with first aid and a few basic items. “But first, I need to let my cousin know I’m leaving.”
After raking his fingers through his hair to neaten it, he tapped on Laney’s door.
No answer, so he cracked it open and found her sleeping with a child’s abandon, her wavy hair fanned out around her on the pillow. Reluctant to wake her, he found a pen on her dresser and jotted a quick note on the back of a junk-mail envelope:
Went to help Gwen at the sheriff’s place. Trudy here in twenty minutes. Sleep tight.
Returning to Calvin, he said, “Let’s go.”
As they locked up and hurried to the car, the deputy shot a glance his way. “I appreciate this, Doctor. Personally, I mean.”
In the younger man’s look, Ross saw a truth he’d half suspected in the ER’s waiting room the night before: that Justine Wofford was more than just a boss to Calvin. That the twenty-three-year-old rookie’s dreams were no less improbably full of her than Ross’s.
Among the loose chaff of the stable’s feed room, Justine went back down to her hands and knees and ignored the throbbing protest of her head and the wave of nausea that followed.Paid them no heed because all that mattered was getting face-to-face with Noah.
“Please, honey, come out.” Justine peered into the recess in an attempt to see any sign of injury. “Come on in the house with me.”
From beneath long, chocolate-colored bangs, his brown eyes widened with horror. Scooting beneath the pallet even deeper, he used thin arms to shovel loose hay in front of him.
Crouched behind a nearby barrel of horse feed, Justine’s father caught her eye, then flicked a look at Noah’s small wrist while white brows rose with the unspoken question: Grab an arm and drag him out, or leave him be?
As if he’d sensed the danger, Noah withdrew and shrieked, “No touch, no touch,” covering his face with one arm as if even eye contact overwhelmed him. “Bad touch.”
His terror struck at Justine’s courage like a hammer’s blow against a sheet of glass. But what overwhelmed her was the bruising on his forearm, a set of adult-size purpling fingerprints capped with crescent-moon-shaped cuts. Fingernail cuts, from where someone had gripped him. Gasping, she jerked back.
“Someone’s hurt him.” She was shaking so hard she could barely squeeze the words past her rage. “Some son of a bitch hurt my son and then just dropped him off like nothing happened. ”
With Gwen watching, horror-stricken, Justine’s father caught her by the elbow and helped her to her feet. “He’s already terrified, so pull yourself together. You cannot fall apart now. We can’t. Now let’s back off a little. Give the boy some breathing space.”
With fury ripping loose inside her, Justine snarled, “When I find who did this, he won’t fucking live to stand trial.” She pictured herself shoving her service weapon beneath somebearded child abductor’s chin, staring him in the face as she squeezed the trigger.
“Stop it, Justine.” Her father’s voice cracked like a whip. “Stop it before your deputy gets here with the doctor. If you can’t do it for Noah, do it to keep the respect of—”
“This is my son, Dad. My. Son. I don’t give a damn what anybody else thinks about it or me or anything. You understand that?”
Gwen wiped away tears and rushed out of the feed room, her lips moving in a fervent prayer. Justine wanted to tell her it was useless, wanted to scream at her and God alike.
But abruptly as a thunderclap, she realized what she was doing: She was escalating the emotion, communicating her fear and rage to a child who desperately needed steadfastness and comfort if he were ever to recover.
She clasped her father in a fierce hug and told him, “Sorry, Dad. When you’re right, you’re right. I’m pulling it together. Now.”
Her father nodded his approval, then moved past her to squat, knees cracking, a few feet back from the pallet. In the shadow beneath it, Noah’s
After raking his fingers through his hair to neaten it, he tapped on Laney’s door.
No answer, so he cracked it open and found her sleeping with a child’s abandon, her wavy hair fanned out around her on the pillow. Reluctant to wake her, he found a pen on her dresser and jotted a quick note on the back of a junk-mail envelope:
Went to help Gwen at the sheriff’s place. Trudy here in twenty minutes. Sleep tight.
Returning to Calvin, he said, “Let’s go.”
As they locked up and hurried to the car, the deputy shot a glance his way. “I appreciate this, Doctor. Personally, I mean.”
In the younger man’s look, Ross saw a truth he’d half suspected in the ER’s waiting room the night before: that Justine Wofford was more than just a boss to Calvin. That the twenty-three-year-old rookie’s dreams were no less improbably full of her than Ross’s.
Among the loose chaff of the stable’s feed room, Justine went back down to her hands and knees and ignored the throbbing protest of her head and the wave of nausea that followed.Paid them no heed because all that mattered was getting face-to-face with Noah.
“Please, honey, come out.” Justine peered into the recess in an attempt to see any sign of injury. “Come on in the house with me.”
From beneath long, chocolate-colored bangs, his brown eyes widened with horror. Scooting beneath the pallet even deeper, he used thin arms to shovel loose hay in front of him.
Crouched behind a nearby barrel of horse feed, Justine’s father caught her eye, then flicked a look at Noah’s small wrist while white brows rose with the unspoken question: Grab an arm and drag him out, or leave him be?
As if he’d sensed the danger, Noah withdrew and shrieked, “No touch, no touch,” covering his face with one arm as if even eye contact overwhelmed him. “Bad touch.”
His terror struck at Justine’s courage like a hammer’s blow against a sheet of glass. But what overwhelmed her was the bruising on his forearm, a set of adult-size purpling fingerprints capped with crescent-moon-shaped cuts. Fingernail cuts, from where someone had gripped him. Gasping, she jerked back.
“Someone’s hurt him.” She was shaking so hard she could barely squeeze the words past her rage. “Some son of a bitch hurt my son and then just dropped him off like nothing happened. ”
With Gwen watching, horror-stricken, Justine’s father caught her by the elbow and helped her to her feet. “He’s already terrified, so pull yourself together. You cannot fall apart now. We can’t. Now let’s back off a little. Give the boy some breathing space.”
With fury ripping loose inside her, Justine snarled, “When I find who did this, he won’t fucking live to stand trial.” She pictured herself shoving her service weapon beneath somebearded child abductor’s chin, staring him in the face as she squeezed the trigger.
“Stop it, Justine.” Her father’s voice cracked like a whip. “Stop it before your deputy gets here with the doctor. If you can’t do it for Noah, do it to keep the respect of—”
“This is my son, Dad. My. Son. I don’t give a damn what anybody else thinks about it or me or anything. You understand that?”
Gwen wiped away tears and rushed out of the feed room, her lips moving in a fervent prayer. Justine wanted to tell her it was useless, wanted to scream at her and God alike.
But abruptly as a thunderclap, she realized what she was doing: She was escalating the emotion, communicating her fear and rage to a child who desperately needed steadfastness and comfort if he were ever to recover.
She clasped her father in a fierce hug and told him, “Sorry, Dad. When you’re right, you’re right. I’m pulling it together. Now.”
Her father nodded his approval, then moved past her to squat, knees cracking, a few feet back from the pallet. In the shadow beneath it, Noah’s
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