by Wilde, Lori
It was a relief to burst into the barn at last, even though she didn’t know what she might find there. She kept the gun raised and her back to the wall.
An image from deep down bubbled to the top of her head. A flash of memory. A jagged cut over her eye, blood streaming down her face, her first sharp bite of mortality.
Wren blinked against the brightness, her breath coming in reedy wheezes. What she saw sent her blood pumping swiftly through her eardrums.
The cows were placidly munching oats at their troughs, happily hooked to the milking machines.
What was going on?
Feeling as if she’d fallen into the Twilight Zone head first, Wren battled losing her composure. This was eerie. Unnatural. She cleared her throat and tried to speak, but the words were trapped, unable to get out.
Frantically, she scanned the barn and saw nothing amiss.
The man had to be in here. Who else could have done this?
Sweat flooded her brow and Wren gripped the rifle with all her might. Why would he hook her cows to the milking machines? Did he have some ulterior motive? Or had he simply grown deaf listening to them bellow?
It didn’t matter. She’d started down this road and now she had to finish her journey. Gun butt resting against her shoulder, she squinted down the .22’s sight. Aimed the weapon and stepped carefully past each stall, one by one.
One, two, three.
Her heart revved faster with each advancing step. Bossie swished her tail and leveled Wren a sassy look.
Four, five, six.
Empty. Empty. Empty.
Seven, eight, nine, ten. The smell of oats lay strong. Hay rustled beneath her boots.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen.
No one.
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.
All cows accounted for and no stranger in sight.
The hairs on the back of Wren’s neck stood at full attention. She rounded the refrigerated milking vat and peeked into every nook and cranny. The nose of the gun preceding her every move.
Nothing.
Slowly, she swung her eyes upward, knowing the stranger must be in the loft.
Probably watching her through a knothole.
Did he have a gun?
That thought deepened her fear. What was she going to do? If she ran back to the house, she wouldn’t be able to call the police because the phone was out, and she’d be trapped once more. Giving the stranger the upper hand. At least for the moment, she possessed the advantage.
So what now?
Climb the stairs?
Hang back?
Wait?
There was only one viable option. She had to confront him.
Her knees weakened with the prospect, and Wren swayed on her feet. “Okay, mister, I know you’re up there,” she said, surprised by how authoritative she sounded. “I’ve got a gun trained on the stairs. You better come on down before I start shooting first and asking questions later.”
2
The stranger hesitated, poised at the loft door.
Through a slit in the rough-hewn boards, he could see the woman moving around below, a puny .22-caliber rifle clutched in her trembling arms. He cocked one eyebrow in surprise. He’d underestimated her grit. He’d pegged her as far too timid for a face-to-face showdown.
She was nervous and scared, but she’d been brave enough to venture out to the barn in this weather, knowing full well he was probably inside. His estimation of her climbed a notch.
It had been a mistake to hook the cows up to the milking machines, but the infernal bellowing had been too much to tolerate, and he’d felt sorry for the poor things. Undoubtedly, the sudden silence had lured her into the barn to investigate.
“Mister, I’m not kidding.” Her voice rose slightly.
If he hadn’t been trained to recognize such nuances, he might not have noticed a vocal tremor, but her increased anxiety level warned him that she might indeed shoot first and ask questions later.
He should go introduce himself before he ended up with a bullet in his butt.
Or worse.
Sighing, he lifted his hands over his head in the universal signal of surrender. “Please, don’t shoot.”
“Hold it right there.”
He stopped halfway down the steps.
She had the barrel aimed square at his belly. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I told you to leave my property.”
“Listen,” he began, “I apologize for trespassing, but it’s too cold to spend the night outdoors.”
“Climb on down,” she said, trying her best to screw her mouth into a deadly scowl. Instead, she looked rather comical—like a little girl playing cop.
He obeyed, not because he was frightened of her threats but because he suspected she wasn’t well versed in the use of firearms and might well shoot him without intending it.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I just wanted a place out of the weather.”
“Did you hook my cows to the milking machine?” She jutted her small chin firmly forward.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“They seemed miserable.”
“Where did you learn to run a milking machine?”
“My grandfather owned a dairy in upstate Wisconsin. I spent a few summers there as a kid.”
“So, you just took it upon yourself to milk my cows.” Ire flashed in her eyes.
Spunky. He liked that. “I did. You got a problem with it?”
She frowned. “I got a problem with your attitude, mister. Remember, I’m the one with the gun.”
If he hadn’t been so tired, he would have been tempted to smile at her naiveté. “Lady, there’s a .357 Magnum resting across my shoulders, if I were interested in harming you, I could have shot you the minute you stepped through the door.”
Her face blanched as she considered what he was telling her. “Then you better throw your gun down.”
He sighed. “I don’t really want to.”
Taking a step forward, she placed the rifle’s nose flush against his belly button. “Throw down the gun, or I’ll cock the trigger.”
“And shoot me accidentally? Do you really want to spew my guts all over your barn?”
She seemed confused by his response, as if he wasn’t quite what she’d been expecting. She pulled her bottom lip up between her teeth.
“You probably wouldn’t kill me, you know. I’d just lie here screaming and writhing on the floor. Think how long it’d take an ambulance to get here in this mess. If you even have phone service. I’ve been trying for hours to get a cell signal.”
“The mountains block the cell tower signals,” she said. “Cell phones don’t work in large patches of the Trans-Pecos unless you can afford a satellite phone. Put the gun down.”
“Tell you what,” he offered. “I’ll lay my gun on the feed bin over there if you’ll do the same. I’m really not that crazy about having firearms pointed at me.”
The woman paused.
“I’ll even go first.” He reached inside his jacket for his shoulder holster.
“Easy!” she warned.
“Nice and easy,” he reassured her, slowly slipping the Magnum from its sheath.
Her eyes widened. Sweat beaded her brow as she monitored his every movement.
“Here we are.” He held the gun by the nose, the grip pointed toward the floor. Taking two steps, he settled the weapon on top of the feed bin.
“Now move away,” she instructed, motioning with her rifle. “And keep your hands above your head.”
He did as she asked, walking toward the first stall, keeping his back to the barn door. “Your turn.” He indicated the .22 with a nod of his head.
“Wrong.”
“You agreed to put your gun down.”
“I lied.”
“Ah,” he said, “the trustworthy type.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t.” He could tell by the look on her face she
didn’t know what to make of him.
“I think you’d better leave,” she replied.
“You’re going to throw me out in the freezing rain?”
“I can’t let you stay here.”
“Why not?”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“You’re afraid. I understand. But if you let me sleep here, I promise I’ll be gone in the morning.”
“For all I know you’re a killer.” Her words dropped into the silence, punctuated only by the sound of cows chewing and the milking machines whirring.
He raked his gaze over her body.
She held herself ramrod stiff.
They stared at each other, both leery, aware they were at an impasse.
Her nostrils flared.
He experienced a surge of sympathy. He had to let her off the hook, even if it meant freezing to death.
“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll go. Just let me get my duffel bag from the loft.” He headed for the stairs, his heart turning over with despair at the thought of traipsing back out into the elements without his gun.
“Wait.”
“What now?” Was she going to make him leave his duffel behind as well? He stopped and turned.
“I guess you can stay,” she said. “But just until dawn and I’m taking your gun with me.”
Her change of heart surprised and touched him. Yes, she was much braver than he’d originally given her credit for, and kinder, too.
“Thank you, lady,” he said, and meant it. “I appreciate your generosity.”
* * *
Wren studied the man before her, not really sure why she’d changed her mind. Something about him tugged at her. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something that moved her in inexplicable ways.
He’d relinquished his weapon and then he’d been prepared to leave when she’d told him to go. That went a long way toward proving he meant her no harm. That, and the fact he’d taken the trouble to milk her cows.
“You’re soaked to the skin,” she said at last.
He shrugged and pushed a hand through dark, unruly hair that curled about the collar of his denim jacket. Water dripped from his clothing and pooled on the cement floor. His dark-blue eyes were haunted.
She could almost feel his suffering. He was troubled and had been for a very long time. How she knew these things, Wren couldn’t say; she only knew it was true.
A deep frown knitted his thick brows, forming a brooding V above his hawkish nose. His lips had been generously carved by nature but turned downward. That cynical expression, combined with several days’ worth of beard growth, gave him an ominous appearance. He might have been good-looking, except that the harshness in his eyes and the bitterness of his mouth overshadowed his handsomeness.
Silence loomed between them as thick and unyielding as the muddy landscape outside the barn.
Letting him stay was probably foolish, but truthfully, what options did she have? Trapped by the storm, isolated without a phone, Wren was a virtual prisoner, at the mercy of this stranger’s moods. Better to keep the upper hand by extending her hospitality, rather than turning him out, this time with a chip on his shoulder. At least this way, she knew where he was.
Besides, it was almost Christmas and the man was a human being.
Do unto others. The phrase she strived to live by.
“I’m going to take your gun,” she said. “And go back to the house. I’ll bring you dry towels, blankets, and something to eat.”
“Thank you.” Gratitude filled his voice and reassured her that she had chosen the right course.
She picked up the pistol from the feed bin. The safety was on, and she tucked it into her coat pocket. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Why don’t you get out of that wet coat?”
He nodded, his eyes shining with something akin to respect.
Turning her back on him, she headed for the door, praying he wouldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability and jump her from behind. She tried to minimize her limp, eager to hide her weakness. Her shoulders stayed stiff and rigid until she’d made it safely through the barn door.
The icy wind slapped her. Ducking her head against the onslaught, Wren saw that sleet coated the ground in a frosty, white blanket and the stranger’s gun weighed heavy in her pocket, banging against her tender hip as she walked.
Using care to navigate the precarious passage, Wren concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other and tamped down the vision of the man she’d left behind. He was an enigma. Who was he? And what the heck was he doing in the middle of nowhere—in a raging winter storm—so close to Christmas, when most people were curled up safe and sound with their loved ones?
He’s like you. He doesn’t have any loved ones.
How she knew that, Wren couldn’t say. She simply knew it was true. Often, she got premonitions about people and events. She wasn’t exactly psychic, she just got these feelings. In the past, whenever she’d ignored her internal urgings, something bad happened. Like with Blaine Thomas. At this moment, despite all outward appearances to the contrary, she felt that the stranger meant her no harm personally.
Wren shouldered the .22 rifle and grasped the porch railing to steady herself as she mounted the steps. She burst through the door into the kitchen’s warm, inviting embrace.
The radio played “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town.” The pot of stew on the stove had grown cold, but the hearty aroma lingered on the air. Wren laid the rifle across the table and placed the pistol beside it. She peeled off her gloves, cap and coat and went to the stove. Flicking the burner on under the stew, she put on a fresh pot of coffee to percolate. Then she headed down the hallway to the linen closet.
She took towels, sheets, and blankets from the closet, carried them to the kitchen and packaged the bedding in a plastic garbage bag. While waiting for the stew to reheat and the coffee to brew, Wren leaned against the kitchen counter.
The eight o’clock news came on. The weather forecast had worsened, with four inches of snow predicted. She shook her head in disbelief. It had been many years since such a fierce storm had swept through the high desert of the Trans-Pecos.
She squared her shoulders and filled one thermos with stew and a second with coffee. She sliced off a chunk of cranberry-walnut bread and slathered it with fresh butter, wrapped it in foil and tucked everything into a tote bag.
The return trip was trickier. She couldn’t carry the rifle and the supplies, so she slipped the Magnum in her pocket and prayed it wouldn’t be necessary for her to use it. The wind had died down, but the walkway was even more treacherous now as the ice covered the ground with a thick glaze. Her ears stung.
The barn door swung open before she reached it, the stranger silhouetted against the light. For a brief moment, he appeared like some dark archangel guiding her in from the cold.
“Something smells good,” he said, closing the door behind her and rubbing his palms together in anticipation.
She noticed he had disconnected the cows from the milking machines while she was gone. She thanked him, but he brushed aside her appreciation, reached instead for the bundles she carried, and set them on top of the milk vat.
He’d removed his coat, and underneath he wore a long-sleeved, red-plaid flannel shirt.
“Here.” Wren reached inside the linen bag and handed him a towel.
He accepted it and began toweling his hair dry.
“I was starting to wonder if you were coming back,” he said, tossing the towel aside and going for the food. He twisted open the thermos of stew and took a deep breath. “Mmm.”
“Where else would I go?” Wren dug into the sack and handed him a spoon.
“You could have stayed in the house.” He perched on a milking stool and plowed into the stew as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“I promised you food.”
“A lot of people don’t keep their promises, but I’m glad you did.” He studied her.
Heat spread up her neck at his frank stare. His eyes, twin fiery-blue diamonds, drilled a hole straight through her. Something mysterious lurked behind his hooded expression. But what? He housed secrets. This man had experienced more than his share of sorrow.
“Do you usually work these cows alone?” he asked between spoonfuls of stew.
“My, er...husband will be back soon,” she fibbed.
“You don’t have to lie,” he said softly. “I can see you live alone.”
“What makes you think I’m lying?”
“Your voice climbed an octave when you mentioned a husband, and you’re fidgeting with your zipper.” He pointed with his spoon.
Instantly, Wren stopped toying with her coat zipper.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“What are you here for?” She startled herself by asking the question. If he was bent on harming her, what sort of answer would she have expected?
“Food.” He waved at the thermos. “A place to sleep out of the weather. I have a little cash. I can pay for your hospitality. From the looks of this place, you could use the money.” He settled a hand on his back pocket.
“That’s not necessary.” She shook her head. The man was a puzzle more intricate than the five-thousand-piece jigsaws she put together on long, lonely weekends.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m a freeloader.”
“I don’t think you’re a freeloader.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re different.”
A wry expression crossed his face. “So are you. Most people would have sicced their dog after me.”
“I don’t have a dog, or I probably would have.”
“Guess I’m lucky, then.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip.
“Why are you on the road this time of year?” she asked, brushing a lock of damp hair from her forehead.
“Long story.”
“Did your car break down?”
He swallowed, nodded. “Back in Arizona. I’ve been hitchhiking ever since.” He pulled a rumpled twenty from his pants pocket and laid it beside the tote.