Mary Sullivan - These Ties That Bind

“What about the car you crashed when you were sixteen? You were lucky to survive.”

He tapped one fist against his forehead. “I’m thirty-two years old. Why are you dwelling on ancient history?”

“Because it will always be there between us.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Life changes. Only your memories stay the same.”

“That’s true. My memories don’t change.”

As much as it hurt her to do so, she took her fingers out of his grasp.

“Nothing is going to happen between us, Rem. That’s final.” She moved to slide out of the booth, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“If you leave now, it will be final. For me, too. I’m done with you, Sara.”

Rem sounded so strong, so determined, that Sara hesitated. He had hovered on the edges of her life for so many years. Had always been there, a constant, undeniable shadow. A man who’d loved her unceasingly. As of this moment, that all ended.

“I understand,” she said, and left the booth.

It was over. This time, for good.

She walked away, through the warm and festive restaurant and straight out the door into the quiet night, where falling snow coated the ground like a feather duvet, cloaking the world in a reverent hush. And all Sara felt as she trudged to her mother’s home was hollowness in the pit of her stomach and a bone-deep chill.

THE MOMENT HE HEARD THE CRASH, Rem shot out of his sweat-soaked bed and ran to the open window. Light-headed, he grasped the sill for support.

The June sun was too bright, already too high. Must be eight-thirty or nine o’clock. He’d slept in.

He’d been dreaming of Sara Franck again. And fire.

On the small highway that ran along his land, a patch of orange glimmered, so pretty it looked almost harmless. Was that actually fire or a remnant of his heat-wrought imagination?

He scrubbed his eyes and peered out the window to see a car nose-deep in the ancient oak beside his front gate.

The glow of orange grew.

Fire! Real, not dream-induced.

Lord, was there someone in that car?

With no time for a shirt, he scrambled into his jeans, almost falling when he hit the stairs.

His cell phone sat on the hall table where he’d left it beside his car keys.

As he ran out of the house, he tried to see whether anyone was up and walking around the car in the distance. Nothing moved.

Rem dove into his old SUV and sped down his long driveway toward the road that led to Ordinary, Montana.

He needed the fire department. Fast.

His hands shook and he dropped his phone.

Damn!

He wiped his eyes to clear them of sleep.

Wake up, already.

A too-long moment later, he pulled to a screeching stop at the end of the drive, scrabbled around under his seat for the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“It’s Rem Caldwell. There’s been a car crash. Looks bad. I need the fire department and an ambulance.” He rattled off his address and jumped out of his vehicle.

Thick smoke obscured the compact car that had torn a gash into the oak, making it impossible to tell whether anyone was trapped inside.

Fire crackled in the front of the vehicle.

His heart in his throat, he rounded the car. A woman sat on the road holding her head and looking bewildered.

Thank God she’d gotten out.

“There’s a woman on the road,” he shouted to the emergency operator. “Alive, but hurt.” He shoved the phone into his pocket.

At least she wasn’t burning in that twisted wreckage, her flesh on fire and smelling of roasting meat.

Rem shook his head to rid his mind of old images.

“I’m coming!” he called to the woman. She didn’t react. Blood matted her hair and the asphalt around her.

On the far side of the road, in another pool of blood, lay a large stag. If he wasn’t dead already, then soon. The impact with the animal had crushed the front of the car right to the steering wheel.

The driver was lucky to be alive.

He squatted beside her. “Where are you hurt besides your head?” Judging by the way she held her ribs, she’d cracked or broken at least one. He guessed her arm was broken, too.

“What happened?” she whispered, the words slurred. Concussion, maybe?

“You hit a stag.”

She rubbed her ear, then turned to her side and vomited.

He supported her until she was finished.

“What happened?” she asked again and, with that evidence of confusion, he knew she had a concussion.

A high-pitched scream burst from the wreckage and the hair on Rem’s arms stood on end. Dear God.

Someone was inside that burning metal box.

“Who else was in the car with you?” Rem yelled over his shoulder as he ran toward the vehicle.

The driver didn’t respond.

He scanned the car. Too much fire. “Who’s in there?”

A young voice inside the car screamed, “Mom, help me!”

SARA FRANCK GLANCED at the cast on her son’s broken wrist, disappointed that Finn had been so foolish. He sat in the passenger seat staring out his window and avoiding talking to her, as was usual lately. If he was this moody at eleven, she dreaded his teen years.

She gripped the steering wheel. She’d hoped that moving back to Ordinary would settle him down.

“Are you sure you’re okay for your horseback riding lesson today?”

Finn shook his hair out of his eyes and mumbled, “Yeah.”

She pointed to his cast. “You won’t be able to attend the lifeguard lessons I signed you up for. You can’t go in a pool with that on your arm.”

“Why do I have to do so much stuff every day? It’s summer. Why can’t I just hang out like other kids?”

“To keep you busy. To keep you out of trouble.”

“Mo-om, how many times do I hafta tell you? I’m not going to get into trouble.”

And yet, he’d broken his wrist yesterday.

“I have four words for you, Finn. Those boys in Bozeman.”

“Well, I’m not there anymore. I can’t hang out with them again, can I?”

Determined to check out the scene of his accident, Sara turned off Main and drove by the parking lot where his wrist had done battle with asphalt and had lost.

Her foot hit the brakes. Makeshift skateboarding ramps littered the asphalt. Obviously, kids had cobbled together whatever materials they could find. Oh, dear Lord, one of the ramps looked like an old rec room door. Finn could have killed himself. “That’s where you were skateboarding?” Fear sharpened her tone. “Oh, Finn, you’re lucky you didn’t die.”

“God, Mom, don’t exaggerate.” Finn crossed his arms and curled his shoulders in on himself, his lower lip jutting even more than normal these days.

“I’m happy to see you out doing something other than lying around listening to music and doodling in your sketchbook,” she said. “Skateboarding is fine, but doing it on wooden ramps over concrete is nuts. What were you thinking?”

“I was having fun,” he shouted, then lapsed back into his “I’m too cool to care” attitude.

Foolish boy.

She shot out of town, driving faster than she should, but for Pete’s sake, how was she supposed to survive motherhood?

“Thank goodness you were wearing your helmet.”

“Of course I was. I’m not stupid, Mom.” Why did the word sound like an insult when he used it?

Where have you gone, Finn? What have the aliens done with my sweet little boy and why did they leave this hostile stranger in his place?

He turned his back on her, as far as his seat belt would allow, and stared out the window.

Sara reached out to touch that bit of his neck peeking out from his too-long hair, but he flinched away from her. If she could, she’d encase him in bubble wrap for protection.