Missing (21 page)

 
Ally blushed.

 
Wes allowed himself one last look, then opened the door.

 
"Lock this behind me," he said, and then he was gone.

 
As soon as he had left, Ally picked up her wet clothes and ran out to the laundry shed, tossed them in the washing machine, adding her father's now-wet shirt to the mix, then went back in the house and locked the door. The stew was still on the back of the stove, and the pie she'd taken out of the oven had long gone cold. The sight of both turned her stomach. She continued through the rooms, turning on lights as she went. The air-conditioning in the house brought out goose bumps on her skin and made her nipples pointy and hard. Both sensations made her ache in an empty, lonely way, and it occurred to her that she'd never been naked in this house before. There had always been a sense of urgency within her when she undressed, whether for a shower or to change her clothes, that she must hurry and cover herself with clothes. But things were changing—she was changing. Her father had started it by trying to force her

into a relationship she didn't want, and now she had learned a crazy man was stalking her every step.

 
If that wasn't enough, Wes Holden had complicated the situation by making her feel things she'd never felt before. The sad part of it all was that no matter what she did, she was going to come out the loser.

 
She stumbled into the bathroom, then into the shower, and washed until her skin was tingling. When she got out, she felt empty, both in heart and in spirit, but there were still things to be done. She put away the food that hadn't been eaten, cleaned dishes and cabinets and the floors she'd tracked up, and when there was nothing left to do, gave up and went to bed. But as hard as she tried, she couldn't get the sound of Wes Holden's voice out of her head.

 
You don't need to be here.

 
"God help me," she whispered, then pulled the covers up to her shoulders and closed her eyes.

 
Sometime later, Gideon came home. The thunderstorm had passed, leaving the roads muddy but the leaves and grass washed clean. He got out of the truck, took a deep, cleansing breath and stretched wearily. It felt good to be home.

 
Pete had pulled through surgery and, barring complications, would recover completely. Gideon was full of the news of the accident and wanted to talk, but then he remembered that Danny and Porter were in Charleston for the night. And even though the lights had been left on for him, he knew Ally would not have waited up. Ever since he'd introduced Freddie Joe into her life, she'd alternated between being angry and cold toward him. Still, Gideon was a man who rarely admitted he made mistakes, and so the fiasco continued. On Friday Freddie Joe and his three children would be here for a meal. Maybe the children would make a difference in Ally's eyes.

 
He locked the doors, checked the windows, then looked in on Ally as she slept. Despite the summer temperatures, she was curled up on her side with the covers pulled under her chin. He smiled. Even as a child, hot or cold, rain or shine, she had slept rolled up in her covers. Nothing had changed.

 
A short while later, the last light finally went out and the little house went dark. Buddy lay curled up by the door on the front porch, peacefully sleeping, while up on the mountain, peace was a long way from home.

 
The thunderstorm had passed and the sun was dropping at a lazy angle in the sky, but Wes hadn't gone directly home. He had decided on a reconnoiter and located Storm's truck. When he found it unlocked, he tried the keys he'd found. When they fit, it confirmed what he'd suspected. But had Storm been watching Wes—or Ally? He was inclined to believe it was a little bit of both, although he was still puzzled. In a twisted sort of way, he understood why Storm would be stalking Ally. She was a beautiful and single woman.

 
But why me?

 
The question kept looping through Wes's mind without coming back with an answer. Still, there had to be a reason why Wes's presence threatened Roland Storm enough to put him on the defensive. All he had to do was find it.

 
Wes looked up the road, then up at the sky. The storm had left enough clouds behind to bring on an early night, and he'd already had one experience coming down off this mountain in the dark. He wasn't in the mood to do it again.

 
He tossed the keys on the seat of the truck, locked and shut the doors, then started back down the road. Even though his strides were long, night caught him before he got home.

 
When he reached the little house, he unlocked the door, then locked it securely behind him after he entered. Then he turned on the lights, kicked off his shoes and dropped his wet clothes in the kitchen beside the washing machine. The thought of a slow, warm shower put speed in his step, and for once, he didn't care that the showerhead was too low and the room too small. The house was a haven of comfort at the end of a very bad day.

 
He showered quickly, pulled on a pair of shorts and then went back to the kitchen. The pan of soup was still on the stove where he'd left it. He set it on the burner and turned on the heat. While it was warming, he made himself a ham sandwich, got a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and set it all on the table. He gave the soup a quick stir, then went into the living room and began scanning the multitudes of books on the shelves for something to read.

 
After browsing through a shelf of fiction, he settled on a book he hadn't read in years. The cover was worn, the gilt-edged pages somewhat faded, but the author's name was still dark and vivid, as was the title.

 
John Steinbeck. The Grapes Of Wrath.

 
It wasn't the most uplifting book he'd ever read, but it fit the mood Wes was in. He carried it with him back into the kitchen, laid it beside his plate, then poured the soup into a bowl and took it to the table.

 
He sat down, taking a moment to savor the shelter of the odd little house and the simple fare he was about to eat. His belly growled, reminding him of how long it had been since he'd eaten, but he still took the time to feel the quiet.

 
Part of his training in Special Ops had been to ascertain as much of his surroundings as possible with senses other than sight. So he closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath, letting the peace of this place settle deep in his heart.

 
The smell of tomato soup was right beneath his nose, as was the pungent scent of the mustard that he'd put on the ham. He could smell the fresh bread on the plate and the yeasty scent of the beer that he'd opened. But on a lesser level, he remembered the wet clothes he'd left in a pile by the washer when the scent of decaying leaves and wet cotton shifted through the air.

 
Somewhere behind him he heard a continuous drip of water and realized he hadn't turned the faucets all the way off at the sink. Outside, a slight breeze must have come up, because he could hear the intermittent sound of a tree branch scraping against a window and water dripping from the edges of the roof.

 
This was a safe place. A place of shelter and comfort. Slowly, a great pain shoved itself through his chest, pushing, then twisting at his lifeblood just to remind him that he still lived when his family did not.

 
He took another breath, this time shorter and infinitely more painful, but he took it just the same. Then he picked up the spoon, stirred it through the cooling soup and took his first swallow to satisfy the pangs of hunger.

 
It was good.

 
He took another and another, just to prove that he could—just to prove to himself that it was all right to satisfy one kind of pain while clinging to the other.

 
Then he opened the book and began to read. Every now and then he would take a bite of the sandwich or a drink from the beer until, little by little, he was done with his meal.

 
Regretfully, he marked his place in the book, washed his dishes and headed for bed, turning out the lights as he went. There was a clock by the bedside. He set it for 6:00 a.m. and started to go to bed when caution stopped him.

 
He got back up and walked through the dark house, pausing to look outside from every window, then making sure the doors were locked and bolted. He had barred the cellar door from the inside, but he took the time to lock the door from the kitchen to the cellar, as well. There was safety within these walls, but there was treachery without.

 
Once he was satisfied that he'd done all he could to assure himself of a safe night's sleep, he took the switchblade from his pants pocket and carried it to the bed. He slid it beneath a pillow, then crawled into bed. Once his head hit the pillow, he was gone.

 
Just as he was falling asleep, a vague thought began to plague him that he'd forgotten something important. He rolled over on his side, pulled the switch out on the alarm so that he would be sure to wake up on time, and then pulled the covers back up over him.

 
The air from the window unit blew cool across his back and legs, and in his dreams, he stood at the end of a long road, watching his wife and son walking away without him. He kept calling to them, over and over, but each time he would call, they would simply turn and wave, then resume their journey. He began to cry, and then someone took him by the hand and told him he was no longer alone. When he looked to see, it was Ally.

 
He woke up with tears on his cheeks.

 
"Ah, God...if you're still there, make me understand why."

 
It's not your journey to understand.

 
Wes gasped. The voice was so loud it echoed in his head.

 
"I don't want to be here," he said softly.

 
It's not about what you want. It's about what you have to do.

 
The flesh crawled on the back of Wes's neck. Either he was having a moment with God, or he was losing his mind.

 
"I don't believe in You anymore," he muttered.

 
That's all right, son. I still believe in you.

 
At that point Wes lay back down and pulled the pillow over his head.

 
The next thing he knew, it was morning and the alarm was going off.

Twelve

Ally was up early, picking tomatoes from the garden before the day got too hot. Tomorrow was the inevitable supper with Freddie Joe. She could only imagine what Wes's appearance would do to the mix, but she couldn't make herself care. She knew she should feel guilty for putting him in such an awkward position, but she also knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself.

 
 
Buddy was trailing her up and down the rows, nosing beneath the staked plants and licking her fingers as she reached for the ripe produce. She patted him gently from time to time, but his presence was definitely a hindrance.

 
"Move, baby," she said, and gave him an easy push. "I'm not ever going to get finished if you keep getting in my way."

 
Buddy looked up at her and then licked her face before she could move back.

 
"Eew, Buddy..."

 
Grinning, she pulled up the hem of her T-shirt and wiped dog off her face. This behavior was out of the ordinary for him, and she wondered if he sensed how unsettled she felt. She patted him on the head and was still smiling when she turned around and saw Wes Holden walking down the road on his way to work.

 
She started to call out a hello when he saw her and waved.

 
"Don't forget tomorrow night!" she called.

 
He nodded and gave her a thumbs-up as he kept on walking.

 
The brief moment of seeing him gave her heart a lift and put a smile on her face that lasted through the morning.

 
The week had flown by with continuous rains. Wes's sleep had been restless. He'd had dreams that brought him to tears, which he hated. Before, he'd never cried. He'd been raised to be tough, and what his father hadn't taught him about a stiff upper lip, the army had. Most of the time he managed to subdue his emotions, but at night, when he was alone and at his weakest, the despair was there. The smallest things would make him think of Mikey, which in turn would remind him of the huge hole his son's passing had left behind.

 
He and Margie had talked more than once about what would happen if one or the other of them ever became a single parent. Usually it was Wes who was counseling Margie, because his life was so often on the line. He'd rarely thought of living on without her, let alone without his son, yet here he was, afoot on a mountain with a man who wanted him gone and a woman who made him remember just how much he had lost. It was in this mind-set that he started off to work.

 
He'd kissed her, and it had left him wanting more. Tomorrow night he would sit at a table with her and her family and suffer their scrutiny, as well as the antagonism her unwanted suitor would feel. It would be the most human contact he'd had in more than a year and it made him smile. One thing was for sure. He wouldn't be bored.

 
The road down to Blue Creek was still muddy and the ruts deep, but he stayed on the shoulder, walking in the grass instead. After yesterday and the hard, driving rain, the world smelled clean and fresh. Birds were everywhere, going from limb to ground to spear the earthworms that had been driven up to the surface, then back again, rejoicing in Mother Nature's smorgasbord. Wes felt obliged to share their happiness.

 
As he passed the Monroe property, he'd seen a flash of yellow out in the garden. When he'd realized it was Ally, his steps had slowed. She was down between the tomato rows and laughing at something the dog was doing. The faint sound of her laughter washed over him. Sunlight caught in the honey-colored hair she had tied at the nape of her neck. The ribbon was yellow, like her shirt. When she finally stood up, he saw that her jeans were old, almost white from repeated laundering, but so soft they molded to her long legs and trim figure.

 
An ache settled deep in his belly. He was supposed to be in mourning, even though it had been more than a year since they'd been gone. Then he'd heard himself call out a greeting. When she smiled and waved back, guilt disappeared. All he wanted was to sit in her presence and let the peace that surrounded her flow into his heart.

 
About a mile down the road, a pig farmer named Sylvester Smith recognized Wes from the feed store and offered him a ride. Wes took it gladly, which put him at Harold James's feed store thirty minutes early.

 
Harold was still across the street at the cafe drinking coffee when he noticed Wes sitting on the front steps of the feed store. He swallowed the last of his coffee in a gulp, tossed some money on the counter and hurried out the door. It wasn't good for the boss to be the last to work.

 
"Hey there," Harold said as he stepped up on the curb. "You're early."

 
Wes nodded. "Yeah, caught a ride with Mr. Smith."

 
"I suppose we might just as well open up. Who knows? Might start a trend," Harold said, and then grinned.

 
"I hope not, unless I'm lucky enough to catch a ride every morning."

 
Harold laughed, and so the morning began.

 
Danny and Porter were finally back from Charleston. They were full of themselves as they came into the house, dumping their dirty clothes by the door as they stole warm cookies from the tray Ally had just taken out of the oven.