All elation drowned in the sincerity of Mick’s eyes. “I ain’t good enough for that kind of place. I could never be.”
“Your grandmother wasn’t good enough either.”
Vera opened her mouth.
Mick lifted his hands. “I say this respectfully. No one’s good enough. God’s Word says that all men have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” He stepped closer, the air between them thinning. “And makeup may cover that scar on your face, but it can’t heal the ones on your heart.” He reached out, barely touching her cheek.
Vera reeled back, the realization stabbing her heart. Her tears must have exposed her ugliness. She turned her head, shielding the scar from his view.
“I saw it the day we met.”
And he’d never mentioned it until now? At once, it was difficult to face him. The hideous, discolored skin was never to be seen by anyone.
“Ver, it’s okay.” He slid his hand under her hair and traced his finger along the curve of the scar. Again and then again.
Her thoughts stumbled into each other. Didn’t he know what he was doing to her? And why did the aching tenderness of his eyes make her want to collapse against him? To be held, not only in a passionate manner, but in a way she craved, yet had never experienced.
“You don’t have to be ashamed. Whatever it’s from, you’re safe with me.”
The usually firm lines around his mouth now soft, his open stance relaxed, his voice soothing. Could she breathe in his calmness and hold onto it forever? “It’s my last remembrance of the monster.” And the one that’d never left her.
“The monster?”
“My father.” She drew in a shaky breath. “You’re not the only one with nightmares.”
Sympathy filled his eyes, pulling her gaze to his.
“When my grandmother passed, I was forced to live with my parents. My father drank, sipped the stuff like water. My mother was gone a lot. Who knows where or with who?” Shame and bitterness emerged from the shadows of her soul, pointing their twisted fingers to her distressing past.
Mick tugged her hand into his.
“Most of my days were spent staying at a friend’s house or hiding in my room. That way my father couldn’t get to me when he was drunk.” It was all so fresh—her quiet sobs, her stomach panging from hunger, and no one caring if she lived or died. Had anything changed from her childhood? She studied Mick’s pensive expression. He cared, didn’t he? “I went from having my grandmother’s love to nothin’. Mick, I told ya it was a bad ballad.” She squeezed the cross in her hand, the edges pressing into her palm. An awareness of the Man who’d hung on the real cross swept into her soul. He knew pain. He knew abandonment. “Then, one day, my mother never returned home. She was gone for good, leavin’ me with the violent old man.”
Mick cupped her face with his hands, the gesture stealing her breath. “Did he beat you?”
She could only manage a nod.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and she slid her eyes shut, pulling strength from his touch. “I’m sorry, Ver.”
“I usually could escape him by locking myself in my bedroom. But the last night I ever saw him, I forgot to bolt the door.”
Mick removed his hands from her face, but held his gaze on her. “What happened?”
“He was always needin’ money with that crummy addiction. I woke up to him clawin’ at my neck, choking me. He held a gun. I’d never seen him that desperate.” Her breath shortened as her chest tightened. “He wanted my necklace. To sell it like he had most of the things in the house.” She swallowed. “I hit his middle with my knee. He shifted off me, and I was able to get away. Somewhat.”
Mick stiffened.
“I was scared, crying.”
“Aw, sweetheart.” He ran his fingers along her hair, then pulled her to him.
She cuddled into his chest, the vulnerability both freeing and frightening. “He came after me, waving the gun, cussing, and stumbling all over the room. He tripped, and the gun went off. He shot the window I was next to.” She touched her scar. “The glass cut my face. I can still hear his voice as I ran out. You aren’t worth anything to anyone.”
He stepped back and squared her shoulders to face him. His jaw set. His muscles taut. “That’s a lie, Ver. Not true.”
Her heart yearned to believe him.
“So I ran away. Tried to steal money from the local gift shop to buy a bus ticket.” There. She finally answered his question about her short life of crime. “The lady caught me and told me to work a full day. She gave me the coin I needed to skedaddle.” She shrugged. “You know the rest of the story.” Vera Pembroke’s life summed up in three minutes. Shame lowered her gaze, and she scuffed her toe along the line in the floorboard.
“Can you look at me?” His eyes were dangerous to the brick walls around her heart, chunks crumbling to dust with each penetrating look. “What you went through wasn’t right, but it doesn’t disqualify you from God’s love.”
Didn’t he get it? Why was he being so cruel? “Mick, my own parents couldn’t love me. I was a nuisance to them. No matter how hard I tried.” Vera didn’t know what burned more, the salt tears over her flushed face, or her father’s words branded on her heart. Not worth anything. Mick stood so sure, so confident. Someone like him couldn’t understand. “It’s a lost cause. Because then I went to Pittsburgh, and you know what happened there.” Her breath hiccupped in her chest, and her legs wobbled, threatening to buckle. “Can’t ya see the pattern? It’s impossible. He can’t love me.” She balled her fists. “Can’t.”
“Too late. He loved you before time.”
“How?” Vera dropped to her knees and muffled her sobs in her hands. “How?”
She felt Mick’s warm presence beside her. “He always has.”
“No. How … did you know?” Her hands fell limp against her sides as she sat back on her haunches. “I never told a soul.”
“Ver, I don’t under—”
“My grandmother told me that. Every night before bed, she’d kiss my forehead. He loved you before time.” The last words she’d spoken to Vera before she’d died. And now Mick had said it? “How on earth did you know?” Hearing those words was like water to her dehydrated soul.
“He’s reaching out to you.” Mick seized her hands, his gaze passionate. “Embrace him, Ver.”
She couldn’t keep living like this, heart gaping open and wounded. Fear and anger voiced in the depths of her mind, shouting condemnation, but the whispers of her heart drew her longing. “Jesus, I need you.”
CHAPTER 21
Mick let out a low whistle, catching sight of Vera on the top of the stairs. He couldn’t have been more surprised when Vera had asked him after her buffet of donuts to take her for a shooting lesson. But now, by the hesitant look in her eyes, she appeared as if she had second thoughts. Or perhaps she was just miffed with her necessary attire.
“I look like a gent.” Vera’s lower lip protruded as two fists settled on a slim waist. “This is awful.”
“My clothes never looked better.” And the way she filled them out made his heart pound against his ribs. He liked her this way, her frame swimming in his flannel shirt. She rolled up the cuffs so her hands could escape. And the necklace hung perfectly over her exposed collarbone, making him want to trace his nose along the slim gold line. He swallowed and asked God to help him control wayward thoughts. “My question is, how do the pants fit?”
Vera lifted the hem of the shirt. A rope was pulled through the belt loops, tied tightly, the material bunching in the front. “Found it in one of the dresser drawers.” She gave the end of the rope a tug.
Mick laughed, and Vera scowled.
“I’m glad someone’s gettin’ pleasure out of this.” Red ringlets swooped up in a navy ribbon, allowing visibility of her full face, causing his stare to linger a bit too long.
“I think we learned from that day gathering teaberry that you can’t climb hills in a dress.” The terrain on the hillside was litt
ered with sticks, thorny bushes, and patches of bur weed. Stockings wouldn’t make it ten feet before being sliced into silky shreds. And even though the rain had stopped, the ground was sure to be wet and slippery.
Vera picked a loose string off the shirt and then looked to Mick, her eyelashes resembling tiny fans. “Maybe I can just watch you shoot today.”
Stay strong, Dinelo. Her eyes held a persuasiveness powerful enough to make a grown man’s knees buckle. “It never hurts to learn how to shoot. And with your situation, it’s a necessity. You can do it.” He patted the holster on his hip and winked. “You’ll see.”
The backs of Vera’s legs flamed. “How much longer?” And how come her body wasn’t nimble after all these forest treks? She reduced her pace as Mick quickened his.
“We’re almost there. About fifty more yards.”
He called that almost there? Sheesh. “I’m takin’ a break.” For like two days. She bent low, rubbing her calf muscle.
Mick stopped and set the bags of dirt on the high grass. Was that what they were going to shoot into? Shoot. The silly notion had her heart skittering faster than the squirrels racing up the pines.
She should’ve never asked. At the moment, it’d felt right. Her objections about guns had lessened after Mick had protected her from the rattler. But why did she have to go all Annie Oakley? As soon as the request had left her big mouth, she’d regretted it. But Mick had turned all Buffalo Bill and devised this little shooting adventure. Vera hated to disappoint him. He’d been so sweet about her birthday. She fingered the cross resting on her collarbone, and all the memories of the morning swept in. She smiled. Being right with God felt good. Being right with Mick did too.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. “You thirsty?” He slid the canteen strap off his shoulder, unscrewed the cap, and poured water into the lid. “Drink as much as you want.” From the lid that was the size of a teacup?
Vera received it with a smile. She drank two gulps, the icy temperature of the spring water enough to make her teeth chatter, and handed it back.
“More?”
“No, you go ’head.”
“I brought it for you.” He put the lid on. “Let me know when you want another cup.” He swung the strap over his shoulder and picked up the bags. “The landing is right past that maple.”
Vera stuck close to him during the rest of the hike, in case some rattlesnake or any other creepy thing would want to cozy up to her. They reached the summit, and Mick set down the two gunnysacks in an open space.
He slid the gun out of the brown leather holster, and she fought against a cringe. Don’t be a scaredy-cat.
He motioned to her. “Come stand by me.”
Vera did so, her heart accelerating with every step.
“This is a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight caliber.”
She took in its wooden handle and silver frame.
“Always keep it pointed away from you.” He directed the gun toward the gunnysacks. With his left hand, he stroked the steel. “This is a standard barrel. See this raised groove? This is the sight. It’s how you aim.” Then he showed her the hammer, the trigger, and the cylinder.
For his sake, she tried to act interested.
“Now this gun can shoot decent up to thirty yards, but we aren’t going that far.” He led her about twenty feet from the gunnysacks. He held out his right hand with the gun pointed straight ahead of him. With his thumb, he pulled back the hammer.
Click.
Vera shivered. The horror of those nights rushed through her, her father’s gravelly voice, Artie’s shrilling yell, the fear setting its claws into her and not letting go. The glass window shattering. The scar. The feeling in her gut during her number. Running from the club in the storm. Fragments of those memories sliced her soul, knifing the air in her chest.
“Ready?” Mick glanced at her, determination tightening his features.
No! But her voice wouldn’t work, and fear pressed hard, smothering her from the inside out.
He fired all six rounds.
Vera screamed and buried her face in her hands. Strong arms wrapped around her. His muscles pressed into her back like the day he’d saved her from the snake. She exhaled.
“Shh. You’re safe, Ver.” He whispered in her ear, rubbing between her shoulder blades in rhythmic strokes. “No fear, sweetheart.” The warmth of his breath coated her cheek, and he held her close.
“Do you really think I can do this?” She drew back to read his eyes.
Mick traced the curve of her face with his finger. “Yes.”
Vera slid her eyes shut, breathing out a prayer. Courage rose within, an empowering she could never have produced on her own. Mick must have detected it in her eyes, for he regarded her with a full smile. “Now it’s your turn.”
Mick reloaded the cylinder and looked up at Vera. “You can do this.” He nodded, hoping she could feel his faith in her. He held out the gun.
She took in a breath and gently lifted the revolver from his hand.
“This is your trigger finger. That’s right. Now extend toward the target.” He ran his fingers down her arm, ignoring the sensations coursing through him, and gently pushed on her elbow until she locked it in place. “Keeping your joints and muscles tight will help your aim.” He wrapped his fingers around her forearm. “I’m going to help support your arm until it stops trembling.”
Vera glanced up at him, and compassion filled his heart.
“Bring up your other arm. Yes, just like that. Fold your left hand over your right. Perfect. You doing all right, Ver?”
She nodded.
“Now, with your right thumb, pull back the hammer until it locks.” It clicked and Vera stiffened. “You’re doing great.”
Her silence bothered him.
“Let’s try this.” He moved closer, standing behind her. “Please don’t take me wrong. I don’t know how else to help.”
She nodded again.
He enveloped her frame, arms over arms and hands over hands. Her body relaxed against his. “Okay, I am going to help support you, and when you’re ready, fire.”
Vera’s shoulders rose with a deep breath.
“One, two.” Her voice was a breathy whisper. “Three.” She pulled the trigger.
Her shoulders spiked, but the rest of her remained rigid.
“Atta girl.” His lips touched her earlobe, and his own flamed. “Shoot again when you’re ready.”
She counted and fired. And then again, four more times, emptying the cylinder.
He smiled. “I’m going to change your name from the Red Canary to the Red Baron.” Her soft laughter made his heart soar. “You can relax your arms now. The gun has no more bullets.”
Vera dropped her arms freely, her left hand still clutching the .38.
Mick turned her to face him. “You did it.” Her lips quivered, and the yearning to press his own against hers was as present as the sun in the sky.
Their eyes met, and a small smile graced her face. She glanced over at the gunnysack filled with holes. “Not too bad, huh?”
“You can’t count that. I was holding you.” Yes, he had held her. It had been a struggle to let her go. “When I took your hands, I adjusted your aim.” Her eyes narrowed, and he laughed. “But you pulled the trigger. That’s all I wanted.”
“Is that so?” She arched one brow. “Let me try again, then. Without your gorilla arms blocking my vision.”
She was back. The challenge in her eyes, the sassiness in her tone, who’d have thought that would be a relief to him? “If you think so.” He smiled and withdrew the pouch of bullets from his front pocket. She gave him the gun to reload. With pleasure, Mick filled the cylinder and snapped it in place. He handed her back the pistol.
She looked relaxed. Her body wasn’t shaking, and her eyes were focused, not scared. She stretched out her arms, the gun pointing directly at the gunnysack. She glanced over at Mick and smiled before firing six bullets.
“That was a l
ot easier this round.” She stepped beside him and crouched down, brushing her hand over sack’s surface and frowning when she saw she’d missed a shot. “Hmm. I’ll get ’em all this time.”
“Whoa there.” Mick grinned at her newfound confidence. “We’re all done for today.”
“Ya out already?”
“No, I have a few left.” He pulled out the pouch and reloaded. “But what kind of cop would I be if I ran out of bullets? Besides, we don’t want to be up here too long. I know of a certain birthday girl who needs to visit Mrs. Chambers.” Then he’d planned on sitting down with her and discussing the entire case from the beginning. It felt as if a clock sat on his head, counting down until Shultz’s deadline. They had to figure this out.
“Lacey.” She clasped her hands together. “I almost forgot.” Gazing south, she scrunched her nose. “We have to ankle it back down that hill?”
“Yes, but it won’t nearly be as hard.”
Vera’s mouth quirked up. “How about ya give me a piggyback ride?”
Tempting.
“You were gonna carry me into the house the first night we arrived. Can’t I cash in now?”
He laughed. “The hill’s steep. I might fall, and then you’d have to carry me.” He returned his gun to the holster. “Might want to fix your rope.” He pointed to the loosened knot hanging below the hem of her shirt.
Vera’s nose wrinkled, and she gave the ends of the rope a good yank. “I’m so ready to look like a dame again. These threads are eating away at my femininity. Now I understand how Artie’s sister feels.”
Mick put his hand on her shoulder.
Vera regarded him with a sideways glance. “What? You have the funniest look right now.”
“Artie … doesn’t have a sister.”
“Huh? Yeah, he does.” Her eyebrows lowered, bunching the skin between her eyes. “Artie brought her ’round the club.”
Notepad. He patted his pocket. Where is it? He must have left it on his dresser when he went to change out of his rain-soaked shirt this morning. “What was her name? Can you remember?”
“I think it was Marlene. No, that doesn’t sound right.” She fingered her cross as she thought, something Mick had noticed she’d done several times since this morning. A sense of satisfaction billowed in his heart. He would have searched all over again and twice as long to see that pleasure ripple in her eyes. “Millie!” Vera snapped her fingers. “Millie Walters. I know that’s it. Poor girl always wore clothes two times her size. Cute dame, though. Tough to imagine her as Artie’s sister.”
The Red Canary Page 17