Finally Home (27 page)

CHAPTER 29

C
asie sat bolt upright. It was as black as pitch outside her bedroom window, but something had awakened her, footsteps on gravel, maybe, or . . .

A noise groaned from below stairs. Breath held, she stepped out of bed. The floor creaked beneath her feet. The yard was dark and empty but for Puke and . . .

Her breath froze in her throat. Was that a footprint in the new snow? A scratch of noise sounded from below again. Swallowing, she slipped her .45 from the gun belt that hung in the closet and crept downstairs. She flipped the living room switch. Light bathed the room, bringing normalcy with it. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Stepping into the kitchen, she lit that as well. Security seeped in. A dozen brown eggs sat in a wooden bowl on the counter. Black walnuts occupied a basket on the table.

Casie exhaled heavily and ran a glass of water from the tap. Christmas had come and gone. As had Colt. After spending a few additional nights on the couch, he had finally begun returning to his parents' ranch in the evenings. Not that it mattered.

She was an independent woman, but perhaps she
was
a little jumpier without him there. After all, she was currently standing in the middle of her kitchen holding a cold pistol and a tepid glass of water.

Silently laughing at herself, she set the .45 beside the walnuts and glanced out the window. Jack was trotting across the yard, black body barely visible in the darkness. He must have made the noise that woke her. Perhaps he'd spotted a skunk. Sometimes the semi-dormant wildlife left their dens to forage for food this time of year. It was nice to have a watchdog to convince them to move along.

Grateful and oddly lonely, Casie pulled a bag of whole wheat bread from the cupboard. A few table scraps never hurt anyone, she decided, and venturing to the entry, slipped into a pair of over-boots before leaning outside.

“Jack,” she called quietly, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Come on, boy,” she said, and folding her arms across her chest, stepped onto the porch. The moon was a shiny trinket in the western sky, the world below just as silvery. She drew a deep breath and walked to the railing. She'd seen this view a thousand times. But she never tired of the long sweep of hills, the endless horizon. Near the hip shed, Jack reappeared. “There you are. Don't you want—” she began, but just then a noise scraped the floor behind her. She spun toward it.

“Who's there?” Her voice was raspy.

A black shadow separated itself from the murky dimness.

It was a man. She knew that much, but no more. She darted her eyes toward the door, wondering if she could beat him inside.

“Who are you?”

The silence dragged on, but finally he spoke.

“Lincoln.”

Lincoln Alexander? Frozen air rasped against her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to see Ellie.”

“What?” If she bolted into the house, could she slam the door before he got inside?

“When I knew her, she called herself Ellie.” His voice was very low, very quiet. “Ellie Casper.”

She shook her head. “You need to leave. Now! You need to—”

“I need to see my baby.”

Her lungs felt constricted. “Emily told us all about you, but I won't call the sheriff if—”

“I was an art student at USD when we met.”

She jerked her gaze toward the door again, desperately longing to be inside.

“She was a barista at the Jumping Bean.”

Casie scowled as mismatched pieces of Emily's story settled in around her like flotsam from a shipwreck.

“She was always laughing. Always upbeat. That's what drew me at first. Things were tough at home. My folks wanted me to be an engineer. Dad was sick and . . .” He paused. “She didn't tell me she had a boyfriend.” He took another step forward. Casie shuffled away.

“Please leave,” she whispered.

“Then I saw the bruises and—”

“Linc!” Emily's voice shot through the night like a bullet.

Casie jerked toward her. “Get back in the house!” she rasped, but the girl just stepped onto the porch.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Bliss is mine, isn't she?”

Emily glanced toward Casie, eyes wide and bright in the darkness.

“Isn't she?” he asked again.

“I called Mr. Dickenson. He'll be here any minute.”

“I shouldn't have left,” he said. “I know that now.”

“I'm going to call the sheriff,” Emily warned and backed toward the house.

“Just let me hold her first.”

“Get inside! Lock the door!” Casie ordered, but Emily remained where she was, gaze caught fast on the young man who shivered on the porch.

“She's not yours,” Emily said.

“Whose then?”

She lifted her chin a little. “She's Flynn's.”

He stood very still for a second, then exhaled softly. “You were always the best liar I've ever met.”

“I'm not lying.”

“You're unpredictable, El. And sometimes you're a little crazy. But you're not stupid.”

“I'm not lying!”

He shook his head. “You wouldn't have gone back to that bastard. Not even with me gone. You knew you deserved better than that.”

“You don't know me.”

“I want to. I—”

“What's going on?” Casie asked.

Emily remained perfectly still for a moment, then turned robotically toward her. Even in the dim light the agony in her eyes was clear. “He's . . .” She paused, silently fighting demons. “He's
not
a thief. That was someone else.” She cleared her throat. “Linc wouldn't steal any . . . well, not . . . he took some potpies from the school cafeteria once. And a cheesecake.” Her face looked eerily pale in the dim light. “When I didn't have enough money to pay for . . .” She paused. “. . . Anything.”

“What is he to you?” Casie asked.

She exhaled heavily, breath white in the near darkness. “He's . . . he was a friend. At least I thought he was. I thought—”

“I
am
your friend, El. But I couldn't find you. I looked. Then someone said . . .” He shook his head. “I was sure you wouldn't really be here. When I saw Sophie all bundled up, riding a horse, I thought maybe they'd mistaken her for you. But then I . . .” His words stopped. “I tried to leave . . . to stay out of your life, but . . .” He shrugged.

Casie shivered. The boy looked smaller somehow and painfully thin. “This isn't a good time for this.”

He nodded, as if agreeing, but didn't move away. “I have to talk to her.”

“Maybe tomorrow when—”

“I would have waited if I could. I would have . . .” He tightened his fists and turned back toward Emily. “I should have called you.”

The girl snorted a laugh. “Ya think?”

“It's just . . .” He glanced away, eyes bright in the ambient light. “I panicked.”

“Yeah. Me too. But then
I
was the one who was pregnant.”

“I didn't know!” he said and jerked forward, but just then Colt's truck careened into the yard. In a moment he was stalking across the gravel toward the porch.

“What's going on?” His voice was no more than a growl. He carried a rifle in his right hand.

“I have no idea,” Casie said.

“Em?” he asked, turning toward her.

She met his gaze, but turned away in a moment. “I didn't . . .” She paused. “His name's David Lincoln.”

“I don't care what his name is. I just want to know if I should shoot him or not.”

Her lips moved. There were tears in her eyes. “Not,” she said finally.

“Okay.” He nodded once. “Then let's get him inside before we have to explain why he died of hypothermia on the porch.”

In a second they were ensconced in the kitchen. Colt's hair stood up at odd angles. His eyes still looked sleepy and the flannel shirt he wore in lieu of a coat was buttoned wrong.

“We got any coffee?” he asked.

Casie shook her head.

Lincoln tightened his fists. “Can I talk to Ellie alone?”

Colt scowled. “Who the hell is Ellie?”

Casie shrugged once.

Emily cleared her throat. “They used to call me El.”

Lincoln shuffled his feet. “I just want a few minutes to talk to—”

“No,” Colt said, and settling his hips against the counter, propped the butt of the rifle against his thigh. “Whatever you got to say, say it now.”

The boy fidgeted, then turned his attention back to Emily. “I know I don't have any rights to the baby. But—”

“Wait a minute,” Colt said. Settling the Ruger more comfortably against his leg, he turned toward the boy. “Are you a thief or what?”

Lincoln's lips moved for a second. He shifted his gaze to Emily. She remained atypically silent. “When I was five I stole a pack of gum.”

Colt lowered his brows and glanced at Emily. She turned her eyes aside.

“But later on . . .” Linc tightened his fists rhythmically. “I snuck quarters onto the counter to pay for it.”

“Because you felt guilty?” Colt kept his glower focused on Emily. She didn't return his stare.

“Because my brother said thieves go to hell.”

“What did he say about people who lie to folks who love you?” Colt asked.

Em jerked her eyes toward Colt. They were bright with tears, but he didn't shift his gaze away. She swallowed and glanced aside.

“It's not her fault,” Linc said and stepped toward her, but Colt raised his rifle.

“How 'bout you just stay over on that side of the room?”

“Okay,” he agreed, and backing away, took a deep breath.

“So . . .” Colt shuffled his dark gaze from one to the other, then gritted his teeth and forced a lighter tone. It sounded odd in the strained quiet. “How'd you two kids meet?”

Emily pursed her lips.

“I used to go into the coffee shop where she worked.”

“Coffee,” Colt said. His voice sounded a little dreamy. “You sure we don't have any of that?”

“I'll make some!” Emily sounded relieved to be busy and hurried toward the counter.

“She was . . .” Linc shrugged jerkily. There was something in his eyes. Anger or hope or disappointment or terror. It was impossible to tell. “I knew she was special.”

“She makes pretty good coffee,” Colt said. His tone was grudging. “If you like it strong.”

“I don't like it at all.”

“That's just one of the reasons I don't trust you,” Colt said and shifted the Ruger a little.

“Colt,” Casie chastised quietly, then turned to the boy. “Go on.”

Lincoln swallowed. “I'd go in there and study, maybe buy a scone if I could afford it. Watch her.”

Emily's movements looked stiff and ungainly as she dumped grounds into the coffeepot.

“I didn't know she was spoken for.”

“You had a boyfriend?” Colt asked.

She didn't answer.

“His name was Flynn. There was some talk about him having a police record, but I thought he was an okay guy.” His brows dipped a little. “Till I realized he and his buddies were stealing stuff.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Till I noticed the bruises on El's neck.”

Water splashed across the counter.

“Sorry,” Emily said and immediately began mopping it up.

Silence filled the room for a second.

“Go on,” Colt said. His voice was gritty.

Lincoln shrugged. The movement was awkward, but maybe the presence of Colt's rifle made it a little difficult to relax. “I didn't know why a girl like her would put up with . . .” He shrugged. “We got to talking.” He cleared his throat. “One thing led to another thing.”

“Another thing like sex?” Colt asked.

Emily swung around to face him, eyes wide.

“It wasn't like that,” Lincoln said, words rushed. “I was in l—” He swallowed. “She moved in with me. I lived off campus. It was a dump. But having her there . . .” He paused, exhaled, shifted his gaze to her, then dragged it away. “Everything was going great. . . .” His voice trailed away. He shrugged.

“Seems to me we're missing a part of this little yarn,” Colt said.

The boy exhaled. “Maybe it was
too
great.”

“I don't think I've ever experienced that.”

“I got scared. I mean, I wasn't ready to get married. Shi—”

“Don't swear,” Colt said. “Casie doesn't like it.”

Lincoln looked nervously from one to the other. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I wasn't even nineteen and I thought—”

“You could do better?” Colt asked.

“No! No. It's not that, I just . . . She told me she was late the same day I was heading back to Detroit to see my folks.” He shook his head. “I planned to go back. Hell—”

“Quit—”

“Sorry. I mean . . .” He exhaled, skinny and devastatingly young. “I'd been offered a free ride at Oakland, so I thought maybe I should take advantage of that, and my buddies were throwing a party and . . .” He glanced at Casie, winced, and continued on a different tack. “Dad was sick. He wasn't doing well so—” He shrugged.

“So you stayed home to help with him?” Casie asked.

“No. I—” he began and straightened his spine with what looked like painful resolve. “I went to Cancun with my buddies so I could be a chickenshit bastard a little while longer.”