as she set it down, but Carrie didn’t care. She was so mad, her boots would probably dry on their own. Evaporate from the heat she felt all the way down to her toes. “Now get the hell out of here, so I can mop.”
And sweep up the pieces of her heart, which he’d just shattered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Mom, what do you mean you’re moving to Arizona?!?” Carrie screeched into the phone she held in her white knuckled fingers.