Missing (11 page)
Instead, she put one hand on her hip and shaded her eyes with the other as she spoke.
"Good day to you, mister."
Her voice was a slow, easy drawl that pushed at the man in him, but then he thought of Margie and frowned. He started to just walk away, but his thirst was stronger than his dread of confrontation.
"Good day, ma'am. I wonder if I might trouble you for a drink?"
When she hesitated, he realized she was afraid of him. Causing anyone more pain or fear was so horrifying to him that he took a couple of steps backward, just to reassure her that he meant her no harm.
Ally couldn't believe what she'd just heard. He was tall, dark and definitely a stranger, and he'd walked out of the trees and asked her for a drink of water—just like in her dreams.
"You want a drink of water?"
Wes shivered. Being around a woman was painful. Although she looked nothing like Margie, her gentle demeanor reminded him of what he'd lost.
"Yes, ma'am, that I would."
Ally motioned for him to follow her, then moved toward the porch.
It wasn't until she walked away that Wes realized she had a limp. But the hitch in her gait was nothing compared to the mangled bodies he'd seen. He shifted his bag to his other shoulder and followed a few yards behind her with the old hound sniffing at his heels.
Ally stopped at the kitchen door and pointed to a chair in the shade of the porch.
"Have yourself a seat, mister. I'll be bringing put the water."
"Thank you, ma'am." He did as she asked.
Then she paused at the door and turned around.
"My name is Ally Monroe."
The hinges on the screen door gave a homey little squeak as it swung shut behind her. The old hound sniffed a few more times at the heels of Wes's shoes, then dropped down beside him and closed his eyes.
Wes relaxed, then followed suit by closing his own eyes. He could hear the woman—Ally—moving around inside the house and a snuffling snore from the dog at his feet. But the sounds of what most people called civilization were missing. There were no horns or sirens, no choking fumes of gas and diesel thickening the air. It was so foreign to the life he'd been living that for a heartbeat he wondered if this was what Eden had been like before man messed it up.
A sudden and unexpected film of tears burned behind his eyelids. Man had messed up a hell of a lot more than Eden since then.
"Mister?"
His eyes flew open, and he sat up straight, automatically reaching for the switchblade until he remembered where he was. Embarrassed at being caught unawares, he took the water with a mumbled thank-you and began to drink.
Ally watched the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he drank and pretended she hadn't seen his tears. There was a small rip in his pants, and his shirt was
stained with sweat. His hair was too long and his beard in need of a trim. But it was his hands that told her he might be more than he appeared to be.
His fingers were long and callused, but the nails were surprisingly clean.
She eyed the shape of his profile, mentally mapping the intelligent forehead, the faint line of an old scar across his nose and part of his cheek, and the wide cut of sensual lips barely visible behind the beard. As she was eyeing the formidable jut of his jaw and chin, he turned and caught her staring.
She took a sudden step backward, and as she did, she stumbled.
Before Wes thought, he grabbed her wrist. As soon as she was steady on her feet, he abruptly turned her loose.
"Sorry," he said softly. "Thought you were going to fall."
Unconsciously, Ally was rubbing the place where his fingers had been as she tried to steady her breath.
"Thank you," she said, then pointed. "My stupid foot."
Wes glanced briefly at the slight twist to the fragile ankle.
"Looks fine to me," he said, remembering the men he'd fought beside and the ones who'd come home with missing limbs. Then he handed her the empty glass.
"I sure appreciate the drink."
She took the glass. For a long silent moment they stared at each other without speaking. She watched him gathering himself up to stand. Now he would kill her.
The moment she thought it, she panicked. Where had that come from? What was it about this man that made her think he could kill? She backed away from the chair where he had been sitting and crossed her arms over her breasts.
Then he looked at her, and she thought she heard him sigh. Once again, the sheen of tears was evident in his eyes.
"Are you hungry?"
The moment she asked it, she wanted to slap her hand across her mouth in disbelief. What in the world was the matter with her? She wanted him to leave, yet she'd just offered him a reason to stay. She held her breath, fearing he would say yes—fearing he would say no.
Wes fingered his hair and beard, barely aware of its unruly length and style. Being around this woman was physically painful. All it did was remind him of his loss, and yet there was an emptiness inside of him that had nothing to do with food.
"Well, do you want something to eat or not?" Ally asked.
Wes took off his hat, then fiddled with the brim for a few seconds before he nodded.
"Yes, ma'am, I'm hungry."
"I have some food in the kitchen. Come sit at my table while I heat it up."
"No, ma'am. I'm too dirty to sit at anyone's table."
Once more Ally shocked herself by pointing to a small shed built onto the side of the house.
"In there's the laundry shed, but there's also a shower. It's not much, but you're welcome to use it while I heat up your food."
Wes let the gentleness of her voice wash over him and thought of the luxury a shower would be. It had been days since he'd managed anything but quick wash-ups in farm ponds or public toilets in gas stations.
"I don't want to cause you any trouble," he said. "Some husbands wouldn't appreciate a strange man in their bathroom."
"I don't have a husband. Just a father who won't mind his own business and two brothers who don't care what I do as long as there's food on the table."
"I won't be long," Wes said, and headed for the shed before she changed her mind.
Ally waited until he'd closed the door on the shed, then bolted inside the house and began taking bowls of leftover food from the refrigerator.
Time passed, and the food was beginning to cool again when she heard him step up on the porch. She got up from the table and turned toward the door. He stopped outside, looking at her through the screen, as if waiting for permission to enter, even though he knew she could see him through the wire mesh.
"Come in," she called.
Wes left his duffel bag just outside the door and walked in. He had cleaned his boots and changed his clothes. They were wrinkled but clean, and there were tiny droplets of water still clinging to his hair and beard, giving them the sheen of polished ebony.
Blue. His eyes were blue.
She absorbed the fact as she motioned for him to sit. "Do you take lemon in your tea?" she asked. Wes looked at the plain white plate on the table, bordered by a set of cutlery in a style from a time long since past, and thought that it fit, like the hills and the woman. "I'll drink it however you've fixed it, and thank you for the courtesy."
Ally liked the way he talked—like a gentleman. "It's sweet," she said.
Wes was busy filling his plate and hardly noticed the tinkle of ice in the glass when she set the cold tea beside him, then took a seat across the table. For a while she watched him eat without speaking, giving him a chance to ease his hunger without having to answer questions. But finally curiosity got the better of her. "Do you have a name?"
"Yes," Wes said, and looked away.
Ally felt an invisible wall come up between them.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to get personal. Do you want any more or are you finished?"
"I'm done, ma'am." Then he looked at her. "You're a good cook. I'm surprised some man hasn't already snatched you up."
"No one wants a cripple."
Wes felt an instant empathy.
"Lady, there are all kinds of ways to be crippled. Some wounds show. Some don't." Then he leaned back and looked her in the eyes. "My name is Wes Holden."
"Pleased to meet you, Wes Holden. Where are you from?"
"Nowhere."
"Never heard of it," Ally said. "Is it close to Nashville?"
Wes almost smiled, then caught himself.
"It's not close to anything."
"That doesn't tell me much," Ally said. "Never heard of that, either."
This time Wes actually grinned, unaware that the smile transformed his face.
"I was born and raised in
"You're either lost or a long way from home."
The smile on Wes’s face went south.
"A little of both." Then he stood abruptly. "I'd best be on my way. You've been far too kind to a stranger."
'"Be not forgetful of strangers: for thereby ye may have entertained angels unaware.'"
Wes looked at her.
"It's from the Bible," she said softly.
He thought of where he'd been and the men he'd killed in the name of war.
"I'm no angel."
"No, sir, and I wouldn't take you for one, but you never can tell. My mother, God rest her soul, always said that God could appear in any shape or form." Then she smiled. "She also said that about the Devil, too."
Wes nodded. "Your mother sounds like she was a smart woman."
"She was."
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said quietly, while thinking about his own.
She saw the shadow of pain on his face and sensed it was time to change the subject.
"So your people are from
"Everybody's dead," he said, and reached for his hat.
The tears that she'd seen before were back in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," Ally said.
Wes struggled to maintain his composure.
"So am I."
He started toward the door.
"Where are you headed now?"
He stopped, then turned around.
"Nowhere special."
"It's dangerous on the road."
“It's dangerous everywhere."
"If you were of a mind to rest a spell...maybe take some stock of things a little better without rambling... I know a place you could stay."
"I don't have the money for hotels," he said.
"No, no, it's nothing like that," Ally said. "Come with me."
He followed her outside and then off the porch. She stopped at the corner of the house.
"See that path to the left of the twin pines?"
He nodded.
"There's an empty cabin about two miles up through the trees. The power is still on. You're welcome to stay there for a while. People up here mind their own business."
Wes stared at the narrow, winding path for what seemed like forever. The thought of a roof over his head and all the solitude he wanted was tempting, but it was hard to trust her.
"The owner might not appreciate a squatter."
"My mother's oldest brother, Dooley Brown, lived there. When Uncle Doo died several months ago, he left it to me. It's mine to do with as I choose. I choose to offer you shelter. What's so bad about that?"
"But you don't know me," he finally said.
"That's right, I don't," Ally said.
"Then why are you being so...so...nice?"
Ally laid her hand on his forearm. She meant nothing by it, but when he flinched, she moved away.
"I don't think you're here by accident," she said.
Wes frowned. "What the hell do you mean?"
"I think God led you here to rest."
"There is no God," Wes said.
Ally's eyes widened in shock.
"Did you ever stop to think that maybe God isn't missing? That maybe you're the one who's lost?"
Wes groaned, and the pain that came with it scalded him raw. He stared at Ally as if she'd just grown horns.
"Who are you, woman? All I asked from you was a glass of water. It doesn't give you the right to play with my life."
His anger was sudden and frightening, and Ally wanted to hide, yet an inner strength held her steadfast. She sensed this man was losing ground faster than he could gain it, and while it was none of her business, she couldn't seem to be able to step back.
"I'm sorry if I've offended you," she said. "Godspeed, Wes Holden. Whether you believe in Him or not, I can promise that He's the only one who's going to save you."
"I don't need saving," Wes said, and started walking, but Ally noticed that he took the path she'd pointed out, rather than going back the way he'd come.
She didn't know how she was feeling and wasn't brave enough to decipher her emotions.
For now, it was enough to know he hadn't gone too far.
Seven
Wes stayed angry all the way up the path and didn't know why. It took a while for him to realize that today was the first time he'd felt positive emotion of any kind since—
The moment his thoughts went to the day of the bombing, he shut them off.
"Focus," he muttered as he continued to put one foot in front of the other. "Focus on anything but that."
A few yards ahead, a small brown bird flew across his line of vision. He paused to watch as it landed on the branch of a nearby tree. A few hops led it straight to a nest of woven grasses and twigs, where it quickly disappeared.
A knot formed in his throat. Even that bird knew where it belonged. He wished he was as confident. Then he turned around and looked back the way he'd come. The world that he'd known was gone. If this path led to something—anything—it would be better than where he'd been. He didn't know what to make of that woman—what was her name—Alice? No, Ally. That was what she'd called herself. Ally Monroe. She'd offered him a place to stay, and despite his vocal objections, he'd known the moment he'd seen the leaf-covered path winding up this mountain that he was going to follow to see where it led.
He settled his hat a little more firmly on his head and once again turned around, only this time he was treading on new territory. Whatever lay ahead had to be better than where he'd been. He shifted the strap of his bag to a more comfortable position on his shoulder and continued walking.
A short while later he came upon a clearing, totally unprepared for what he saw. He'd imagined log walls and a ramshackle stoop, but certainly not this. It looked like a cross between a toadstool and a short, fat silo, and he wondered what kind of a man would choose to build a home like this.
As he moved closer, he caught glimpses of gray, mossy concrete among the tangle of ivy and wisteria blooming all over it. He wasn't sure if it was a house he'd come to or some kind of woodland hideaway abandoned by elves, although there was no such thing as elves. Still, the solitude of the place appealed to him. After a slow, careful scan of the area to make sure he was alone, he moved forward.
A few stray vines had fallen across the front door. As he drew near, he reached up, grabbing them with his fist and giving them a yank before tossing them aside. It occurred to him that the place might be locked, but when he turned the knob, the door opened.
The air inside was stale and the room was dark, but he remembered the woman had said the power was still on. He felt along the wall for a light switch, then gave it a flip. With illumination came an odd sense of deja vu, which, to Wes, made no sense at all. He'd never been to West Virginia, never mind inside something like this. But still, the feeling remained, even growing stronger as he moved from room to room.
One side of the kitchen was round, following the contour of the outer wall. The cabinets were unique, with leaf-shaped cutouts on all the doors, while the counters were unusually low. When he checked the refrigerator, he saw it had been turned off, so he switched it on high for a quick cool-down, then moved toward a door on the opposite side of the room.
Inside was a small pantry, with a rather large assortment of canned goods still on the shelves. He wondered how far it was from here to a town and knew that if he stayed he would have to find some work.
He thought about his retirement checks, which were being deposited into Aaron Clancy's bank account, and frowned. If he pushed the issue to claim them, he would have to go to court to prove he was sound of mind. Not only did he not want to deal with the lawyers and the shrinks, he wasn't so sure he could prove he was sane. Life still rattled him on a daily basis, and he didn't want some do-gooder deciding he needed to be locked back up.
He closed the pantry door and moved back into the living room, found a set of keys on the mantel that fit the front door, and pocketed them before exploring the single hallway and the doors at the end of the hall.