Chapter 14
“Jus’ sit up real slow and stick your hands out so I can see them, or I’ll shoot your head off!”
Emma jerked awake at the threatening voice and froze.
“I’ve got a double barrel pointed at your brains. You’re trespassing, so I’ve got no qualms about pulling the trigger.”
She tried to speak, but her dry tongue was hung up in her extra-dry mouth. A weak squawk was all she could do.
“I’m gonna count to five. No, make that three. One—”
“Uncle Tommy!” Emma forced out from underneath the horse blanket. “It’s me!”
The moment of silence was heavy in the barn. “Emma?” he asked.
“Yes!”
“For Christ’s sake, girl! What the hell you doin’ here?”
Emma exhaled and shakily shoved off the blanket. She pushed up her knit cap, which had covered her eyes, and blinked at him in the morning light.
“Holy crap, Emma! Couldn’t tell it was you under all that shit. What if I’d blown your head off?” Shock filled the old man’s face.
“Sorry,” she muttered, sitting up. Her feet and hands were numb from the cold, and her brain and tongue still weren’t functioning correctly since the rude awakening had scared her to death.
I knew this might happen.
After the two men had invaded her home the night before, Uncle Tommy’s farm had been the only place she could think of that offered safety.
She’d run and walked for nearly an hour, cutting through fields and tripping over rough rocks that left stinging lacerations on her palms and shins.
When she finally reached his property, she didn’t dare wake him in the middle of the night.
Uncle Tommy had a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later.
So she’d curled up in the barn with the ancient horse blankets to wait until morning.
“Get up. It’s freezing out here.” He tucked the shotgun under one arm, shoved a hand under her armpit, and lifted her to her feet. Her cold legs didn’t want to participate, and she struggled to get her balance. “Your daddy know you’re here?”
“I don’t think so,” she hedged.
“Well, let’s get inside the house, and you can tell me what’s going on while I make you a hot breakfast.”
Tears smarted. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. Something tells me I’m not going to be happy after we talk.”
She followed him out of the barn and headed toward the old farmhouse, slowing her pace to match his limping one.
Uncle Tommy wasn’t really her uncle. Just a friend of her dad’s.
But he’d been in her life for as long as she could remember.
He bought the best presents for her birthday and never forgot to send her some cash on Christmas.
She’d loved going to his farm as a kid because he’d had a few old horses that hadn’t minded if she climbed on and rode bareback, guiding them with her legs and tugs on their manes. Only one was left now.
Uncle Tommy had been an old man since she’d first met him.
He was missing a few fingers, he always limped, and because he’d heavily favored one leg and hip for decades, his back was crooked and his shoulders bent.
Emma had never known him without his white, thick beard and wiry eyebrows that seemed to grow longer every year.
He frequently wore tropical shirts that made him look like Santa Claus on vacation.
She’d worried about him living alone, but her dad had laughed, saying Tommy was too ornery to die.
A few minutes later, Emma was in a warm kitchen with a hot mug of coffee while he fried ten eggs in a ton of butter.
He’d thrown two pieces of bread in the toaster and buttered them with a spatula and had them on the table in front of her within moments of her sitting down.
His missing fingers never slowed him down in the kitchen.
He continuously refilled the toaster as the eggs bubbled in the fat, and he stacked a plate high with the butter-laden slices.
Emma’s bones finally started to defrost during her third piece of toast. Uncle Tommy slid six eggs onto a plate and cooked the other four eggs a minute longer.
Then he transferred them onto her plate and sat down.
He ripped a piece of toast in half, jabbed it in a yolk, making it run, ate the piece in two bites, and then repeated the process several times.
Emma cut into her firm eggs with a fork, already full but pleased that he’d remembered she didn’t like runny yolks.
“Start talking,” he said with his mouth full of eggy toast.
Emma set down her fork, her stomach churning, and told him what had happened last night.
The bushy eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You recognize them?”
“I couldn’t really see faces. The voices weren’t familiar.
” She paused. “One of them asked what to do about me and the other said to do what they were told.” Her voice cracked.
“I don’t know what that meant, but it can’t be good.
” Her brain had played the conversation over and over as she’d tried to fall asleep in Tommy’s barn.
They were going to kidnap me. Or kill me.
Tommy stabbed at his eggs, his heavy brows coming together, and swore under his breath. “I doubt they’d been told to take you out for coffee.”
She made a choking laugh-snort sound.
“And you think a stray cat purposefully warned you that these men were coming?” Doubt filled his tone.
“I do,” she said emphatically. “He’s never acted like that before.” She’d worried for Cornbread as she’d made her way to Tommy’s, but figured he was smart enough to stay away from the house until the men left and would then bed down in the straw-filled bin.
“Huh.” Tommy scooped an entire fried egg into his mouth and chewed, a thoughtful look on his face. “You don’t know where your daddy was last night?”
Emma shook her head, her gaze on her plate, feeling him study her.
“How long’s he been gone?” he asked softly.
She swallowed hard. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s not a hard question,” said Tommy, his eyes narrowing.
Tell him.
“I haven’t seen him since November,” Emma whispered, staring at her cooling eggs.
Silence filled the room. And then he roared, “Your daddy’s been gone for four months?”
She nodded and dared to look up.
His face was bright red, making his white hair and eyebrows pop.
“You call the police?” he asked, and then he answered his question before she could.
“Of course you didn’t, otherwise I would have heard about it.
” He pushed back from the table and crossed his arms on his chest. “Dammit, Emma,” he muttered.
The anger faded as quickly as it had come as he studied the ceiling of his kitchen. “Do you know where he is?”
“No,” she whispered.
“He got a new girlfriend?”
“Dunno.”
“What about his truck?”
“He took it.” She took a deep breath. “I came home from school one day and he wasn’t there.” She hadn’t worried. Her father would occasionally head out of town or bunk with a new girlfriend for several days at a time without telling her. But by the fifth day, Emma had known something wasn’t right.
And she’d done nothing.
“I get it. I understand why you didn’t tell me,” Tommy said slowly, holding her gaze. “He was an asshole to you. About the worst a daddy could be. I got on his case several times about how he treated you. Even suggested you come live with me, but he wasn’t having it.”
Emma didn’t realize she was crying until a tear tickled her lips, and she wiped it away with her sleeve.
She’d long hated her father. Not only did he physically beat her, but he beat her with his words.
She was dumb, stupid, retarded, ugly, useless, a whore, clumsy, and not worth spending money on.
He expected her to put meals on the table and keep the house perfectly clean.
Any slowness or mistakes meant no food for her or that he would burn her clothes.
I was just a slave to him.
The only time she could breathe was when he was gone. When he hadn’t come back in November, she’d told no one. Wanting him to stay gone forever.
She’d had peace. No fear.
Her quality of life had dramatically improved with him gone.
She was no longer forced to go to school, where the other kids harassed her.
She’d always known her dad kept some money under his mattress, so when the landlord came by for the rent each month, she paid it.
But the bag of cash was getting low. She’d collected cans and bottles to buy her food because she knew that if her father came back and more money than the rent was gone, there’d be hell to pay.
“You should have come to me,” Tommy said firmly.
She’d considered it a hundred times, but she had been too scared he would find her father and then her life would be miserable again.
“And school?” he asked carefully.
“I’m working on my GED. I use the computer at the library. I don’t want to go back to that school.”
He sighed. “Can’t blame you there.” He slapped his hands on the table. “Finish eating, and we’ll make a run to your house. Get your stuff and then you can stay here.”
Relief swamped her. She’d regretted leaving behind all the groceries that Ina Smythe had bought. Now she could stock Tommy’s fridge as a thank-you.
Ten minutes later they were in his ancient pickup, which smelled of motor oil, horses, and old-man sweat. Then she realized she hadn’t told him about finding the body yesterday. Her thoughts had been caught up with the invaders last night and almost being shot in the head that morning.
She shared the story, trying not to let the images of the body stick in her head as she talked.
“That was you that found him?” Tommy asked with a shocked stare. “I heard about that. I knew it was a teenager who discovered the body. Did they identify it yet?”
“I don’t know. The detective said she’d let me know when they did, but I’m sure she’s very busy.”
“You good?” he asked, scowling at the road.
“Yeah. Last night was worse than that.” She dug her fingernails into the fabric seat.
How can anything be worse than finding a dead body?
And it happened on the same day.
Tommy sighed. “You’ll be safe with me.” He patted the revolver at his side. “We’ll figure out where your daddy is.”
“You don’t know where he might be?” Emma finally asked. Tommy hadn’t speculated out loud, but she knew he was thinking about it.
“I’ve got some places to check.” He glanced at her. “I’ll find him. You shouldn’t be on your own.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Really? No shit.” Tommy shook his head. “Guess it’s stuck in my brain that you’re still around twelve.”
“I don’t want him to come back,” she whispered.
Tommy kept his eyes on the road. “I know. We’ll cross that road when we come to it.”
I’ll run away if he comes back.
The old truck bounced down her road, and Emma gasped in happiness when she spotted Cornbread on her porch, waiting by his empty food dish. “The cat’s okay!”
“Don’t know about bringing a cat with you,” said Tommy. “They make me itch. Sneeze too.”
“He won’t let me touch him,” said Emma. “But I can come back and feed him along with the chickens each day.” She slid off the truck’s high seat and slammed the door. Cornbread’s amber eyes held her gaze as she slowly approached, and the tip of his tail twitched in annoyance.
“Good boy,” she said softly as she went up the stairs. “Oh, shit!” The front door was wide open.
“Hang on, Emma,” Tommy said sharply. “Let me check it out first.”
Emma didn’t think Cornbread would be sitting calmly on the porch if strangers were in the house, but Tommy pulled his big revolver from his holster and went inside.
Emma knelt and slowly reached a hand toward the cat. Cornbread glared but allowed her to touch his back. She gave a few gentle strokes, and his glare seemed to fade a bit.
He let me pet him!
Tommy was back a moment later. “All clear. But watch your step inside.” He looked at Cornbread, who had backed away as Tommy appeared. “Thought you said you couldn’t get near him.”
“First time.” Emma stood, still delighted.
“I’ll pack up some groceries and get my stuff.
” She stepped inside and gasped at the broken glass strewn across the floor.
It was dark green, clearly some of the drinking glasses from the cupboard.
She was sad for only a brief second; she’d always thought the glasses were ugly.
Careful where she placed her feet, she pulled out the plastic grocery bags she’d unpacked yesterday and started loading them back up.
“Ohhh!” She stared in one cupboard.
Tommy stepped inside. “What happened?”
“They took the cookies.” Now she was definitely sad.
The package of chocolate chip cookies from the grocery store bakery had been a luxury and special treat.
She’d eaten one and tucked away the box to ration them.
She stopped packing, quickly checked the other cupboards, and then wandered the house, wondering if they’d taken anything else, but nothing else seemed to be missing.
We had little of value to take.
Apparently cookies were the only item worth stealing from the house.
She packed up the rest of the groceries, filled Cornbread’s bowl—he watched carefully from a close six feet away—and climbed back in the truck.
“You sure you don’t want to take the cat?” asked Tommy as he started the old truck.
Emma was touched that the allergic man had asked. “This is his home. I don’t want to take him away from that.”
“You can take the truck to feed him anytime.”
“Thank you.” She’d been determined to feed him each day and had planned to ride her bike back to her house. Tears started at his simple offer, which would save her so much time and energy.
She watched the home fade away in her side-view mirror, and her anxiety started to rise.
What will happen when Dad comes back?