“Like you used to be?” he offered. When her eyes narrowed and she glared at him he was afraid he’d reminded her too much of her own childhood.
“I managed. And I’m still managing,” Samantha said, closing and tagging the bag of belongings that would go in the medevac chopper that was going to transport the child to a bigger hospital. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Maybe I’ll see you in church Sunday?”
You could have knocked him over with a feather when she said, “Not a chance. I don’t go to church anymore.”
“Why not?” The way John remembered their youth, Sam’s faith had seemed stronger than his. What in the world would make her stop attending worship services?
At first he didn’t think she was going to answer. When she lifted her chin higher and said, “Because I got tired of everybody asking me about you,” he wished she hadn’t told him the truth.
* * *
The swing shift sped by for Samantha. Weary and eager to get home and relax, she clocked out at midnight, grabbed her purse and headed for her compact, blue sedan.
Overhead lights cast a yellowish glow across the medical-center parking lot. Fall breezes were scattering dry leaves and either piling them against the tires of the few remaining vehicles, or tumbling them down the hill into the farmers’ mowed fields beyond.
Samantha turned up the collar of her fleece jacket and clasped her arms across her chest to help ward off the chill. She knew she hadn’t been the same since she’d seen John again and she didn’t like the feelings of loss—and of buried anger—that kept washing over her.
Logic insisted that it was foolish to relive an unhappy past. The problem was, most of her time with John Waltham had been blissful. Elating. Filled with the promise of a perfect future.
That was the real problem. She was once again coming face-to-face with a shattered dream and seeing how irrational it had been in the first place. Childhood attachments were fine for kids. A person had to grow up eventually. In a way, John had done them both a favor when he’d left town and forced her to stand on her own two feet. Intellectually, she believed that. All she had to do was convince her emotions.
Because of hospital rules, Samantha’s car was parked in a distant section of the lot designated for employees. There were some lights back there, too, but the farther she got from the buildings the more forbidding the encroaching darkness seemed.
One hand was inside her shoulder bag, reaching for her keys, when a large, black-clad form stepped out of the shadows. She sensed him before she actually saw him and her fingers began probing the deepest reaches of her purse. Instead of her keys, she gripped a small can of pepper spray.
Shaking on the inside, she continued walking boldly toward her car. When the silent figure blocked her way she simply said, “Excuse me?”
His resulting laugh was far from humorous. Widening his stance he said, “Lady, there is no excuse for the likes of you. Now give it to me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Move. I need to get to my car.” She sidestepped to keep out of reach and raised the spray can, ready to put it to use.
“You think that scares me?” the man said. “I can take that away from you before you know what hit you.”
“Why me?” she asked, fighting to remain calm enough to defend herself. “I don’t know you.”
“No, and you won’t try to ID me if you know what’s good for you. Let’s just say we have a mutual friend whose life won’t be worth a bucketful of manure if you rat us out.” His raspy tone was almost as frightening as the outright threat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of my way and I’ll leave. I won’t say a word about this. I promise.”
This time his laugh was even more sinister. “You bet you won’t. The only way you’re getting away from me is if you give me the package.”
“What package?” She could hear the fear in her voice and rued the lack of self-control.
“The one the Boland kid gave you.”
So that was the supposed mutual friend he was threatening to harm. “Bobby didn’t give me anything. I hardly know him.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why did he point to you when they were hauling him off to jail?”
“Me? I didn’t even see him leave. He couldn’t have pointed to me.”
Suddenly, the man lunged.
Samantha directed the pepper spray at his face and heard him curse as it hit its target but he didn’t slow his attack. In the blink of an eye he’d disarmed her and wrenched her purse from her grasp, as well.
Blinding headlights suddenly came out of nowhere and illuminated the darkened corner of the lot. Her head whipped around. A large vehicle, probably a pickup truck, was speeding toward her so fast it looked as though it might actually hit her car or run her over.
Tires screeched on the asphalt. The truck rocked as it slid to a stop. A man in a denim jacket jumped out and raced past Samantha in a blur, hot on the trail of her fleeing attacker.
The whole incident happened so quickly she needed a moment to process the details. What in the world could that guy have meant? Bobby Joe hadn’t given her any packages. He hadn’t given her anything but a headache. But it was clear the stupid kid was involved with criminals and was in way over his head. Perhaps lethally so.
It quickly dawned on her that the driver of the pickup had looked familiar. Peering after him she saw John Waltham returning with a broad grin and her purse in hand.
Well, now what? she asked herself, trying to still her trembling enough to present a calm facade, even though she’d been scared out of her wits just now. John had saved her from theft and goodness knows what else. She could hardly snub him.
Instead, she merely smiled and said, “Thanks,” as she accepted her handbag from him and slung the wide strap over her shoulder.
“You’re welcome. Sorry he got away.” John eyed the bag. “Aren’t you going to check and see if he stole anything?”
“I doubt he had it long enough for that.” Samantha nevertheless pawed through the contents. Her wallet and cracked cell phone were still there. To her surprise, so was the pepper spray.
Looking back at her rescuer she raised an eyebrow. “Wait a minute. It’s after midnight. What were you doing out here?”
“Waiting for you to get off work so I could try to talk to you again,” John said.
“How did you know my hours?”
“I asked at the information desk. That’s what they’re for. Information, right?”
“They’re not supposed to give strangers my personal schedule,” Samantha countered.
“Ah, but they could
