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Mrs. Yates’s guess turned out to be correct on all counts. Barry didn’t go to jail that night, or any other night, for that matter. When an officer arrived at the Yates’ house to take our report, I wasn’t up to discussing the gory details with anyone else. But my mother—and Ryder’s parents—were adamant.
“I want the book thrown at this monster,” Mom raged.
“Yeah,” Mr. Yates agreed. “Throw a book; like the Bible. Maybe he’ll learn a few well-needed morals.”
But to my relief, the issue stayed relatively low key. There would be no book throwing and no big long trial. I wouldn’t have to sit in a witness stand and try to make twelve jurors believe me.
I could picture it now. Innocent tears streaming down my face as I pointed a shaky finger toward Barry, sitting next to his lawyer. I’m not lying. He kissed me. Honest, I would oh-so dramatically proclaim as everyone in the world watched, dissecting every nuance of my voice and body language to decipher whether or not I was telling the truth. The mental image made me shiver. No, thank you. The re
al outcome would be nice and simple, easy to put behind me and move on with life.
I wish I could say the same for my mother. After Mrs. Yates showed us to her guestroom and Mom and I huddled under the covers next to each other, I listened to her sniff and cry as quietly as possible for the rest of the night.
When I woke the next morning, I felt groggy and sore. I glanced across the mattress at Mom, who’d finally passed out. Her face looked haggard and worn as if she’d battled sleep and it had finally conquered her and then locked her prisoner in a cell of nightmares. I wanted to shake her awake just to take that awful look off her face, but she had to be exhausted, so I quietly slipped out of bed, used the bathroom and eased open the door of our guestroom to smell bacon and coffee.
I followed my nose through Ryder’s house and into his huge kitchen to find him—not his mother or father—standing at the stove flipping eggs. I stopped dead, my bare toes chilling against the cool tile floor. Crossing my arms over my chest to keep in body heat, I watched him cook.
He looked just as appealing from the back as he did the front. Hair full of bed head, one thick lock stood up on the crown of his head. If I’d been close enough, I probably would’ve been tempted to reach out and smooth the rooster tail down. He wore sweatpants and a purple t-shirt with a white dragon breathing fire across his back.
Warmth stirred under my skin. I wondered if I’d ever again meet anyone who made me feel as tingly and alive as simply looking at Ryder Yates made me feel.
He must’ve sensed my presence because he glanced over, did a double take, and then grinned at me. The swelling on his face had gone down overnight, but the bruises had darkened considerably.
“Morning,” he said, his face lighting with the same giddy breathlessness I felt swirling inside me. Setting his spatula down and coming toward me, he sucked his lip between his teeth before saying, “I hope you like bacon and eggs. It’s all I know how to cook.”
I tightened my lips to keep the huge smile that would’ve no doubt split my face clean in half from exploding across my cheeks. “I love them,” I said, and even if I hadn’t they would’ve become my favorite dish at that very moment.
Relief bloomed in his eyes. “Orange juice?”
I gave a nod.
Grinning the exact grin I was trying to contain, he pulled a chair from the table that had been set for five. “Then, have a seat, my lady,” he swept his hand out, “and it’ll be my great honor to serve you.”
I hesitated, feeling awkward about being the recipient of such gracious service. But he looked so eager to please me, I hurried forward and planted my tush on the chair. Ryder scooted me in and then moved away. After opening the refrigerator, he pulled out a pitcher of orange juice, then proceeded to pour me a glass. I watched as he set the filled cup on the counter and piled a serving plate with eggs and bacon. While he was busy, two pieces of golden brown bread popped out of the toaster.
Unable to sit still and watch him do all the work, especially with his hands still wrapped in gauze the way they were, I pushed from my chair and went to the counter where a plate of two pieces of buttered toast already sat. Extracting the two freshest slices from the toaster, I silently buttered them. Ryder noticed my help a second later.
“Hey,” he scolded. “Sit back down. You’re the guest here.”
“I don’t mind.” After buttering both pieces, I put two more into the toaster, turning just in time to catch Ryder carrying the platter of breakfast to the table.
“The orange juice is for you,” he called, his back facing me.
Since my mouth was morning-breath dry, I gulped down a good dose of juice.
Ryder returned to me just as I let out a quenched sigh.
He smiled as we faced each other. But the longer our gazes held, the sadder he began to look until he huffed out a short, depressed breath. “You’re going to transfer back to Hillsburg, aren’t you?”
Glancing down at my half-empty glass, I nodded. “Probably.”
“Well…” He forced a smile when I lifted my face. “At least you’ll return to your friends again.”
“Yeah,” I agreed quietly.
He stepped toward me. “I’m going to miss you, though.”
