Chapter 19
Nineteen
Lydia could barely see through her tears as she herded Eli and Rosie out of the barn.
The world was blurred at the edges, swimming in and out of focus like she was underwater.
Her hands shook as she guided them toward the door, one palm on each small shoulder, feeling their bodies trembling under her touch.
The morning air was brisk when she stepped out. It made her lungs ache. After the stale, fear-soaked atmosphere inside the barn, acrid with whiskey and gun oil, the fresh November air felt almost painful in its purity.
She made it maybe ten feet from the barn door before her legs gave out.
Lydia dropped to her knees on the frost-hard ground, pulling both children into her arms with a fierceness that probably hurt them but she couldn’t loosen her grip. She needed to hold them close enough to feel their heartbeats against her chest, proof that they had survived Tom.
The sirens announced the arrival of the sheriff’s department and Sheriff Wyatt came running up for a report. Lydia pointed to the barn, declaring that Ethan had Tom under control, then feet pounded past her toward the barn.
Eli’s teeth chattered against her collarbone. Rosie’s small body quaked like a leaf in a storm. A sob came out of Lydia, quickly followed by great, gulping sobs that shook her whole frame, tears soaking into Rosie’s hair and Eli’s jacket.
She should be strong for them, assure them. She was their mother, and they needed to see and hear from her that everything was going to be okay.
But she couldn’t stop crying.
“Mommy?” Rosie’s voice was muffled against Lydia’s shoulder. “Mommy, you’re squishing me.”
Lydia forced herself to loosen her grip, to pull back enough to look at her children’s faces. Eli’s eyes were red but dry. Rosie’s cheeks were tear-stained, but she wasn’t crying anymore. They were looking at her with concern, and that somehow made everything worse and better at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Lydia managed through her tears. “I’m so sorry. I should have protected you better.”
“You did protect us,” Eli interrupted, his voice firm despite the way his hands were fisted in her jacket. “You stood in front of us. You got the gun away from Dad.”
He still called Tom “Dad” even after everything. Lydia’s heart twisted.
“Is Daddy going to jail?” Rosie asked, her voice very small. She was looking past Lydia toward the barn, where they could hear Ethan’s steady baritone, the sheriff’s gruff questioning, and Tom’s sobbing.
Lydia didn’t want to lie. She had promised herself she wouldn’t sugarcoat or pretend things were better than they were. They had survived enough to deserve honesty.
“Yes, sweetheart.” She smoothed Rosie’s tangled hair back from her face. “I think so.”
She waited for the tears.
Instead, Eli pulled back and looked at her with eyes that were far too old for nine.
“Good,” he said firmly.
“Eli—” Lydia wasn’t sure whether to correct him or comfort him.
“He’s bad, Mom.” Eli’s jaw set in a way that painfully reminded her of the old and sober Tom, who’d been strong and good. “He tried to hurt us. He tried to kill Ethan. Bad people go to jail.”
Rosie nodded, her little face far too serious for a child who should be thinking about dolls and cartoons and what flavor milkshake she wanted. “He needs to go to jail so he can’t hurt anyone.”
It hurt to hear how deeply they already understood that love wasn’t enough to fix someone at six and nine years old, but Lydia’s heart swelled with pride over their strength.
She could only hope that this hard-fought strength and understanding would save them from making her mistakes.
“You’re both absolutely right.” Lydia pulled them close again but gentler this time. “I’m so proud of you for being brave.”
“I was brave, Mommy,” Rosie whispered. “Caleb said being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared. It means you still take care of each other even when you are.”
The statement jogged Lydia’s memory back to when the kids had thanked Caleb for saving them from the fire. He had been so kind to the kids.
“Caleb also said being brave means you keep going even when you are scared,” Eli added. “Were you scared, Mom?”
“I was.” Lydia nodded.
“But you still fought and took Dad’s gun.” Eli’s eyes widened. “You’re brave, Mom.”
It left Lydia undone, to be believed in by her children. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away and kissed the top of Rosie’s head, breathing in the smell of her daughter’s strawberry shampoo. “We were all brave today.”
A sound made her look up. Caleb was staggering toward them across the frost-covered grass, his gait unsteady, one hand pressed to the left side of his head. Blood seeped through his fingers, dark and wet, dripping down his wrist and staining his jacket sleeve.
“Everyone okay?” His voice was slurred slightly, words not quite forming right. He most likely had a concussion, given the amount of blood and the way he was swaying on his feet.
“You’re not,” Lydia said sharply. She set the kids gently aside and surged to her feet, almost grateful that she had something useful to do. She caught Caleb’s elbow as he wobbled. “Sit down before you fall down.”
“‘Mm fine,” he protested, but he let her guide him to the ground anyway. Let her ease him into a sitting position with his back against the barn wall. “‘S just a little bump.”
“That’s not a little bump. That’s a head wound that needs stitches.
” Lydia’s fingers were already working at her scarf, the soft blue one Ethan had given her their first night at his house, saying she needed something warm for the November cold.
She pulled it free and folded it into a makeshift compress. “This is going to hurt.”
“Everything already hurts,” Caleb muttered, but he didn’t flinch when she pressed the fabric against his scalp. He just closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose.
The scarf darkened immediately, soaking through with blood faster than Lydia would have liked.
She pressed harder, trying to remember first aid from the brief course she’d taken when Eli was a baby.
Head wounds bled a lot. That was normal.
It didn’t necessarily mean it was serious.
What might be serious was how Caleb’s pupils had been slightly different sizes when she’d looked.
That could imply swelling or a brain injury.
“Kids shouldn’t see this.” Caleb’s eyes were still closed. He was right. Eli and Rosie were staring at the blood with wide, frightened eyes.
“Babies, can you go stand by that tree over there?” Lydia pointed to an oak about twenty yards away. “Stay where I can see you, but give Mr. Caleb some privacy, okay?”
They went reluctantly, hand in hand, casting worried glances back over their shoulders.
“Good kids,” Caleb said quietly.
“The best.” Lydia’s voice cracked on the words.
“Hey.” Caleb opened his eyes, his words more articulate now. “You did good in there.”
“I was terrified.”
“Yeah. But you did … it … something anyway.” He winced, closing his eyes again. “That’s the definition of courage, you know.”
Lydia blinked back fresh tears. She seemed to have an endless supply today, an ocean of them just waiting to overflow at any moment. “You’re the one who got hurt protecting us.”
“I didn’t protect much of anything. Man clocked me with a crowbar inside of thirty seconds.” Caleb’s mouth twisted. Whether from humor or pain, Lydia couldn’t tell. “Some hero.”
“You’re still here. You’re still trying to help. That counts.”
Sirens cut through the morning air, distant but growing closer. Multiple vehicles by the sound of it.
“About time,” Caleb muttered.
The next hour was chaos.
Sheriff’s vehicles arrived first, three patrol cars that came screaming up the gravel road with lights flashing, spraying rocks and frost in their wake.
Deputies poured out like they were expecting a war zone, hands on their weapons, shouting orders to each other that Lydia couldn’t quite make out through the ringing in her ears.
Sheriff Wyatt was among them. A tall, barrel-chested man in his fifties with a gray mustache and keen eyes. He took in the scene with a single sweeping glance … Lydia kneeling beside Caleb, blood on her hands and scarf. The kids huddled by the tree. The barn door standing open.
“Mrs. Harper,” he said, moving toward her with surprising speed for a man his size. “Where’s the suspect?”
“In the barn,” Lydia said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script. “Ethan has him. He’s—Tom’s not armed anymore. I took the gun.”
Wyatt’s eyebrows rose. “You disarmed him?”
“He was—” Lydia’s voice caught. “Someone got shot. Tom was distracted. I just grabbed it.”
“Who got shot?” Wyatt’s hand went to his radio, already calling for additional medical support.
“Michael Smith.” The words came out before Lydia could think better of them. “But he’s … um … he’s fine. He walked away. There was blood but no wound. I honestly still don’t understand how he … ”
She was babbling now, could hear herself doing it but couldn’t seem to stop. The shock was setting in properly, making her thoughts scatter.
“Ma’am, I need you to take a breath,” Wyatt said, his voice gentle but firm. “Deputy Simmons is going to stay with you while I go check the barn. Can you do that for me? Just sit tight and breathe?”
Lydia nodded numbly. A female deputy approached her side. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with kind brown eyes and dark hair pulled back in a tight bun.
“I’m Deputy Simmons,” she said, crouching down to Lydia’s level. “Are you hurt anywhere? Any pain, bleeding, dizziness?”
“No. I’m fine. But Caleb—Mr. Byrne—he has a head wound.
It’s been bleeding for—” Lydia looked at her phone and couldn’t remember what time the attack had started, what time they’d arrived at the barn, how long she’d stood with a rifle pointed at her children.
“—I don’t know. But he needs a hospital. ”
“Ambulance is two minutes out,” Simmons assured her. “They’ll take good care of him.”