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“Awful cold to be out today without a coat, Jack,” Cole commented as his wife finished patching him up. “You forget yours?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack mumbled. Truth was, he didn’t have a coat or gloves, or even socks to wear beneath his threadbare sneakers.
“Poppy, would you find one of your sisters? I need her to hunt down some clothes and boots that the boys have outgrown. I just bet Jack could wear them…”
An hour later, he was dressed in clean jeans, T-shirt, and long-sleeved overshirt, with a heavy winter coat and gloves lying over a chair waiting for him. On his feet were thick socks and a pair of warm winter boots with a little extra room in them to ensure he could wear them all winter.
In front of him was a bowl of soup—thick chunks of beef and vegetables and a fragrant broth he knew he’d remember the taste of forever—and bread that Mrs. Porter had heavily smeared butter on.
It was a moment’s respite. A fragile few hours, no more than two, before Poppy’s father leveled a questioning look across the table.
“It’s going to be dark soon, son. I’ll give you a ride wherever you’re heading,” he told him.
The message was clear. For all the man’s kindness, he was reminding Jack this wasn’t a place he could stay.
“He could just stay tonight, Daddy,” Poppy piped up from where she sat next to her father. “Mac-Cole’s not home. He could sleep in his room.”
A warm home, blankets, more soup. Jack would’ve sold his soul in that moment if he’d thought those things were possible. But even before he lifted his head from the soup and saw Poppy’s father’s face, he knew better.
Such things weren’t meant for the likes of him.
“No. I can’t stay,” Jack spoke up, despite the concerned look the little girl shot him. “I’m supposed to be at my uncle’s soon,” he lied. “I’ll be staying there for a while.”
He lowered his eyes to his nearly empty bowl, regret slicing at him. He had an uncle, but he wouldn’t be staying the night there. He had no idea where he was going to hide, but he knew he’d have to find a place.
“I’ll give you ride.” Mr. Porter’s voice was firm. “Finish your meal and we’ll head out.”
It wasn’t much longer before Poppy’s father drove him away, believing Jack’s uncle in neighboring Kenova would shelter him.
Jack could have told him there was no shelter. In his life, the only true peace he’d ever known was his time in the Porters’ kitchen as a seven-year-old imp had all but ordered her parents to care for him.
That hour or two, and no more.
Poppy stared at the images on the evening news that night, barely aware that she was crying. That her heart was breaking for the boy she’d tried so hard to help that afternoon.
It was dark, police lights flashing red and blue in front of a shack outside of town while two police officers escorted a handcuffed Jack to a cruiser.
“The son, Jackson Lee Bridger, has confessed to killing the father, but hasn’t commented in regards to his mother. Officials say the inside of the shack they were living in was a bloodbath…”
Poppy turned to her daddy, her gaze meeting his, and in his eyes she saw his regret but his resolve as well. His expression was stoic, unapologetic. He’d done what he felt was best for his family, she’d heard him tell her momma, and now she knew why he’d said it.
“I’m sorry, baby girl,” her daddy whispered, shaking his head as her older brothers and sisters turned to them in confusion.
Poppy rose from where she’d been sitting on the carpeted floor and tried to speak. She tried to, but tears clogged her throat, choking her as she fought them back. Turning to the hall, she ran from the room and to her bedroom, knowing she couldn’t blame her daddy, because she knew he was a really good daddy. And she knew in that moment that her heart was breaking, because she doubted anyone but her cared about what would happen to the wild, often dirty teenager with too many bruises and a temper that got him in too many fights.
CHAPTER ONE
ELEVEN YEARS LATER
Poppy stared into the full-length mirror with a critical eye, determined to look her best.
She couldn’t do anything about the curls her red hair held on to so stubbornly. The deep curls fell to her shoulders in abandon, one insisting on laying over her forehead, but tonight, they looked softer, less frizzy than normal. Her makeup was minimal, a light application of mascara, a soft gray shadow over her eyelids, making her emerald-green eyes seem brighter. Some gloss along her lips.
The flirty skirt she wore ended just above her knees, the blouse, a lighter shade of blue, barely covered the low band of the skirt. It was just low enough to hide the hilt of the little dagger, secured in its leather sheath and tucked inside the band of her skirt.
Her fingers glanced over the wooden hilt, her heart giving a hard beat of remembered excitement at its presence. The little knife was for her protection, since she couldn’t seem to keep her butt at home instead of sneaking out and attending parties she had no business going to, she’d been told.
Jack had looked so stern and disapproving that night he’d given her the dagger at one of those parties. He’d spent that evening in the relative solitude amid the vehicles parked at the edge of the clearing, instructing her on how best to use it to protect herself.
