by Terri Osburn
Carrie lowered the ice pack from her cheek to shoot him a dirty look. “If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you?”
“I don’t know. Would you?”
“Shove it, Dale.” Carrie had had enough of men for one day. Scratch that. For a freaking lifetime. “It isn’t as if you need to talk to him anyway. I told you what happened.”
Dale tapped his notepad. “There’s a man on his way to the hospital, as we speak, who will be lucky if the doctors can give him back a face. Yeah. I need to talk to the guy who did that.”
“That man broke his wife’s arm, probably broke her nose, and he backhanded me into next week. I told you,” Carrie argued, “Noah was defending us. And he probably saved Roberta’s life. You know what that madman would have done to her for leaving him.”
Shaking his head, he said, “You should have brought her to the station. You shouldn’t have done this on your own.”
Putting the ice back on her face, she said, “I got that. Thanks.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Dale said. “This isn’t the Carrie I know.”
It sure as hell wasn’t. The backhand paired with Noah’s parting shots about her life with Patch had been the ultimate attitude adjustment.
“That Carrie got tired of being a victim,” she said. “And if we’d have followed your advice and gone to the police, what would they have done?” she asked. “She’d never filed a domestic abuse report. Never told anyone what was happening behind closed doors. On her two visits to the ER, Roberta never admitted how she’d really gotten those bumps and bruises. You know as well as I do that if she’d have walked into that station claiming abuse without you guys actually witnessing it, she’d have been laughed back out the door.”
“She could have gotten a restraining order.”
“Ha! And watched him walk right through it to send her to the morgue.”
“So sending you both to the hospital is the better alternative?” Dale replied. “I know the system isn’t perfect, Carrie, but this is what the shelter is for. You should have waited until you could take her there.”
The fact that he was right only made her more annoyed. “What are you going to do now?” she asked. “Roberta has no place to go. Someone needs to protect her.”
“I made some calls,” Dale said, unfolding off the porch steps. “Since she doesn’t have any kids, there’s a shelter down in Murfreesboro with an open bed. It’s clean, and though it’s not a plane ride away, she’ll be out of his reach. I’ll make sure she gets down there tonight. He won’t know where to find her.”
“He tracked her on the cell phone. Make sure she doesn’t take it.”
Dale nodded. “I know the tricks, Carrie. I’ll take care of it.”
Carrie watched him walk to his car and climb in. Once the ambulance had left with Wayne and another officer drove Roberta to a different hospital, Dale had told everyone else to go before taking down Carrie’s story. He knew she would have a hard time getting through certain parts, and he hadn’t wanted her to face the humiliation of a larger audience. Such a good man. Why couldn’t she have fallen for him when she’d tried?
Casting her eyes to the farmhouse, she knew the answer to that one. Because Dale hadn’t been the one for her. And now the one for her was suffering somewhere, cold, bleeding, and angry. And it was all her fault.
Noah was fucking freezing. His hands had gone from a dull ache to a cold burn, and if he’d expected the brisk November air to clear his head, he’d been moronically optimistic. With every mile he covered, another image shot through his brain. Another explosion. Another cry of pain. More blood. More bodies. More buddies who never made it back.
And then there was Carrie. Head snapping back with the blow. Not moving on the ground. Face covered in blood.
He needed to change the damn channel. Turn it off. Block it out. But there was only one way to do that. As he turned the bike onto a narrow lane that led to the river, one positive thought floated with the garbage.
Thank God this is a wet county.
Bells jingled above his head as Noah stepped into the package store. Keeping his hands low, he said, “You got a bathroom in here?”
“In the back,” said the scrawny kid behind the counter. He didn’t look old enough to buy let alone sell alcohol, and without sparing Noah a glance, he flicked to the next page in his magazine.
Cruising down the hallway along the right wall of the store, Noah found the facilities and locked the door behind him. No surprise, the place didn’t offer hot water. Painful pinpricks tortured his skin as he washed the blood off and then wrapped his knuckles with several layers of thin paper towels. Returning to the shelves, he looked for his old friend. JB would help him out. He’d always done the trick before.
“Hey,” said a voice next to him, and Noah nearly hit the floor. “Man, hold up. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Gritting his teeth, Noah pulled his shit together. “Hey, Lenny. How you doing?”
The smaller man with the receding hairline shrugged. “Can’t complain. Sorry I missed you at your mom’s party. I saw you for a second when they did the cake, and then you were gone.”
Yeah. Gone because of Lenny’s lying wife.
“We had Carrie’s little girl with us. She got cranky, so we left.”
“That’s right. I heard you guys hooked up. Patch would probably be pissed,” he said, fake punching Noah’s arm, “but she’s fair game now, right?”
He’d already come close to killing one man tonight. Lenny had no idea the ledge he was walking.
“So you and Kyra, huh?” Noah said. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
With false pride, the little man said, “A lot of guys tried, but I’m the one who got her.”
Noah pulled a bottle of Beam off the shelf. “Lucky you.”
“We should all get together,” Lenny suggested. “Take our girls out and show ’em off.”
“I don’t need to show my girl off, Len, but thanks for the offer.”
Like a hyper puppy, he followed Noah down the aisle. “Dinner then. A little get-together. Kyra would love it.”
Hanging by a thread, Noah picked up his pace. “I don’t think so.”
“Kyra said she saw Molly at the birthday party. Said she looks just like Patch. Maybe we could watch her sometime so you guys can have a little date night.”
Turning on the man, he said, “What are you doing, Lenny?”
“I’m getting schnapps. Kyra likes a little peach in her coffee.”
“Why are you with her? She’s making a fool out of you.”
Blinking, Lenny said, “What are you talking about?”
On a roll, Noah poked his friend in the chest, sending him back several steps. “She’s spreading her legs for any man willing to fluff her skirt. And you let her do it.”
Red rolled up his friend’s neck. “You always were an arrogant son of a bitch. You think I couldn’t keep a girl like Kyra happy? Because I don’t have tattoos and ride a motorcycle and play war games?”
“Don’t push me, Lenny.”
“Kyra told me that you came on to her. That you got pissed when she turned you down.”
Noah shook his head. Not even worth it.
“Nice story, bro. You want to stay in the dark, that’s your prerogative. Just keep your wife away from me and mine.”
He’d taken two steps toward the counter when Lenny said, “I see some things never change. You’re still chasing after Patch’s sloppy seconds.”
Half a breath later, Noah held Lenny a foot off the ground, back flat against a cooler and shit in his pants.
“One more word and it’ll be your last. I know a dozen ways to kill you and twice as many places to bury the body. You got me?”
Watery eyes wide, Lenny fought against Noah’s hold, nodding and gasping for breath.
“Hey,” the guy behind the counter said. “Take that shit outside.”
Dropping the weasel to his feet, Noah walked to the counter to pay for
his liquor. “Ring it up,” he said.
Scanning the bottle, the younger man leaned forward to check on Lenny. “You almost killed him.”
“I thought about it,” he said, dragging his wallet from his back pocket and tossing a twenty toward the clerk. “Keep the change.” Not waiting for a bag, Noah grabbed the bottle and strode out into the cold.
After three hours of worrying herself sick, two calls to Noah’s mother, and another to Dale, Carrie settled in for a long night of no sleep. He hadn’t gone to his mother’s, he wasn’t in any area hospitals—Lydia had made sure of that—and he hadn’t been arrested. Which left bleeding in a ditch somewhere, or lying in another woman’s bed. After the day she’d had, Carrie would not have been surprised by either scenario.
As far as bad days went, this one ranked up there with the first time Patch had knocked her out cold, as well as the night she’d learned he was dead. Neither of those experiences had been half as painful as watching Noah spiral out of control.
Lorelei had agreed to keep Molly overnight. If Noah did return, there was no telling the mood he’d be in. If he wanted to scream some more, Carrie would deal with it. When she’d calmed down and replayed his words in her head, she’d realized that he hadn’t been angry so much as afraid. She had recreated his nightmare. Imagining those things he’d said, coming home to find her hurt, or worse, battered and left in the dirt, had scared him because he loved her. He loved her so much that the sight of another man causing her pain had sent him into that rage. And then, to learn that Carrie had put herself in that situation, had naively invited that kind of violence into her home, he’d felt betrayed.
And he’d been right. She should have told him. She should have given him the courtesy of sharing what she’d planned to do. And if she ever needed proof that Noah would never physically hurt her, no matter what, today had been it. In her lifetime, she’d never seen anyone that angry. Not her father. Not Patch. Not Wayne Hawkins come to retrieve his errant wife.
Noah had been furious and vengeful, but he hadn’t once touched her in anger. He needed professional help. She knew that now. Noah needed to join that study. The demons were winning, and he would never have peace until he admitted that he couldn’t do this on his own. Hopefully, the reality of what he’d done today would be the impetus to get him into the program.
Curled up under two blankets and a purring Wilson, Carrie had started to drift off when the thunder of a Harley engine cut through the silence. Her first instinct was to slip on shoes and a coat and march across the yard to make sure he was okay. But she held back. Waited. Hoping he would come to her. An hour later, she was still alone. She should have gone to bed. Given them both time to think and cool off, and then start fresh in the morning.
That’s what the old Carrie would have done. The one that Dale had asked about earlier. To hell with that. This man was the love of her life, and if they were going to spend the rest of their lives together, then she’d have to learn how to fight. Learn how to work things through and come out the other side stronger than before. They’d done that after Kyra’s insidious lies. And they would do it tonight. It was time to woman up, own her own screwup, and get back on track.
Pajama pants tucked into rain boots and her tattered terrycloth robe gathered tight around her neck, Carrie stepped onto her porch. The lack of light at the farmhouse made her think twice. Maybe he was sleeping. Except it was only ten o’clock, and Noah rarely slept, even on a good night. This was not a good night. He was sulking in there in the dark, and she would snap him out of it.
Carrie stomped onto his porch and was whisking the screen door open when a voice from the swing said, “Nobody’s home.”
“You’re drunk,” she said, catching the slur in his words.
“That I am.” The light of the moon glared off a glass bottle. “Jim is keeping me company,” he said. “Jim understands.”
Carrie let the screen door close and jammed her hands into her robe pockets. “Jim understands what?” she asked.
Another swig went down his throat. “That we don’t need anybody. We don’t need the fucking military. We don’t need their fucking doctors. And we sure as hell don’t need a woman.”
“So I guess Jim has all the answers.”
“Yes, he does,” he murmured.
In Carrie’s experience, alcohol tended to make people more honest. If she could get past the bravado, she might get Noah to admit the truth. That he needed help, and that he couldn’t rely on her alone to give him peace.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.
Swinging the bottle over the left side of the swing, he said, “Do whatever you want. That’s what you’re going to do anyway.”
That one stung, but she deserved it.
Sitting in silence, she let him take two more drinks before speaking. “That was pretty crazy today.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
The slur grew stronger, and she wondered if he would pass out in her lap soon.
“I’m sorry that I scared you.”
“Do you know what your problem is?” he asked, waving the bottle wildly.
“I have no idea,” Carrie replied, ducking to avoid good ol’ Jim.
“You really think you can save them. You really think that you can make a difference.”
That didn’t sound like a problem to her. “Yes, I do. Not for everyone, but I can make a difference for some.”
“Bullshit,” he said, burping at the same time. “You can’t save anybody. You couldn’t even save yourself. Your friend Lor-a-lee had to do it for you.”
“Her name is Lorelei,” she corrected, thinking he’d gotten a little too honest, “and she rescued me when I needed it, so now I can go on and rescue others.”
Noah snorted. “We’re talking about people here, Carrie, not puppies. It isn’t as simple as buying them a new toy and a water bowl and their lives are miraculously better.”
“I know that,” she said, tightening her robe. “That doesn’t mean I can’t try.”
“And that makes you an idiot,” he said, tipping the bottle up once more.
Hitting her limit, Carrie reached for the bottle. “That’s enough, Noah. Let’s get you some coffee.”
“No fucking way,” he said, jerking the bottle out of her grasp and throwing an elbow at the same time. He caught her hard in the mouth, and she instantly tasted blood.
“Ow, Noah,” she exclaimed, throwing her hands over her mouth.
“Don’t ‘oh, Noah’ me.” He stumbled off the swing and turned to face her. “What are you holding your lip for?”
“I’m stopping the blood, thank you.” She stormed to her feet and hurried to the steps.
“Carrie, wait.” Latching on to her arm, he lost his footing and sent her flying down the stairs. “Holy shit,” he said, scrambling down after her.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, brushing tiny pebbles from the butt of her hand. “Stay away from me.”
“But, babe, I—”
“So help me, Noah. Get away from me!”
He teetered on the bottom step, bottle still in his left hand.
“I thought you were better than this,” she snarled, getting to her feet. “Yes, I screwed up and I scared you, but that does not make this okay. You need help, Noah. Professional help. Until you get it, we’re through.”
“Carrie,” he called after her. “Carrie!” Noah bellowed when she didn’t stop.
By the time she reached the gate, she could hardly see for the tears streaming down her face. The second she stepped into the trailer, glass shattered across the yard.
Chapter 25
As far as bad weekends went, that last one sailed right off the charts.
Noah had woken Sunday morning in the middle of his living room floor. His back hurt. His shoulders didn’t want to work. And he could barely close his hands. When he’d finally made it upstairs and stumbled to a mirror, his reflection sent him back a step. The red-rimmed eyes brought back th
e humbling memory of crying in his liquor. Examining his beard, Noah had noticed specks of blood along with shards of glass. For half a second he’d thought he might have put his face through a window, but then he’d remembered throwing the whiskey bottle against the porch steps. In the dark, he’d had no idea where all the pieces landed, nor had he cared.
Attempting to brush the mess from his whiskers, he’d caught sight of his knuckles and realized the blood wasn’t his own. Mumbling a slew of expletives, he’d stripped out of his nasty clothes, stepped into a hot shower, and then shaved the beard down to a thick five-o’clock shadow. A guy Noah barely recognized stared back at him. He hadn’t seen that much of his face in two years.
The rest of the day had been nothing more than going through the motions. He’d trashed the clothes, cleaned up the glass, and doctored his knuckles as much as the pain would allow. A couple of bags of ice helped the swelling as he’d slouched on the couch, contemplating what the hell to do next. He hadn’t been drunk enough not to remember Carrie’s parting words. Get help or we’re through. A pretty clear ultimatum. And his gut reaction had been to say screw it and go back to his original plan of keeping to himself.
Except now he knew what he’d be missing. Carrie Farmer and her little girl had become his world. Living without them would mean not living at all, and he’d already tried that route. Which was why he’d taken a break Monday morning to call the number on the VA letter. Fifteen minutes later, he had yet one more number assigned to his name and an email with a plane ticket for the end of the week. Ma would be pissed, but at least he’d be there for Thanksgiving dinner before flying out.
He hadn’t been back to work for more than ten minutes when the weekend caught up to him. While Noah examined the quality of a floor repair in one of the future dorm rooms, an unfamiliar voice called his name from the doorway.
“Noah Winchester?”
Turning, he said, “That’s me.”
Mr. Clean Cut had traded his fancy suit jacket for a uniform this time. “I’m Deputy Dale Lambdon with the sheriff’s office. I need to talk to you about the incident that occurred this weekend outside the home of Carrie Farmer.”