style="font-size:15px;"> Adolfo’s shaking hands told Tony he still had a chance. If the shaking stopped, it would mean the boy had found his resolve and was lost. Tony edged farther between the counter and the waving gun. “Step up, bro. You’re the man of the house now. Go home and take care of your brother. You want him to join a gang, too?”
“Shut up! You don’t know nothin’ about me.” His voice cracked.
“I’ve known you for three years, mijo. I know your brother will follow you, and one of you will end up in a body bag.” Tony’s voice was hard now. “Maybe not right away, but you will.”
“You’re the one who’s gonna be in a body bag!”
“Go ahead.” Tony stepped forward now. His gun was within easy reach, but there was no way he’d pull it. He needed Adolfo’s trust. “I told you, I’m not afraid to die. Not if my death will get you away from Raul.”
“Stay back.” Adolfo’s voice was barely a whisper.
“The way I see it, you have two choices.” Electricity swirled in the air between them. “One, you shoot me. You go to jail for manslaughter. It will break your mama’s heart, but maybe it’ll scare your brother enough to stay away from gangs. Two, you put down that gun and you come with me to the St. Paul’s Mission and learn how a real man takes care of his family. I don’t care either way, because in the end, you and your brother will be safe.”
He paused, giving Adolfo time to think. “If I were you, I’d take the second option. It’s a lot less heartache for your mama.”
“Yeah, right.” Adolfo’s face twisted with anger. “I walk out of here with you and you arrest me as soon as I’m out the door. No thanks.”
“You walk out of here with me right now, and we’ll pretend this never happened.” He shot Mr. Chan a glance.
Mr. Chan nodded at him.
Time stood still as the young man considered his options. The tension in his thin frame melted and his trembling hands lowered the gun. The pressure around Tony’s middle eased and he stepped to the side so Mr. Chan could see that Adolfo’s weapon was lowered. As he stepped away, he held his hands in the air, so Adolfo wouldn’t feel threatened.
A sudden movement from the clerk drew Tony’s attention and made him realize his mistake. By stepping in front of Adolfo, he’d cut off Mr. Chan’s view of the boy’s hands. Now all Mr. Chan noticed were Tony’s own hands in the air. He must’ve thought Adolfo had pointed the weapon at Tony.
“No!” Tony whirled around to face Mr. Chan and jumped in front of Adolfo, shielding him just as the clerk’s gun went off. A searing pain ripped through his chest.
The room swayed and Tony sank to the ground. Adolfo tried to catch him, but Tony’s weight was too much and they both ended up in a heap on the floor.
Adolfo stared as blood poured out of Tony’s chest. “Oh, man! You’re hit!”
“I’m okay,” Tony muttered, the smell of rust and salt filling his nostrils. “I just need to sit for a minute.”
In a flash, the boy rolled Tony off him and sprinted out the door. Mr. Chan rushed over. “Mr. Tony, I’m so sorry! The ambulance is coming! I’m so sorry!” The frantic man pushed a towel into Tony’s wound. “I thought he was about to shoot.”
Tony shook his head, trying to dispel the faintness quickly taking over. An image floated in front of his eyes. Long blond hair, so blond it was almost white. “Bree.” Her dark brown eyes blinked and then she was gone.
* * *
SABRINA DAVIS KICKED the covers off and stretched. She opened her eyes and blinked. Bright morning light jolted her out of bed. If the sun was already up, she was late for work. Her pulse thundered in her ears and her gaze danced around the room. She let out a deep sigh and fell back on her pillow as she glanced at her bedside clock. Seven in the morning and for the first time in years, she didn’t need to jump out of bed and race to work or get her son ready for school. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the open window and she closed her eyes, reveling in the silence. No hum of Houston traffic, no horns blaring. Somewhere in the pasture behind the house, a meadowlark began to sing, and she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. It was good to be home.
She rolled over in bed, listening for the crowing of the rooster that had been her alarm clock growing up. Nothing. What else had changed in the ten years she’d been gone?
Since a yelling match with her father had escalated into her storming off to live with her Aunt Patty and Uncle Troy in Houston.
At the time she’d thought her relationship with her father was beyond repair. Amazing what ten years and the love of a grandchild could do. It had been so late when she’d arrived at her father’s the night before that she’d fallen into bed without even turning on the light. She propped herself up on her elbows and examined the room she’d grown up in. Her breath caught. Everything was exactly the same. So much for change.
Her rose-colored bedspread, now faded to such a light pink it was almost white, lay clean and crisp on her double bed. The dresser across the room showcased her trophies and ribbons. Pictures of her high school activities and friends were still pinned on the corkboard next to the dresser.
Her bare feet didn’t make a sound on the threadbare carpet as she padded across the room to the closet. She steeled herself and opened the door. The clothes she hadn’t taken with her all those years ago were still on their hangers. Shoes lay scattered across the closet floor. With shaking hands, she reached up to the top shelf and her fingers brushed a small wooden box. She didn’t need to lift the lid to know what was inside. As happy as she was to be home, some memories were just too painful. She left the box in its place and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
“Already made.” Her father saw where she was headed and handed her a full mug.
“You should’ve woken me up. I don’t normally sleep this late.” She added sugar to her coffee.
“Figured you needed the rest.” Dad took a sip from his own cup. He nodded toward the alcove that had been added to the end of the large country kitchen. “What do you think of the addition?”
“It was so late when we got here, I didn’t get a chance to see it. I still can’t believe you finished it.” The gesture had been the final straw in convincing her to come back to Salt Creek.
Her parents had dreamed of a big family, so her father had started building onto the small two-bedroom farmhouse when Sabrina was two years old. Four years and three miscarriages later, the cement foundation and wooden frame only served to remind Sabrina’s mother of the family that would never be. When she hadn’t been able to bear looking at the wood-framed walls another minute, Dad had taken a sledgehammer and torn it down, piece by piece.
“When did you start on it again?” It must have taken months for him to finish the addition all by himself, and goodness knew how much money. How long had he been hoping she would come home?
“I started working on it right after Patty decided to move to Florida.”
Sabrina choked on her coffee. “That was seven years ago.”
“Yeah, well, I thought maybe you’d want to move back home
