Angel Smits - Seeking Shelter

“I don’t know it,” she said, focusing on answering Caryn’s comment. “I grew up.”

“No, you grew old.” Caryn followed her. “Remember back in high school when we swore we weren’t going to live life from the cheap seats? You’re in the cheap seats, my friend.”

Amy ignored her. She didn’t want to feel the anger that was bubbling inside her.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Amy.” Caryn’s voice softened and she walked over to help finish the dishes. “You know you’re my best friend. I don’t like seeing you so alone. It was just a thought.”

There was silence as they stared at each other. Amy couldn’t remember a time when the two of them hadn’t gotten along. When they hadn’t shared every secret and dream.

“I’ll see you later.” Caryn headed to the door. “At least think about it.”

“Yeah, later.”

Amy half expected her friend to stop, turn back and add one more comment. Thankfully, she didn’t, and simply headed out into the afternoon. The town was quiet, and Amy listened to Caryn’s high heels on the pavement until she disappeared into the diner. It wasn’t until the sound faded that Amy put down her cleaning rag and slumped into the chair where Katie had been sitting.

Caryn was right. Amy had grown old. All she’d ever seen was this Podunk town, and the briefest year of college. Shopping trips into Phoenix or Tucson did not count.

She’d dreamed of doing so much more. Her eyes burned and she closed them, taking a deep breath.

Life hadn’t turned out anything like she’d hoped or planned.

* * *

IT ALL CAME BACK TO JACE why he hated small towns. As he walked across the town square toward the big Victorian house, he felt the eyes staring at his back. He saw people turn their heads to look. A couple of curtains twitched. He was someone new, someone that tweaked their small-town curiosity.

He longed for the anonymity of the L.A. streets.

The wooden house, with its gingerbread trim and tall gables, contrasted with the surrounding adobe structures. A green lawn mocked the pale sand at the edge of the lot, and the tall cottonwoods actually had broad leaves on them. The old house was as out-of-place in the dry desert as Jace felt.

Any other time he’d have enjoyed the view. Right now, his thoughts were too jumbled. Amy? It wasn’t an uncommon name, but what were the odds? And if she was the right Amy, did that mean Mac had a grandkid? Jace’s heart sank at the probability. The old man wouldn’t ever know about her. Six. She’d said she was six. If Mac had been able to find Amy, would he have gotten to meet Katie?

Jace knew how old Amy was. Hell, he knew more about her than he probably should, thanks to Mac. He did some quick math. Her birthday was May 8, so she’d have been nineteen when Katie was born.

Too young. And who was the father? Mac would have been an interesting dad as his daughter dated. Hell, she was pretty enough, Jace would’ve probably dated her...in another life, another time. He shook his head to dispel the thoughts, reminding himself this was Mac’s daughter he was thinking about.

He couldn’t deny she was attractive, and the strength he saw in her eyes appealed to him. But they were worlds apart. And the old man’s ghost would probably kick his butt for thinking about her that way.

The man who greeted him when he walked into the bed-and-breakfast surprised Jace.

Hank Benton introduced himself as the owner and proprietor. Looking around at the wallpaper, doilies and wingback chairs, Jace would have expected a little white-haired old lady to run the place. Maybe he’d inherited it from his mother or some maiden aunt. Jace didn’t ask.

“How long you plan to stay?” Hank filled out an old-fashioned register page by hand; there wasn’t a computer in sight, Jace realized.

“A couple of days. Maybe longer. My ride’s over at the garage. I have to wait for parts.”

“Rick working on it?”

“Yeah.”

“He’ll do a good job. Good kid.”

Jace almost laughed. Rick was well into his twenties.

“What brings you to these parts? Just passing through?”

As the old man rummaged around in a drawer, Jace remained silent. He didn’t often share information about himself and didn’t see why he should now.

Hank must have read something in his silence, for the stare he turned on him was direct and piercing. Jace stared back from across the counter. There was a hardness in the faded blue eyes and the stiff set of the man’s bowed shoulders. Jace was good at reading people, and this guy was sending out very specific messages. I’ll take your money, but don’t stick around too long. Made Jace wonder where this man had been. He hadn’t always lived in this Podunk town.

“Well, welcome to Rattlesnake Bend. You need anything, just let me know. Your room is up the stairs, third door on the left.” He handed over an old-fashioned metal key. Jace took it and hefted his backpack farther up on his shoulder. The first few steps were wide, but led to a landing and a narrow flight of stairs.

Jace took a deep breath and held it, willing his shoulders to shrink and not bump any of the pictures or bric-a-brac hanging on the walls. The upstairs hallway was no better and he hurried to the third door, hoping and praying it opened to a huge room with a wide door that led to a balcony of some kind.

It didn’t. Just like every other room he’d seen in the old Victorian, the ceilings were high, but the rest of the space was closed in and cramped. The furniture was period, taking up most of the room. He could move around. Almost. The dormer window straight ahead was small, and fastened shut.

Jace’s chest grew tight, and he took only an instant to toss his backpack onto the bed and shrug out of the leather jacket that was slowly roasting him to death. He made a mental note: no leather in the desert.

Hastily, he backed out the door and hurried down the stairs. The wooden steps groaned under his weight. Finally, he cleared the front parlor and stepped out onto the long, wide veranda. Fresh air engulfed him, easing the constriction in his chest and nourishing his starved lungs. He cursed at his past, the memories of his father’s death in that damned coal mine, of Linc’s recent near miss, of Jace’s own inability to control his nightmares.

“You okay?” Hank stood in the doorway, the screen door open.

“Yeah,” he admitted, moving toward the railing. “Just...needed some fresh air.”

“Well, we got plenty of that around here,” the man said before he disappeared back inside.

Jace watched twilight slip over the countryside, silhouetting the town against the darkening sky. The small rise on which the bed-and-breakfast sat gave him a view of everything in the community.

Jace settled in the wooden rocker that took up at least four square feet of the porch. It wasn’t often a piece of furniture comfortably accommodated his large frame. This felt good. Leaning back, he tried to clear his mind. The quiet helped, almost.

He shoved his fingers through his hair and leaned forward, elbows on knees. What the hell was he going to do?

From here, he could see the lone light in the small store. The diner and the gas station were still open, but everything else was closing up. Why he’d thought it’d all be open now, he didn’t know. Hell, L.A. hummed with life ’round the clock, and he was used to that.

But this wasn’t L.A. Not by a long shot. Around here they probably rolled up the sidewalks at sundown. Jace needed to finish his business and get back to his life, such as it was. And let these people get back to theirs.

Silently, he fingered the safe deposit key in his pocket. What did you say to someone who hadn’t known her father? And how was he supposed to explain the money? The echo of a cheesy game show announcer spun through his head. “You’ve just won a brand-new car!”