Where Love Abides (Heartland Homecoming) Page 7

  Interesting, Christine mused as she returned to the counter. And dangerous.

  Which gave her one more excellent reason to avoid the sheriff.

  Chapter Six

  By the next Wednesday, the story group had increased to ten. Four newcomers had joined the original six children, all of whom had returned, including Brian and Jenna.

  Once again Erin Carson was wearing a turtleneck. Christine had thought of her often during the preceding week, and she’d resolved that if Erin came today, she’d find some way to offer the woman assistance. Christine knew what it was like to be trapped in an intolerable situation with no ally. She didn’t want anyone else to have to go through that.

  Relief had surged through her when Erin and Brian had walked through the door. But it had been followed by trepidation when Jenna entered soon after, accompanied not by Arlene but by her father. The sheriff had nodded to her as they came in, and Jenna had waved. Christine had been too shocked to do more than gape at them. Why wasn’t the sheriff at work? He was in uniform. Didn’t he have anything better to do than take his mother’s place at story hour?

  Determined not to let his presence rattle her, Christine did her best to ignore him, focusing instead on the children’s animated faces, relishing their enthralled attention during an adventure book and their unrestrained giggles after she switched to a humorous story. Children were such uncomplicated little creatures. And honest to a fault, as her conversation last week with Jenna had proven.

  In fact, the child’s indiscretion could be why the sheriff had accompanied her today, Christine realized. Perhaps he’d wanted to ensure that his daughter didn’t let any other tidbits slip.

  When Christine finished the books, she retrieved the treat for the day—sugar cookies. But instead of passing them out to the adults as she had at the last session, she set them on a table and invited the grown-ups to help themselves. As they congregated around the cookies, she drew Erin aside. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dale cast a curious look in their direction, but she turned her back to him.

  “Hello, Erin. I’m glad you came again.” She smiled at the woman, relieved to see that the bruise on her cheek was fading and that she bore no visible evidence of new abuse.

  “Brian’s been waiting all week for today. But we can’t stay.” She cast a nervous glance toward the door. “My husband is on nights this week, and he needs the car. I dropped him off in the middle of town to run a few errands while we stopped in here. But I think we’ve stayed too long.”

  She looked past Christine and called out to Brian, motioning him to join her.

  Her window of opportunity was closing fast, and Christine tried to think of some way to extend a hand of support without embarrassing the woman or making her uneasy.

  “You know, I’m pretty new in town. I haven’t met many people yet.” She strove to keep her tone casual and conversational. “Maybe you could stop by my place sometime for a cup of coffee. I own Fresh Start Farm, not far from town. You might have seen the sign.”

  “Yes, I have.” A flicker of interest flared in the woman’s eyes, but it quickly dimmed. “I’d love to visit, but I don’t think…”

  The front door slammed open, and a burly man who looked close to forty, with brown hair a shade too long to be fashionable, pushed through. Scanning the room, his face settled into hard lines when he spotted Erin. “You’re late.”

  The cold anger in his voice sent a chill down Christine’s spine. And it seemed to have the same effect on Brian. The little boy tensed, melting against Erin under the protective arm she slipped around his shoulders.

  “W-we were just leaving.” Taking her son’s hand, Erin started to move toward the man.

  Christine restrained her for just a second with a hand on her arm, and Erin’s frightened gaze flew to hers. Christine pitched her voice low so only the young woman would hear her. “If you ever need help, call me.”

  “Erin.”

  At the threatening summons from her husband Erin pulled free and hurried toward him. When she drew close, he gripped her upper arm and propelled her toward the door. A second later, it whooshed shut behind the trio.

  On the far side of the room, Dale swallowed the last bite of his cookie and brushed the sugar off his hands, his eyes narrowing as he processed the scene that had just transpired. He’d watched Christine seek out Erin Carson. Heard her invite the woman to visit, even though she avoided contact with everyone else in town. Seen her spine stiffen when Erin’s husband grabbed his wife’s arm. Sensed she’d wanted to intervene.

  It was interesting that she had so quickly picked up the vibes between the Carsons, he reflected, as he strolled over to her. “The story hour was very nice. And the cookies are great.”

  His comment hung in the air for several moments before Christine angled toward him. And the pallor in her cheeks, the taut line of her lips, the concern in her eyes, confirmed that she’d detected a problem in the Carson family. And it had distressed her enough to compel her to break her self-imposed exile, to invite a stranger into her home. Why?

  He couldn’t ask that question, however. He needed to play this carefully. Christine Turner was not a woman who could be pushed. If he tried, she’d react like the sea anemones he used to find on the West Coast beaches, closing up when prodded.

  The silence stretched between them, but at last she responded to his compliment. “Thanks.”

  “Homemade?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m surprised you have the time, with the farm and now the library job.”

  “I like to bake.”

  Since the conversation was going nowhere, Dale changed tactics. “Brian’s a cute kid.”

  “Yes.” A gust of worry wafted across her features.

  “He’s caught in a difficult situation.” Folding his arms across his chest, he propped a shoulder against the end of a row of shelving.

  She didn’t pretend not to understand. Nevertheless, her expression was wary as she responded. “Erin had a bad bruise on her face last week.”

  “I’ve been called to the house several times by neighbors. Domestic violence is never pretty.”

  Her eyebrows rose a tiny fraction, as if she was surprised by his candor. “I suspected that might be the case. What’s being done?”

  “My hands are tied until Erin lodges a formal complaint or he touches Brian. So far he’s left the boy alone.”

  “Physically, maybe. But what about the emotional and psychological damage?”

  He sensed her frustration, and it matched his. He’d been down this road on plenty of occasions in L.A., sometimes with tragic outcomes. He’d always done his best to convince victims to press charges. But it took a lot of courage for a woman to stand up to an abuser. While he could put the weight of the law on Erin Carson’s side, the courage to seek help had to come from within.

  “I wish I could do more.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “The Carsons moved here about eight months ago. I’m not sure where they came from. I got the first call a few weeks after they arrived. Derrick works as a laborer on a road crew. He’s one tough character, and he’s none too happy when I show up at the door.”

  “And I’ll bet Erin pays for his displeasure later.”

  The bitterness in Christine’s tone was so caustic, the pain and anguish in her unguarded eyes so intense, that Dale had a sudden, gut-clenching insight.

  She’s speaking from personal experience.

  A muscle in his cheek clenched as he forced himself to take a long, slow breath. He’d suspected that Christine had been hurt, but until now he’d had no clue to the source of her trauma.

  Struggling to maintain a placid facade despite the sudden churning in his gut, he spoke in a quiet voice. “Why would you think that?”

  She blinked, regrouped, and her expression went neutral. “That seems to be the usual pattern, from what I’ve read.”

  “If she’d file an official complaint, I could get h
er out of there and issue a restraining order.” He watched her, gauging her reaction, trying to bore through the curtain that had dropped over her face.

  “Then something must be keeping her there.”

  “Like what?” After all the domestic violence calls he’d responded to, after all the homework he’d done on the subject, Dale still had a hard time grasping how a woman could allow herself to become a victim. Especially—if his instincts were correct—a woman like Christine, who seemed intelligent, independent and strong. The research he’d reviewed had cited any number of reasons women stayed in abusive relationships. And pointed out the risks to taking action. But weren’t the risks of staying even greater?

  Instead of answering his question, Christine looked away. “Only Erin could tell you that. Excuse me. I need to wrap things up here.” Without giving him a chance to respond, she walked back to the group.

  So much for trying to ferret out additional information. Frustrated, Dale jammed his fists into his pockets. Although she’d said nothing to confirm his suspicions, her reactions had been more than enough to disturb him. Yet the label of “battered wife” fit her no better than “lawbreaker.” But it would explain why she’d taken back her maiden name after her husband’s death, he conceded.

  Not long ago, he’d told Jenna that Christine was a “mystery lady.” It now appeared that his classification was more accurate than he’d realized. In fact, the mystery was thickening instead of resolving.

  And if there was one thing a cop hated, it was an unsolved mystery.

  Why Dale should care in this case eluded him, however. As far as Oak Hill was concerned, Christine Turner was a productive, law-abiding citizen. There was no reason for her to be on his radar screen.

  Except for a pair of velvet brown eyes that harbored a hurt so deep it had somehow reached into his soul, awakened his protective instincts and stirred his heart to life.

  That was the truth of it, Dale acknowledged. And while he might not like it, he never ran from the truth. For some reason, Christine had gotten under his skin. Despite his vow to walk a wide circle around problem-plagued women, she’d managed to breach his barriers. In the very act of pushing him away, she’d pulled him in.

  Nevertheless, he didn’t have to do anything about it. The safest course of action would be no action at all. Leave her to her self-imposed isolation and forget about her.

  Yet as he watched her drop down to Jenna’s level and engage his daughter in animated conversation, her expression warm, her defenses down, he found himself wishing she’d look at him like that.

  With a sigh, Dale shook his head. He didn’t need this complication in his life. Didn’t want it in his life. But there it was. And he had no idea what to do about it.

  Closing his eyes, Dale turned to the source of strength that never failed him.

  Please, Lord, guide me through these murky waters. I’m not sure why You sent Christine here, but I don’t want to get involved in another complicated relationship. The first one was hard enough. Yet I want to do Your will. If I’m supposed to help her in some way, show me how. But please help me protect my heart, too.

  I ask also that You look with favor on Christine. Whatever her problems, I sense they’re serious, and that she’s deeply troubled. If she’s not a believer, help her find her way home to You, the source of all goodness and hope. For only through You will she find peace. Amen.

  A flash of lightning, followed by the sharp crack of thunder, confirmed the accuracy of the weather forecast. They were in for a storm.

  Increasing his pressure on the accelerator, Dale hoped he’d make it to Christine’s farm before the rain hit. Not that he wanted to be going there in the first place. He hadn’t seen her since the story hour almost a week ago, and he wouldn’t have sought her out today if the editor of the Gazette hadn’t asked him to drop off some advance copies of the next issue, which featured the story about Fresh Start Farm.

  Too bad he’d happened to mention he’d be patrolling in this area, Dale reflected. Unable to think of any logical reason to refuse the request, he’d agreed. But it didn’t have to be a long visit. He’d drop the papers and go.

  As he swung into her drive, the first few spatters of rain plopped onto his windshield, leaving trails down the glass like tears on a dusty face. In the distance, he saw Christine in the garden, hastily tossing bundles of greenery into two large baskets. Her back was to him, and she seemed oblivious to his approach.

  Parking the car, he left the papers on the seat beside him and slid from behind the wheel. She was hurrying toward a shed behind the house, toting one of the baskets, and as Dale watched, a sudden, strong gust of wind rocked her. For an instant he thought she was going to lose her balance, but she righted herself and moved on, intent on her task.

  The rain increased, and Dale jogged toward the remaining basket. Hefting it into his arms, he inhaled the pleasing, spicy scent of herbs as he strode toward the shed where Christine had disappeared. Though his burden wasn’t heavy, the bulk made it awkward, and the boisterous wind seemed intent on tugging it from his arms.

  He reached the shed door as Christine barreled out, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision by taking a quick step to the side. She gasped and reared back, clutching the door frame.

  “Sorry. I saw you scampering to beat the rain as I pulled in and thought I’d lend a hand. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Dale shifted the burden in his arms as larger drops of rain began to dissolve into dark splotches on his shirt.

  Shooting a quick glance toward the ominous sky, Christine reached for the basket. “Thanks.”

  He tightened his grip. “Just tell me where you want it.”

  “Anywhere is fine.” Christine stepped out of his way and motioned inside. “I need to get my tools.” Brushing past him, she took off at a half run for the garden.

  After setting the basket on the floor of the shed, Dale followed her. The rain was steady now, and the wind continued to increase as they gathered up the various implements strewn on the ground.

  “I had my back to the storm. I didn’t realize how bad it was until the first drops began to fall.” The wind whipped Chris-tine’s breathless explanation from her lips as she bent to pick up the last trowel. “Okay, that’s it. The toolshed’s over there.”

  She gestured toward a smaller shed in the back of the house and hurried toward it, her head bent against the wind, her shirt already damp from the cool rain.

  Ducking inside, she deposited the smaller garden implements on the workbench while Dale leaned the shovel, three-pronged weeder and rake against the wall.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a bad one. I hope it doesn’t escalate to…”

  At the sudden bang behind him, Dale twisted to find that the door had blown shut. One tiny window beside the workbench provided a limited source of light, but with the heavy, dark storm clouds shrouding the sun, visibility in the shed was minimal.

  In two steps Dale was beside the door. He pushed, but it didn’t budge. Puzzled, he tried again, with no better luck. Planting his hands on his hips, he regarded the heavy slats of wood that formed the door and spoke over his shoulder. “Is there some trick to this?”

  When his question produced no response, he turned. It was hard to see Christine’s face in the dim light, but he could feel tension emanating from her, so thick it was almost palpable. He moved toward her, but she pushed past him with such strength he lost his balance. By the time he steadied himself, she was beating on the door with her fists, uttering sounds deep in her throat that reminded him of a wounded animal and sent a chill racing down his spine.

  Shocked by her reaction, Dale moved beside her and touched her arm. “Hey, it’s okay. Christine, it’s okay.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. She just kept beating on the door, with such force he was afraid she’d hurt herself. Grasping her shoulders, he tried to restrain her, but she flailed at him with surprising strength, writhing in his grasp. Her harsh, erratic breathing was magnified in t
he confines of the small space, and when a sudden flash of lightning sent a slash of light through the tiny window, he saw the wild look in her eyes. She was terrified, he realized with a jolt.

  A loud boom of thunder reverberated in the darkness, and she tried again to jerk free. Dale tightened his grip, convinced that she’d hurt herself—or both of them—if he released her. Belatedly, his professional training kicked in. He knew how to deal with panicked people, had been through Crisis Intervention Team training. He could handle this. He’d just been caught off guard by her extreme—and unexpected—reaction.

  “Christine, I’m going to find a way to open the door, okay? Everything will be all right. Christine, I need you to look at me. Come on, look at me.”

  His voice was calm but commanding. He kept repeating his instructions until her glazed eyes at last focused on his face. “Good. Now listen to me. I’m going to find a way to open the door.” His speech was slow and deliberate. “Can you tell me how it locks? Is there something on the outside that keeps the door closed?”

  She didn’t seem to comprehend the question, and he could feel her shaking beneath his hands, bone-rattling tremors that convulsed her entire body. All at once, her legs buckled, and he tightened his grip to keep her from falling. Easing her down to the floor, he propped her against the wall of the shed. She dropped her head, struggling to draw in ragged, shallow gulps of air, her shoulders heaving.

  At this rate it wouldn’t be long before she hyperventilated, Dale concluded. He had to get them out of there. Fast. He could try kicking the door down, but given the sturdy boards he suspected the only thing he’d break would be a leg or an ankle.

  He dropped to the balls of his feet in front of her and cupped her face in his hands, tilting her head up so she had to look at him. “Okay, Christine. I need you to focus on me. Can you do that? Come on, stay with me. Tell me how the door locks. You can do this. Tell me how the door locks.”