Creighton's Hideaway (23 page)

He didn't respond immediately. “OK, you've given me something to think about.”

Then he was gone.

She hopped in the shower, feeling all alone and vulnerable, wishing she didn't feel or think so much.

And yearned to be two hundred miles northwest.

 

 

 

 

 

19

 

Sunday after church, Creighton pictured Shana everywhere in the main area of the ranch house, or heard the echo of her laughter at every turn. He rambled around feeling like a lost sheep. He had yet to go to the cabin where she had stayed.

Shana's words, spoken from the mouth of a babe-in-Christ, returned.
“I would think that if God can forgive anything, and we buy into that, then He should enable us to forgive ourselves.”

He fell to his knees, right there next to his sofa. “I must love her, Lord, and I know I need her. I don't deserve anything but punishment for my false pride. Please forgive me, and show me how to look to a bright future.” He wiped the sweat from his temples and the moisture from his eyes. “If it's Your plan for us to be together, then I just ask that You work things out. Thank You for Shana, Lord, and watch over her.” He would take it one day at a time.

His life and Shana's didn't interweave at all. Now.

God could make it happen if they were meant to be together.

She represented city, with a degree almost in hand, and a career.

He was country, a loner trying to come to terms with his past. A big part of his past was his unresolved relationship with his brother. In the book of Genesis he had read about strife between brothers. If he was intended to be a spiritual leader for Shana, he needed to mend fences.

With a peace that only came to him in the company of the Lord, or while gazing at the spaciousness of the open country, Creighton turned to the Bible to see what else the Lord offered to penetrate his thick skull.

An hour later, he picked up the phone and dialed Thomas's number in Boston. Time to fix things.

 

****

 

Shana arrived at the entrance to The Pines Monday morning and smiled her greeting to one and all. Except for Rita. They said hello with a hug. The tiny mound of Rita's baby against her own stomach brought tears to Shana's eyes.

Rita caught Shana up on new meds and presented the files of those youth no longer in the center's program. Only two restraints had occurred in her absence. Those reports waited on her desk, as well.

At nine o'clock Shana returned to her office with a second cup of coffee, surprised to see Max Collins, a board member, seated in her guest chair. While she walked around the corner of her desk, he stood and closed the door. Her smile of greeting faded, and the insides of her stomach went to war in response to his closed expression.

“There's no other way to say this, Ms. Arnold.” Back in the chair, he looked at the folded hands in his lap. He cleared his throat. “Except right up front. We're closing down your age group of the program. Placement has been procured for the remaining four youth.”

The rush of her pounding heart flooded her ears. If she were standing, her knees would have gone.
Oh, dear God, what do I do now? What else could happen?
She stared, waiting for more.

Collins complied. “Don't take this personally. It's really nothing you've done, Ms. Arnold.” He glanced up, somewhere over her head. “Due to a misappropriation of money on the part of one of our board members, there is no longer funding for the program.”

“I see.” But she didn't see at all.

“There's no need to organize anything, just to leave again. You've got ‘til the end of the week.” He braced his hands on his knees and stood. He held out his hand, all the while looking at her buttoned collar.

“End of the week?” she squeaked, managed to clear her throat. “I agree. There is no need to dig into anything. I'll quit now, after saying good-bye to the kids. You make sure I get paid for this week and then I'll leave my keys and ID card.”

“I'll give you a well-deserved, excellent reference. Don't worry.”

“Don't worry? In these economic times? And do you have any idea the trouble I'm in outside the job?”

“You can expect a bright future once you have your master's degree in hand.”

Shana wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something. She wanted to run back to Creighton's ranch. Her coffee grew cold. She sat. She stood. She leaned. She went for more coffee. Her hand brushed a pink message slip next to the phone when she returned to her desk. Investigator Shelbourne needed her to call. Urgent.

“Does the name Sammi Ambrose mean anything to you?”

“Uh, vaguely. Why?”

“The print we found.”

Shana frowned in an attempt to clear the overload of assaults. “I'll call you if I remember. But this is really a bad time.” Had they said good-bye?

Trembling, not giving conscious thought to what she was doing, she gathered her few personal belongings. Her quivering fingers hit more wrong letters than correct ones as she typed an email to Rita asking if she'd box up Shana's two cactus plants in a day or two. A whimper escaped. She pushed in her keyboard lap tray. She dropped her head into her hands.

Why now, God? I was bouncing back from the loss of my money. Now it's the loss of my job. And, who in the world is Sammi Ambrose?
Shana straightened, and lifted her chin.
I will not cave in. Not now. Not here
. She snagged her lap tray and attacked the computer keys, erasing all files that didn't pertain to the program, and messages from her e-mail inbox.

And what was in Rita's future?

Later, she couldn't remember speaking to anyone on her way out of the building. She walked to her mother's car in the parking garage, and in a daze, drove to her duplex. Once there, she thanked God for getting her through south Lincoln safely.

She settled in to the familiar, shocking numbness, unable to feel or think. Somewhere deep inside, she was angry. But right now, she didn't have the energy to follow through. She lumbered around in a daze. At one point, she pulled out her high school yearbook, wondering why the idea came to look inside for Sammi Ambrose, but she couldn't muster the oomph to open it.

Hours passed.

She opened her eyes to a darkened bedroom. Could a person pass out from shock? Her head buzzed at a loud pounding that would not stop.

The hammering thuds came again, and she realized it was not inside her head after all.

On legs that trembled with every step, she went to the door. Did those fingers belong to her? She had such a hard time turning the dead bolt.

“Shana? Come on, baby, please open the door!”

Creighton! Creighton was here?

The lock finally cooperated. The door knob turned at the same time.

“Shana. Oh, thank God.”

He was here.

She was in his arms.

But why was he shaking? Or was that her?

“Oh, look at you. You're as cold as ice. Come here.”

They did a four-legged shuffle over to the sofa. He gathered her onto his lap and swaddled her in a wine-colored fleece throw. Then he wrapped her up, blanket and all.

The phone rang.

They ignored it.

Creighton murmured phrases that she couldn't make out, but the breadth of his chest combined with the rumbling comfort of his voice seeped into her consciousness.

Little by little, inch by inch, through Creighton's physical support, Shana started to thaw.

When the buzzing became a dull hum in her head, she managed to speak. “Creigh? Why are you here?”

“Rita called.”

“Rita!” She pushed against his chest and sat up. “They didn't fire her, too?”

“No.” He rubbed soothing circles over her shoulder and back. “They've found a spot for her working with elementary-aged kids in another program. Ray thinks The Pines undoubtedly wants to guard against a lawsuit because of her pregnancy.”

“That's a relief.”

“But I don't think she'll stay after the way they treated you.” He bracketed her head with his hands and caressed her cheeks with calloused thumbs.

Shana attempted a smile, but it turned into tears.

“Ray can watch over Rita. You are my concern.”

Tears flowed unchecked as she turned her face into his cupped hand. “I've said thank you, Creighton, so many times.”

“I don't think I've done a thing. Yet.” His thumb wiped the moisture from her cheeks, one at a time. “Do you have tea? Something warm would help, I think.”

She ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt to smooth the tangles. “I must look frightful.”

“Not to me. But if you feel like it, a clean face might help you feel better.”

“Oh, boy. It must be bad.” She tried a chuckle but it came out a tiny moan. “Right, I'm up and at ‘em.” She followed her words with action and felt aged as she laboriously planted her feet on the floor. She reached for Creighton's hand and preceded him into the kitchen.

Once there, he pulled a chair out for her. “Now sit. Just direct me to where things are.”

“Hey, Mr. Boss. I thought you wanted me to wash my face.”

“Well, you're here now. You can wash later.”

“How about we compromise.” She tried to smile, finding it hard to believe that he was actually here. “Please run the water really warm, not hot, and hand me a cloth I've never used on the dishes. There, in that bottom left drawer.”

“Now, who's bossy?” Creighton teased back.

Soon she buried her face in the lemon-yellow cloth and scrubbed it over her salty cheeks. Suddenly, she jerked away and dropped the cloth in her lap.

“What?” Creighton knelt at her side.

“I had a flash of that horrid perfume stink and how sick and all alone I felt when I discovered that some stranger had invaded my home.”

He tossed the cloth over his shoulder and engulfed her with his warm hands. “I can't say I know how you feel. But I can empathize.” He searched the depth of her eyes. “If God wants you to know who was responsible—”

“The yearbook!” She stood, knocking Creighton off balance.

“The what?” The poor guy looked confused. He leaned against the cupboard with his shoulder.

“Investigator Shelbourne asked me if I knew Sammi Ambrose. I think I had some classes with her at Lincoln High.”

“Take it easy.” Creighton stood, placing a comfortable hand on each shoulder. “Sit back down. After your tea, we'll have a look. Then Shelbourne, or whomever, will find her if she's the culprit. Rest in that knowledge.” Creighton squeezed her shoulders. “Back to that tea. Just let me rinse the washcloth for you again.”

“Herbal teabags are in the freezer.”

He questioned via raised eyebrows.

“I don't drink it that often.” She took the warm cloth from his hand and smoothed it over her forehead. “Just rinse out the teakettle there for water.”

He followed her directions, and then turned from the stove after adjusting the flame so the water could heat. “Cups?”

She guided him to where things were.

When all was ready but the water, including the plastic bear containing honey, he pulled out the other chair, but didn't sit down next to Shana. Creighton wet the cloth at the sink and knelt next to her before gently wiping around her eyes.

“Raccoon, huh?” Shana asked.

“A beautiful one.” He repeated the toss, slinging the dishcloth over his shoulder without moving his gaze from her face. She heard it plop in the sink. Then he ran a caressing finger over her brows, one at a time. Creighton whispered, “Ah, friend of my sister, light of my life. Let me take care of you for a while.”

She longed for him to do just that, but some deep instinct called for her to argue. “But, Creigh—”

“Shh. I'm staying tonight. On the couch. You've had too many mind-numbing blows in just a few weeks.”

“But good things have happened as well.” Could her heart glow through her eyes?

“I'll grant you that. You've established faith in the Lord.”

“And I found you, on your wonderful ranch.”

Her comment obviously pleased him.

Creighton leaned back on his haunches and almost lost his balance. “You have some color in your face now,” he said, full grin in place. “Back to business. Tell me where that yearbook is. Then I'll rustle up some grub.”

She smiled at the cowboy slang. She closed her eyes for a moment to help her clear her thinking. “I'm not very hungry.” When she opened them, he was close enough she could count his eyelashes. She smiled at his single-mindedness. “I give in. How about chicken broth and buttered toast?”

 

****

 

“Simple fare, I can handle,” Creighton answered. His insides had felt like a swarming beehive ever since his sister's phone call. “You wanna keep me company or get comfy on the couch?”

“I'll stay here, if you don't mind.” She ran her fingers through her hair and the unruly curls bounced back into chaos.

“Just stay where I can see you.”

“Don't mind if I do.” Her voice came out stronger, less tremulous.

Creighton silently shot a thanks to the Lord.

“Wait,” she sat straight up and glared at him. “There's something wrong with this picture. I was your guest and you waited on me. Now you're my guest and you're still waiting on me!”

How about if I share my want, no, my need for each of us to wait on the other for the next sixty years?
The thought rocked him to his soul.

She bounced up to hug him from behind.

He covered her folded hands where they rested against his middle. Creighton closed his eyes and willed time to stop, all for the sweetness of Shana. His mind went back to his wild days—high school, then at Wayne State. When he returned after his father's death, he used the ranch as an excuse to get away from Howie and his other rowdy friends. He'd never guessed he wasn't content until Shana bombarded his world.