“He won’t ever be a part of your life,” she’d whispered over his downy head, soothing him in the one luxury she allowed herself in her run-down rented room, a secondhand glider rocker. Of all the possessions she’d abandoned, she missed that beat-up old rocker the most, patched arm, stained cushion and all.
The twin pangs of despair and panic bit at her, through the numbing chill that stiffened her limbs. It was too late for Jane, but her son would have his chance at a normal life. Lord, please help me save Ben. Please.
Arms wrapped tight around herself, she continued her perusal. There was nothing on the walls, no prints or paintings, no family photos, only blank wood panels. In the corner was a long shelf that ran the length of the wall, about five feet, crowded with something she could not make out in the gloom. She would have moved closer, but her legs were trembling so badly she stayed put until Mitch entered.
He pulled the heavy curtains closed and shut and locked the door and did the same with the rear exit in the kitchen. Then he turned on a lantern and activated a generator, which hummed to life.
“We’ll stick to lantern light, except in the bathroom. Water will be hot in a bit. Go shower. I’ll toss a clean towel in the door.”
The veritable avalanche of words from this taciturn man unsettled her. “But...but you need medical attention.”
“I don’t.”
She’d leave that issue for now. “We have to call the police.”
“No phone.”
She gaped. “You don’t have a landline, either?”
No cell service. No landline. No communication. It had been a long time before she’d realized the place Wade had purchased for their idyllic, romantic homestead had no cell coverage. And she had never so much as suspected he’d chosen it for that very reason until the end. Not idyllic—isolated. Not romantic—remote. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.
He jutted his chin at her. “Gonna get the heater started. It will warm quickly.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh, find you something to wear while you shower.”
“Let me bandage your head at least.”
“Don’t want your help.” He said it without looking at her.
I don’t want yours, either, she longed to say. No, she did not want it, but she and Ben needed Mitch Whitehorse desperately.
Wade had gone on the run for a short while after his crimes were brought to light, and it had only been through the sheer grit and determination of his older brother that he’d been arrested and brought back for trial. Now Wade had returned to kill Mitch and make good on his promise that Jane would be his wife forever, his property—his or no one’s. The thought of being owned by Wade Whitehorse made her nauseous. The shivering now controlled her as her deepest fear began to grow roots down into her soul.
What would happen if Wade discovered she’d had his son? She’d been careful, excruciatingly meticulous about keeping Ben away from the public eye, but if Wade found out... Panic made her dizzy, and she clutched the back of the rocking chair.
Mitch loomed closer, dark eyes like pools of ink in the lamplight. He was so tall, features sharp and chiseled, his hair tar black. The glow caught in the rippled skin of his cheek, the scar caused, she knew, when Wade struck his brother full on in the face with a length of metal chain. It was a blow that probably would have ended the life of a weaker man. “Should you...sit down?” he said. The tone was not especially tender as it was neutral. For a man who believed the worst about her, it was the best she could hope for.
“I’m all right. I’ll take that shower.” She could not resist tossing over her shoulder, “Don’t collapse while I’m in there, all right?”
She heard his annoyed grunt and hid a smile. It was going to be the greatest challenge of her life to convince Mitch that she was not the person he thought her to be. Judging from his granitelike stubbornness, it might just be an impossible task.
God had promised that nothing could separate her and Ben from His love, even those terrible crimes of her husband’s. It was the promise she’d clung to when there was nothing but hatred everywhere she looked. God loved them both unequivocally, she knew with every breath she took. He’d entrusted Ben to her to keep her son safe and as far away from Wade as possible.
Mommy’s going to come for you soon, Ben bear, and it’s going to be all right.
If only she could make herself believe it.
Mitch held the clothes up to the lantern light. There was no way Jane would be able to wear anything of his. The best he could do was scrounge up his smallest sweatshirt, which would no doubt hang down past her knees. And socks. Those would go up over her shins, so he figured she’d be covered and dry. It was the best he could do.
He found a clean towel. Quick as he could, he cracked the bathroom door and shoved the pile inside, yanking it closed before he changed into dry jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt. Every movement cost him a ripple of pain through his back. The side of his head felt like someone was striking it with a steel mallet, but at least he was dry. The space heater purred, and his own shivering had slowed. Using his mother’s dented old kettle, he set the water on to boil. The shower was still running. Easing on a black slicker and a baseball cap, he grabbed his rifle and slipped out into the night.
The best practice would be to climb to the top of the rock ridge, which would give him a view of the hills below, but he was not sure he was steady enough to accomplish it, and the view would be clouded by the falling rain. He settled for doing a long, slow circle and checking for any signs that his brother had somehow persevered through the mud. There were no such indications, and the best tell of all was that Rosie and Bud were quiet and placid. Calmed somewhat, he hobbled back to the cabin.
Jane screamed when he entered.
He held up his palm, the rifle slung over his shoulder. “Just me. Property’s secure.”
She clutched the sweatshirt in a terrified fist, the fabric dwarfing her small frame. It took a few seconds for her voice to start working again. “Sorry. I thought...”
He knew what she’d thought, and he felt a stab of regret that he’d scared her. No regret necessary, he reminded himself sternly. Remember who you’re dealing with here. The kettle finally began to boil, and he plopped bulky tea bags into two squat mugs and added the water. While it steeped, he ran over various plans about what to do with the woman who was wandering his house, swaddled in his clothes, twisting her long hair into a wet coil. When the tea was ready, he still had only a sketchy plan of attack.
Grabbing a bottle from the cupboard, he downed a couple of aspirin, swallowing them dry. He tossed the tea bags and carried the mugs, handing one to her.
She sniffed the steam. “What kind of tea?”
“Yarrow. My dad makes it.”
She smiled. “He was kind, the one time I spoke to him on the phone. Does he live nearby?”
“Lives
