Carson suspected that if he jumped or yelled “boo,” they would probably scream and run. Were they expecting him to do something suspicious, criminal or thuglike? He hoped not.
He had been afraid of this reaction, and thought it would be more the norm than the exception. Being prepared didn’t make it easier to accept.
The smaller of the two women, a blonde with twilight-blue eyes and a complexion that reminded him of summer sunshine, wore a wary look. The redhead, she was more curious than wary. She smiled, managing to look a lot like someone who was up to something. His attention turned back to the blonde.
“Michael Carson, let me introduce you to Maggie Simmons, our youth worker.” Pastor Banks smiled and nodded toward the blonde. “And her incorrigible friend, Faith Lane.” The redhead.
Michael thought the introduction he had learned in his support group might be in order: My name is Michael Carson and I’m a recovering drug addict. Maggie Simmons looked as though she expected that from him. Or less. Definitely not more.
He didn’t want to let her down.
Pushing past sarcasm, he realized that he honestly didn’t want to let her down. But not just her—he didn’t want to let anyone down. Not even himself. And since he’d walked out of prison—his home for the last four years—one thought had been taunting him. He could slip so easily.
Concentrate on something else. Don’t get sucked into doubt. He glanced around the sparsely furnished trailer. It smelled of cleaners and bug spray. The broom leaning against the counter was further proof that someone had been cleaning.
Maggie Simmons had done the cleaning. She wore the evidence on her white T-shirt, smudged with dust. Eyes full of doubt, she watched him as though she didn’t know what he was doing in her life, and yet she’d done this.
“Thank you for cleaning the place up.” He shot her a smile, hoping for something similar from her. “I hadn’t expected that.”
“It always helps to come home to something clean,” Maggie returned, and she even smiled. Her smile was definitely sunshine and hope. Or maybe four years of prison, four years with few feminine contacts, had left him a little fanciful.
He didn’t know what to say. He dropped his duffel bag on the floor and stepped farther into the living room.
“It isn’t much, but it’s a start.” She continued to talk, her tone apologetic.
A start. Exactly what he’d thought when Pastor Banks offered to rent him this place. He needed somewhere to get his life in order. This would be easier than in his parents’ home in Springfield, and in their world of constant social activity and polite gossip that would keep him in the gutter.
His mom and dad believed in him. But they were two people, three including his brother, and he needed more than that. He knew he would need the support of the church in Galloway, and the pastor who had been visiting him for almost three years.
Pastor Banks, tall and burly, with a tender heart and a smile that exploded across his face. He believed in everyone, and in the ability of God to redeem and give second chances. He preached mercy, and he meant it.
His ministry had changed Michael’s life.
It had truly changed him. Maggie Simmons looked like she might doubt that. She moved away from him, to a brown bag of groceries on the counter. He watched, wondering what her story was, and knowing instinctively that she had one.
“I bought a few things to get you started.” She flashed a look over her shoulder that didn’t quite become a smile as she took canned items from the bag. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” He started to move toward her but stopped. She wasn’t wearing a sign that said, Let’s Be Friends. More like a sign that said, Keep Out. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She opened the refrigerator door and stuck something on the shelf.
Pastor Banks jumped back a step, drawing Michael’s attention from the nervous youth worker. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I think I just saw a mouse.”
Maggie Simmons actually laughed.
Chapter Two
A sliver of light broke through the curtains of the bedroom, waking Michael from what had only recently become a sound sleep. The night had been long and too quiet. No fights had broken out, not one door had slammed and nobody had snored. It had been only him, the occasional bark of a dog and something scurrying inside the wall.
He glanced across the room, squinting to read the clock on the dresser. Barely six. His normal waking time. Disappointed by that, he considered rolling over, covering his head with the pillow and going back to sleep. He had really planned to sleep in, at least until eight. His internal alarm clock hadn’t gotten that memo.
Instead of giving in and going back to sleep, he laid there, relishing freedom. No prison guard would show up and tell him to get busy. He could stay in bed as long as he wanted, in a room with no lock on the door and no bars on the windows.
His own bed. His own home. Nobody here would tell him to get to work. Nobody would tell him to head for chow. And nobody would keep him from messing up.
What if he couldn’t handle freedom?
Get out of bed, do something. He pushed himself to leave the comfort of the mattress that had swallowed him in its softness the night before. Down the narrow paneled hall, to the sunlit kitchen. He paused at the window over the sink and looked out at hay fields across the road.
This place was perfect. He was glad he’d taken Pastor Banks up on the offer to rent from the church. Here he could get his bearings. He wouldn’t have to worry about his parents and how to protect them. He needed this time alone.
For four years he’d had very little time on his own, without someone watching, listening. He had once heard that the Chinese people didn’t have a word for “alone.” There was no concept of the word in their overcrowded country.
In prison there was no concept of the word, either. A person didn’t have use of a word that they couldn’t put into practice. Alone.
But then sometimes, even with hundreds of people around, he had felt alone.
He rummaged through the cabinet, smiling when he pulled out the bag of Starbucks coffee. Miss Maggie Simmons had thought of everything. Bless her sweet soul. He filled the coffeepot with water, added a few scoops of coffee to the filter basket and set the power button.
While he waited for the coffee to brew he walked out the back door to the small deck that faced the woods. Springtime in the Ozarks. The air was cool, but hinted at a warm day, and the emerald-green grass was drenched with dew. Something moved. He watched, holding his breath to see what had darted through the trees. It appeared again, a small doe, ears twitching when she sensed his presence. A few minutes later she darted back into the woods.
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee greeted him when he walked into the trailer. Real coffee, the kind a person wanted to enjoy, not gulp down with a few spoons of sugar added to kill the flavor. He poured a cup and walked back outside. An old lawn chair had been left behind. He sat and propped his feet
