“You could’ve been shot.”
“I know.” But she’d do it again in an instant if it meant protecting him.
Fern fell asleep on his shoulder. A few times, she opened her eyes, once to purple dawn, then to pink sky, but she was content to stay right where she was and closed them again.
When hunger wouldn’t let her sleep any longer, she finally sat up. It was now bright enough outside to see the sorry state of her dress. Brushing at the dirt didn’t dislodge it but only made it worse, working it further into the fabric.
Her suitcase was still on the backseat, at least. “I should change my clothes.”
The last road sign had announced Chicago was just twenty miles away. Cal’s eyes were dark as he stared, unblinking, out at the road. He rubbed at his jaw, which was in desperate need of a shave. He had to be as exhausted as she was.
He pulled into the lot of a roadside motel with a posted sign that read: Hazel’s. The single-story, wood clapboard building had five rooms, each one fronted by a faded green door, the paint in various stages of peeling, and a single window. Two other cars sat in the lot. The motel’s office door was propped open by a white ceramic chamber pot repurposed into a planter full of pansies.
Cal cut the engine. They listened to it tick and sigh.
“I need some shut-eye.” He arched his back and stretched as far as the constraints of the car would allow. “I’ll get us rooms.”
A bed sounded lovely. So did a bath if this place offered one. Fern waited in the car while Cal went into the office, but when he came out, she could tell from his expression that something was wrong. He opened theback door and grabbed her suitcase and a small leather bag—his own, Fern presumed. She followed him to a green door numbered with a painted black4. He inserted the key in the lock just as the door to No. 3 opened. Cal put a hand on her lower back and urged her inside. The room smelled of lemon cleaner and, underneath that, cigarette smoke.
He came in behind her and shut the door, then tossed the two bags onto the bed and went to the window. Voices outside on the concrete walk carried through the thin walls. A man, a woman and two small children passed by.
“Cal, what is it?”
He tugged the curtain closed. “The manager had the radio on,” he said, turning toward her and taking off his hat. He tossed it onto the bed too. Fern followed it with her eyes. Was he not getting his own room?
“The city news bureau says the police are asking the public to be on the lookout for a girl with a scarred face.” Fern spun around to face him, her jaw slack. “She’s reported to have been kidnapped from a Zionsville institution for the disabled.”
21
Fern slumped onto the foot of the small bed. “My parents must have called the police.” She stared up at him. “Did the radio announcer say anything about you?”
He raised a brow and gave a slight nod as if to sayof course.
He shucked his jacket, exposing a blood speckled shirt. She shot to her feet again, but he plucked at the shirt. “It’s not my blood.”
Fern exhaled, only slightly relieved. It was a reminder of what had happened in front of Harris Looms and then at the farmhouse. How in stride Cal seemed to be handling it all.
“Listen, I couldn’t get you your own room,” he went on. “The manager might have wanted to meet you—she looks like the nosy type—so I just told her I was here with my wife. Okay?”
Her head bobbed in a wild nod, though she wasn’t sure if it was okay. The less she was seen the better, but…that meant they would be sharing a room. She avoided looking at Cal by inspecting the bathroom. It was cramped and held only a pedestal sink and a flush toilet. So much for her getting a bath.
Fern ambled back toward the single chair and bureau. “How long should we stay?”
Cal unbuttoned his collar but kept his holster on. He sat on the edge of the bed, springs squeaking, and took off his shoes. “A few hours, tops.”
He kicked up his legs and laid back on one half of the bed. He threw an arm over his eyes, the other draped over his stomach. His fingers touched the black, polished handle of his gun; he’d be able to draw in a split second, if necessary.
Fern took her suitcase from the bed and shut herself in the bathroom. Washing up with a cloth didn’t feel like enough, but it was all she could muster, so she made the best of it. She rubbed the cloth over her face, arms, legs, and feet, using the French milled soap Margie had packed among her things for Young Acres. Dirt darkened the water as Fern squeezed the cloth out into the sink.
Peering into the mirror, she was taken aback at first. She could never quite forget about her scars, but in the last many hours, ever since they left the Bluebird Diner, she hadn’t given them much thought. And when she was with Cal, how he saw her—how he viewed them—wasn’t her first concern. What Fern thought most about was the delicate, tenuous attachment that seemed to be taking shape between them. She touched her lips with the cloth, thinking of his kiss. How it had made her body thrum with wonder.
But now wasn’t the time to remember. The memory felt too big and hot and complicated, and ridiculously, she worried it would somehow seep through the bathroom door and alert Cal to her thoughts. Breathing out evenly, Fern toweled off and dressed.
She’d only packed a few things. The cream-colored, rayon dress with small black polka dots and flutter sleeves, which cinched at the elbow, looked comfortable enough. The hose she’d been wearing went into the trash can, torn in too many places to mend. She put on her other pair, a black seam running up the back of each leg. The black, buckled shoes she’d been wearing were covered with mud and grime, but a quick cleaning helped.
Refreshed, Fern closed the door behind her and found Cal asleep on the bed, just as she’d left him. Naturally, he hadn’t heard or felt her earlier thoughts. Feeling absurd, she watched the rise and fall of his chest. His head was rolled to the side toward the window and away from her. His left leg bent at the knee a little, his foot hanging off the bed by the length of one heel. The urge to lie down next to him, just to be closer to him, confused her. Did he want her to? Expect her to?
She set her suitcase on the floor and carefully, as silently as possible, perched on the edge of the bed. Cal snapped awake, his hand gripping the handle of his gun. Instinct. But he saw it was only Fern and let go. He took in her clean clothes and propped an arm behind his head.
