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“Put down the gun, Underwood,” Winthrop said. “It’s over.”
“Don’t come closer or she’s dead,” John said.
I held my breath, waiting for the bullet to tear through my flesh and into my brain.
“Give us the gun,” Winthrop said calmly. “Just come peacefully and it’ll be a lot better for you.”
“No, this isn’t the way it’s going to go.” John thrust me aside and turned the gun on Winthrop. Before he could pull the trigger, the deputy shot him right through the head. John crumpled to the floor. Blood and parts of his brain splattered the wall and pooled beneath his head onto the ugly orange shag carpet.
I sobbed, violently shaking. Black dots danced before my eyes.
The deputies knelt near John. One of them said, “He’s dead.” As if that wasn’t obvious.
Thad ran into the room. I sobbed harder and reached out to him, wanting nothing more than the safety of his arms. He picked me up as if I weighed no more than Chloe and stormed across the room out the door into the bright sunshine of the June morning.
“It’s over.” Thad sat in one of the chairs by the table and held me on his lap. “He’s gone. You’re safe now.”
I placed my head against his chest and wept. The ugliness of this day would never leave me. I knew that with certainty. But I also knew I never had to go back to it again. I was finally free.
13
THAD
A week after Underwood’s death, Sammie, Chloe, and I drove down a country road toward the Murphy ranch. I’d seen a sign earlier advertising kittens, and I was going to get a few for Chloe if it was my last act on earth. The need to make up for her real father’s cruelty ran through my blood now that I knew she would be my daughter once I adopted her. Well, for that matter, she already was my child, whether the birth certificate listed my name or not. She’d taken residence in a large portion of my heart. She was my little girl, and I loved her. Simple as that.
We rolled down the windows in my new SUV—recently purchased to accommodate my new family—enjoying the warmth and scents of summer. I had a Vince Gill album playing on the stereo, his perfect tenor raising the hair on my neck. Since falling so deeply in love with Sammie, I found myself more sentimental as well as sensitive, finding meaning in simple beauty that had escaped me before. Love with a good woman did this to a man—shaped and molded him into a better version of himself. Or at least it was that way for me.
Sammie leaned the back of her head against the seat, a contented smile on her face. From the back, Chloe sang along to the music, her high-pitched crooning out of tune and unintelligible, yet as sweet as the scent of alfalfa hay that fluttered in the breeze on either side of the road. Spray from a center pivot irrigation sprinkler sparkled in the sunlight as it swept over the fields of hay.
I’d seen the sign for kittens earlier that day, and after getting permission from Sammie, had suggested we go out and choose a few from the litter.
“We get a kitty for home?” Chloe had asked.
“Maybe two,” I’d said to her. “They like to have a friend when they come to live with a new family.”
At the entrance to the old Murphy place, I slowed and turned down the pothole-filled dirt road flanked by rustic wooden fences. Several horses grazed in the meadow, lifting their heads to say hello before returning to their lunch. Beyond the grasses a herd of cattle lazily chewed their cud and whipped their tails to ward off flies.
“Oh, it’s wonderful out here,” Sammie said. “What a beautiful piece of property, and I adore this style of house.”
“I had a feeling you would,” I said.
The traditional two-story farmhouse had a classic gabled roof, wooden siding, and a spacious front porch lined with rocking chairs. Expansive fields of hay extended toward the distant horizon. A classic red barn and a few outbuildings were scattered not far from the main house.
The Murphys were in their seventies but remained active, even though these days they only kept a small herd of cattle. I turned off the motor and got out of the car just as Mrs. Murphy stepped out to the front porch. She waved in greeting; I’d called earlier to inquire about the cats.
I introduced her to Sammie and Chloe.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Murphy said before kneeling slightly to address Chloe. “I hear you’re looking for a kitten.”
“Two kitties.” Chloe held up her chubby hand. “So, they not be lonely.”
“Good idea.” Mrs. Murphy straightened and pointed at the barn. “Go on out. Mr. Murphy’s just feeding them now.”
Chloe, dressed in short denim overalls and sandals, ran ahead, high ponytails on either side of her head bobbing happily.
Mr. Murphy had just finished dishing up some wet food for the mother cat and her litter of five. The kittens ate hungrily at their dishes, the mother cat keeping watch. There were two tabbies and a striped orange and white. A tuxedo with only a white chin and paws was clearly the runt, as she was much smaller than the others. Rounding out the litter was an almost all white cat, except for an orange tinge around his face.
“You have a preference on color?” Mr. Murphy asked.
