"Danny, what's going on?"
He shrugged, stuffed the last bite of pie in his mouth and bolted from the room.
Ally frowned. "Porter?"
He shoved his chair back from the table and got up, then hesitated. He didn't like Detweiller and felt sorry for his sister, but he didn't want to get on the bad side of his father's plans. Still, he knew this wasn't fair. Ally wasn't some simple backwoods female. She had a fine mind and, except for the limp, was a good-looking woman.
"Please," Ally begged.
Finally, he sighed.
"Look, Detweiller's missing a wife, right?"
Ally's eyes widened as her lips went slack. Shock spread slowly, leaving her momentarily speechless.
Porter left before she could press him for further information, while silently cursing his father for putting Ally in such a predicament.
"Oh, my God," Ally muttered. "He can't...he wouldn't..." But she knew as soon as she'd said it that he would.
Her father had always meddled in her life, and because she felt obligated, she'd let him. But she would leave Blue Creek forever before she would marry that creep.
Heartsick and feeling betrayed, she put away the leftover food, cleaned up the kitchen, then went to her room. Even though the garden needed hoeing and she had shirts to patch, she curled up on her bed and cried herself to sleep.
And as she slept, she dreamed of a tall, dark-haired man who came walking out of the trees. He asked for a drink of water, then told her he'd been looking for her all his life.
She cried again as she slept, but this time for joy. When she woke, it was nearing sundown. She could hear voices down the hall, and knew her father and brothers were in the living room watching television. She rolled over, then sat up on the side of the bed and looked down at her crippled foot, absently wondering how different her life might have been if she'd been born without the deformity.
Then she thought of Granny Devon, who'd been born blind, and told herself she was blessed. She had her health, her sight and two strong legs on which to walk.
If she had a limp, then so what? As long as there was life, there was hope.
She put on her shoes, then slipped out the back door and walked to the garden. As she moved between the rows, she made mental note of the work that needed to be done tomorrow. There were green beans that needed picking, tomatoes that needed to be staked, and potatoes to dig. There was no need getting all bent out of shape about her father's stupidity. He could make her life miserable if he wanted to, but he couldn't make her marry Freddie Joe.
It wasn't the first time that Roland Storm had watched Ally Monroe from a distance, and it most likely wouldn't be the last. He'd stumbled upon her existence quite by accident nearly a year ago, and once he'd seen her, he'd become almost fixated on the fragile woman with the long blond braid. The fact that she limped had been noticed and then ignored.
This evening he'd walked out of his lab and down the readjust to get some air. Or that's what he'd told himself until he'd gotten to the big curve in the road. At that point, he slipped into the trees and headed west, knowing he would come right up to the back yard of Ally's house.
His anticipation at seeing her had taken a direct hit when he'd stopped inside the tree line and she'd been nowhere in sight. He'd waited, watching while the old man finished chores in the barn and went to the house. He'd seen the two sons come back from the pasture where they'd been feeding cattle. They'd paused on the back steps to play with the family dog and then gone inside, as well.
Even then, he kept hoping he would see the girl. He didn't know why it mattered. He had far more important things to focus on besides some backwoods farmer's daughter.
And still he waited.
Just when he was ready to give up, the door opened. Breath caught in the back of his throat as Ally stepped out onto the porch. As he watched the sway of her hips, an ache spread in his groin. Despite her age, there was an innocence about her that reminded him of a girl. When she bent over a row of beans in the garden, he stifled a groan. No sooner had the sound come out of his voice than Ally straightened and turned toward the trees.
Roland froze. Now he'd done it. He'd been taking chances, and considering what he had in the works, that was crazy. He was jeopardizing his entire future by acting like some horny teenager.
He held his breath, watching the stillness in her posture, afraid to blink for fear she would see the motion, then his face. When she finally relaxed and turned away, he melted into the deepening shadows, and when he was far enough away to make sure she couldn't hear him, he ran the rest of the way home.
Six
Wes Holden was now a civilian without a plan, and Aaron Clancy was stuck with a situation he hadn't thought through. On the first day of their arrival, he'd put Wes in the extra bedroom of his apartment, turned down the bed and left him on his own. His focus was on getting to the bank and presenting his letter claiming power of attorney for his incapacitated stepbrother. He made sure they knew that Wes's monthly checks would be deposited directly into his personal account, took the praise as his due that he was being a Good Samaritan, and then went home a happy man. He checked into a facility to dump Wes in, then changed his mind at the cost and decided to pocket the money and care for Wes at home. It would all have been gravy, only brother Wes wasn't cooperating.
He wouldn't communicate. He didn't feed himself or bath himself, and Aaron hadn't planned on being a nursemaid. After four days, Wes's face was disappearing behind a rapid growth of black whiskers, which, to Aaron, made him look even more ominous than he had before.
Disgruntled and rapidly losing his patience with the situation, Aaron fed Wes a bowl of cold cereal in the morning, washed it down with a cup of warmed-over coffee, and left a bologna sandwich for him to eat at
Now word had gotten out in Aaron's apartment building that he had a head case living with him. The news was not well received, and the few friends that he had in the area were starting to shun him. It was putting a crimp in his social life, and that couldn't go on much longer.
Meanwhile, Wes was in the same situation. He wasn't comfortable hiding behind a wall of silence and pretending he didn't know where he was, but there was nothing he had to say to Aaron. He'd wanted out of
So each night and each morning until Aaron left for work, Wes hid behind a wall of silence. It was only after Aaron was gone that he would put his head in his hands and weep. Some days it seemed as if he would never quit. The sadness within him was total. He was certain that he would never know joy again. And there were also the dark days when he did nothing but curse God for taking his family and leaving him behind.
Each night he let Aaron put him to bed, ignoring the verbal insults and abuse Aaron heaped upon his head for being a useless bastard, then waited until Aaron turned out the light and closed the door before he could let himself relax, confident that he'd managed to maintain his lie for one more day.
And each night, as Aaron went to his own room, he had his own conscience to face. He had to consider where Wes had been and what he'd endured. He knew that Wes had been repeatedly tortured. He knew he'd found his own wife and child under the debris from the terrorist bombing, and that he'd killed the terrorist with one shot between the eyes. He also knew that directly after that, he had shut down as completely as if someone had turned out the lights in his mind.
Aaron then had to accept that the same man who'd killed without thought was lying just a few feet away, with only a wall and a door to separate them. At that point, he would turn around and lock himself in. If his crazy stepbrother woke up in a state of confusion and started trying to kill people again, he didn't want to be the first victim.
Aaron was reconsidering his plan to care for Wes and thinking of taking him to the first nuthouse that would accept him and forget he was there. But he wouldn't make a dime if he did that. It would take all of those tax-free monthly checks just to keep him caged. That left Aaron uncertain as to how he was going to make this work, but either way, he knew he couldn't keep a crazy man in his house much longer.
It was the fifth night in Aaron's apartment, and Wes was beginning to make plans to leave. As soon as he heard Aaron go into his bedroom and lock the door, he rolled over onto his side and opened his eyes. A slow ache rolled through his heart as he thought of the home he and Margie had shared. It was nothing like the filth and drabness of the apartment that Aaron called home. Margie had loved plants, both green and flowering, and had some in every room of their house. He thought of the countless nights he'd lain with her wrapped in his arms, the faint fragrance of the roses growing outside their bedroom window wafting through the room.
There was nothing in this room but painful memories and a neon sign outside the window that created a garish slide show of green and yellow on the wall. He watched it flashing until his eyelids grew heavy. Finally he fell asleep, only to wake up some time later to the sound of rapid and repeated gunfire.
Wes's heart stuttered to a complete stop, then started again with a hard, solid thud as he hit the floor. His first instinct was to get into the bunker, and he began crawling toward it on his belly. Only the bunker turned out to be a shadow on the wall, and the gun he'd expected to find was missing, as well. He crawled straight into the corner before he realized he was not back in the Iraqi desert. Sweat was running out of his hair and down the middle of his back, and his hands were shaking. He looked up at the wall with the neon lights, then down at the grimy floor on which he was lying, and groaned.
"Son of a bitch," he said softly, then buried his face in the crook of his elbow.
Another round of gunshots rang out, then he heard the sound of a revving car engine and squealing tires. There were shouts, then more shouts, then a woman screaming. Within moments, he heard approaching sirens. When he was somewhat convinced that the gunshots were over, he got up off the floor and back into bed.
Oddly enough, the incident had given him a much-needed mental boost. It was the first time he'd considered the fact that he might not be ready to die, after all. And the drive-by had done something else for him. He'd already been in one war zone. He wasn't stupid enough to stay in another.
The next morning, Aaron was in a foul mood, cursing about the drive-by shooting, as well as his disturbed sleep. He managed to pour the cereal in the bowl for Wes, but he didn't take time to feed him. Instead, he shoved the bowl in front of him and slammed a cup of coffee on the table.
"Eat or starve, it's no matter to me. I'm gonna be late for work."
Without a backward glance, he left Wes at the table where he'd put him and walked out the door.
Wes sat without moving, staring down at the bowl of wilting cornflakes and listening for the sound of Aaron's truck driving away. Even after Aaron was long gone, Wes was still there.
A cockroach appeared at the edge of the table, then made a hesitating march toward the soggy cereal. The faucet at the sink was leaking. The repetitive drip into Aaron's empty bowl sounded loud in the silence of the room. The neighbor in the apartment next door was crying, and the one across the hall was fighting with her husband. Down the hall, a baby cried.
Wes's senses were on overload. The heat, the stench, the sounds—they all crowded in, pushing and pushing until he finally stood. For a few moments he stared around the room as if assessing his options, then moved to the cabinets, took down a coffee tin and pulled off the lid.
Every night he'd watched Aaron empty his pockets into this tin. Since Aaron had access to Wes's money, Wes felt no guilt in taking his. He moved to the bathroom, showered and dressed, and then began to pack.
With just under a hundred dollars in his pocket and a switchblade he took from Aaron's dresser, he stuffed his cloths in the olive-green duffel bag that had U.S. Army and W. Holden stamped on the side. As he started toward the door, he stopped and took Aaron’s western-style hat from a coat stand and settled it on his head. But when he reached for the doorknob, he realized his hand was shaking. There was a knot in his belly and fear in his heart. He'd lost himself once out there, and there was a part of him that feared it could happen again.
He turned around, his gaze settling on the dreariness of Aaron's life, remembering the lies and deceit with which Aaron had claimed him from the hospital. Wes knew that if he didn't leave, something terrible would happen between them. There was enough left of the soldier he'd been to do what had to be done. He took a deep breath, gripped the doorknob firmly and turned it.