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Marc smiled as he stared at the wall, presumably imagining it in his head. “Tomorrow,” he said, then let out a soft sigh and turned to me. “A promise.”
I nodded as he folded me into his arms.
“This time will be different,” he murmured into my hair as he squeezed me tightly. “I can feel it, Cass.”
My brain howled at me, begging me to stay practical. But my heart wanted to dive headfirst into Marc’s foolish optimism. And I’d always had a bad habit of listening to my heart.
I didn’t know how I’d cope if I lost another pregnancy. Maybe I’d end up on a first-name basis with my therapist. Or perhaps I’d finally decide it was time to give up. Whatever happened, I knew Marc would be there to hold my hand through it all.
What I did know was that Marc was right. After so much loss, now was a time for hope. Wild and whimsical hope.
Walker & Cassidy
Shadow quickly slams the lean-to door shut. Using a key plucked from his back pocket, he secures a padlock onto the latch. I approach slowly, not wanting to startle him. He stands with his back to me for a while before he turns around.
“What was that?” I ask, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
“That’s for hunting,” he replies, his gaze fixed on my bloody foot. “We should clean that up.” He finally looks up, and we stare at each other in silence for a while, before he says, “Come on,” and heads for the back door.
I hesitate for a moment, then follow him from a distance as he climbs the back steps and enters the kitchen. As I hold the railing and hop up the stairs to the back porch, my mind races with questions.
I can’t figure out why the door to the shed was open. Did Shadow go in the lean-to to get something and accidentally leave the door open? Or did he leave the door open on purpose as a warning for me not to stray too far away again?
And the most pressing question of all: Did I really imagine someone in that meadow?
As I enter the kitchen, I hop across the floor toward the table in the breakfast nook, so as not to stain the unsealed wooden plank flooring with my blood. Taking a seat at the table, I set my left sneaker down on the floor as I listen. It sounds as if Shadow is around the corner in the downstairs bathroom, rummaging for first aid supplies.
“Do you think you’ll need stitches?” he calls out to me.
“I don’t think so,” I shoot back.
What if those rummaging noises are him looking for the right caliber bullet? This thought makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. What have I gotten myself into?
I grab the seat of the wooden chair and brace myself for Shadow’s return. His rummaging stops, and my heart hammers against my chest. But when I look up, I glimpse something that puts my mind at ease.
Hanging on the wall above the table is Shadow’s rendition of Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Last Supper.
He’s a man of God, I tell myself. He’s not going to hurt me.
The sound of his footsteps approaching echoes in my ears. I close my eyes and imagine the painting, both Shadow’s version and my memory of the original. I remember the original. Didn’t I travel somewhere to see it? Who was I with?
“Are you okay?”
My memory of the painting evaporates as I open my eyes. “What’s your real name?” I ask, relieved to see he’s not carrying a gun or any other weapon.
He looks taken aback by this question. And he very clearly chooses to ignore it for a moment as he places some gauze, iodine, and duct tape on the table. Taking a seat in the chair next to me, he nods toward my foot.
“Do you mind?” he asks softly. “It will be easier if you rest your foot on my knee?”
I hesitate for a brief moment, then I slowly raise my foot high enough for him to grasp it firmly. He doesn’t seem to mind getting his hands or jeans bloody. I wince as he places my heel on his knee.
“Sorry,” he says, lifting my foot. “I forgot it’s on the back of your heel.”
He rests the ball of my foot on his knee and begins using the gauze and iodine to clean the dirt-encrusted wound.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I remind him.
He doesn’t look up as he reaches for more squares of gauze. “Name’s Walker.”
“Walker?” I say it aloud, and the sound of the name on my lips makes my chest ache.
“What’s your name?” he asks, glancing at me as I clutch my chest. “I know it ain’t Shine.”
“Cassidy,” I reply, squinting my eyes at a hazy memory. A piece of paper. A legal document.
“That’s a beautiful name,” he says, and the memory slips away, just out of my grasp.
Then, as suddenly as it left, it’s back. I’m signing the document. It’s a legal document. I’m signing it, and I’m laughing.
“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” Walker says, refocusing my attention on the present moment.
“Did you just call me beautiful?”
A tiny smile plays on his lips. “Yes, ma’am. Is that okay by you?”
I can’t help but smile as I realize how crazy I was to think this sweet, innocent man meant to harm me. “It’s okay with me,” I reply.
I’ll still have to keep my guard up, but he’s done nothing other than show me the kindness and purity of his heart. I think Walker would sooner cut off his own hand than hurt me. And I don’t know why I’m so sure of this. But I feel it as surely as I know I’ve seen the original painting of The Last Supper.
“You’re going to use that duct tape on my foot?” I ask playfully, trying not to laugh as I suddenly feel ticklish from the sensation of his calloused fingers on my skin.
He places the soiled gauze pads on the table and stares at the roll of tape. “That’s probably not the way you do things in the city, huh?”
“I didn’t mean to say you’re doing anything wrong,” I clarify, feeling guilty for making him feel like I was criticizing him. “That wasn’t meant as a criticism. It was… Actually, I was trying… I was trying to flirt with you. And now I feel like a total idiot.”
“Flirt?” he says, looking genuinely perplexed. “What’s that?”
I grin as I’m once again surprised by his innocence. “Oh, boy, am I going to have fun teaching you. Not that I’m any good at it. Clearly. But—” I stop myself and take a breath before I start rambling nervously. “Flirting is something you do,” I begin, my eyes scanning his face, studying his grease-smudged, sharp cheekbones and those sparkling blue eyes, “with someone you find interesting…or attractive.”
His dark eyebrows scrunch together as he considers this new information. “Do I have this right? You find me attractive?”
My face feels as if it’s about to burst into flames. “Yes, I find you...ridiculously attractive.”
He still looks confused, but a smile begins to form in the center of that manly beard.
“Well, then, maybe you oughta teach me how to flirt,” he says, glancing in the direction of my eyes, but only for a brief second.
I recollect the moment he called me beautiful a couple minutes ago, replaying the memory over and over again because I know he doesn’t have the courage to repeat it. I hope my brain isn’t so messed up that I’ll forget his words by tomorrow. I think that’d be worse than finding that shed full of guns.
The First Time
Six months earlier
I arrived at my parents’ house at a few minutes before noon to give my mom time to get ready before her two p.m. dentist appointment. My stomach is balled tightly at the prospect of spending an entire afternoon alone with my father. This is his full-time caretaker’s week off.
My mother rang me last night asking if I could relieve her for a few hours, so she could go to the dentist and get one of her veneers reattached. I didn’t blame her for needing some time to herself. But I remembered when she had her veneers replaced a few years ago. I was getting pretty sick of being lied to by everyone I loved.
I parked my SUV in the roundabout and pulled the hood of my pink raincoat over my
head. Grabbing my purse off the passenger seat, I tucked my cell phone inside and stepped out into the pouring rain. Instinctively, I placed one hand on my swollen belly to steady my growing baby as I raced across the driveway toward the front door.
When I entered, I was greeted by the warm aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. My father still drank espresso by the gallon. My mother claimed he seemed more lucid when he drank coffee, so she didn’t dare deny him his one addiction. I hoped that would be true today.
How my mother managed to hold herself together lately was a mystery to me.
