Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (24 page)

F
ull and immediate compensation has been approved.’” Sydney stared at Lane, who sat at the kitchen table in her mother’s house, the laptop casting light on his lean features. She tugged another piece of paper from the envelope and gasped. “A check for five hundred thousand dollars!”

“Let me see that,” Lane said, his chair screeching on the tiled floor as he shoved it back and stood. He read over the letter, shaking his head. “This makes no sense. It hasn’t even been a month since the fire. I thought you said the arson investigator hadn’t filed his report.”

“No, I said I hadn’t received a copy yet.”

He frowned. “Insurance companies don’t move this fast.” He took the envelope and studied it.

Sydney chuckled. “Well, apparently they do.”

“Stamp’s normal. Address is preprinted. Why didn’t they send a copy of the report with the check? You’d think they’d want all that here. I don’t get it. I’ve never seen a turnaround like this, and certainly not full compensation.”

“Hey, party pooper, don’t rain on my parade. This is the first good news I’ve had in a very long time. With this, I can start over, get a nice home, and be settled before—” Sydney choked off the words. Right now she wasn’t ready for anyone else to know about the baby. She’d have to tell Lane eventually, but not tonight. “Before I go out of my mind here. Besides, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Bryce starts his job with the sheriff’s department at the first of the summer. He and Victoria can have this house, and I’ll have my own.”

“I’m not trying to rain on your parade; it just seems fishy.”

“Fishy?” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “What? You think the bad guys felt bad, forged the insurance company’s letterhead, and sent me a check for five hundred grand?”

The absurdity made her laugh. Then again, was it possible someone was trying to buy her silence? Yeah, and she was Jane, Jane Bond. With a snicker, she stuffed the check in her purse. After grabbing a glass of water and some crackers, she returned to the mess strewn over the table. “So, where are we?”

“No closer than before. But I have to get going. I’ll call my military sources tomorrow and see if we can make any headway.”

“And I’ll contact CougarNews. I met Holden Crane at the journalism conference last year. Maybe he can give me some leads.”

“Great idea. See? You’re a natural at this,” he said with a wink, working his laptop into his bag. He placed his empty tea glass in the sink and hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. “This series is perfect for you, Syd. You have the heart and tenacity.”

Following him to the front door, she found herself yawning despite being buoyed by his praise. She stretched. Being pregnant drained her energy but not her mind. She never felt more determined to make her own way.

“Hey,” Lane said, holding the door knob. “Wanna meet me at Giuseppe’s tomorrow?”

Her heart hiccupped. Giuseppe’s was Max’s place. At least she had a legitimate excuse this time. “I’m sorry, but Pastor Robertson invited me to a meeting at the church. Some of the ladies from Mom’s Bible study are having a memorial service celebration thingie.”

Disappointment flooded his eyes. “Okay, sure. Maybe Friday?”

“Maybe,” she said, forcing a smile. Would he ever understand?

After seeing him out, she prepared some tension-taming tea, grabbed the crackers from the table, and moved to the sofa in the living room. With the TV clicked on for white noise, she tucked her legs up under her and rifled through the rest of the day’s mail. It’d been really nice to get that insurance check. Why’d Lane have to act like the check was fraudulent?

A catalog stilled her. A
Cradle of Love
catalog. She vaguely remembered Victoria saying she’d ordered one for her.

It was odd, but somehow, flipping through the pages gave credence to the life inside her. Giant stuffed, floppy elephants. Cribs. Dressers. Princesses. Race cars. Blocks. Ballerinas. Surreal, yet very real. This baby was real, not some glob that bloated her stomach.

The lone side-table lamp glowed softly against the matte pages. While she liked the round crib that dripped with lace and luxury, the convertible crib-toddler-twin bed piqued her interest. The only thing she knew with resolve was that she wanted dark wood in the nursery. She sighed as she turned another page and saw pink gingham material seemingly fluttering on the page.

A girl. Wouldn’t that be something? Next week she’d find out the sex of her baby. She set the catalog aside and smoothed her hands over her belly, stretching the black T-shirt so her baby bump was noticeable. “So I guess I’ll have to find a name for you.” A familiar ache wove through her chest, filling her with longing for a complete family. But she wouldn’t fixate on the fact that she would name the baby alone. “Of course, it will help once I know what you are.”

For a moment, she closed her eyes, trying to imagine a baby girl. Sweet rosy cheeks, thick head of hair. Maybe dark eyes like Max. Would she be a girlie girl? Or a tomboy? The thought forced a grin into her face.

What if it was a boy? He’d be adorable, of course. Probably have dark hair, but she could only hope whatever sex this baby was, he or she would have Max’s passion. She’d always admired him for that. No matter what he did, no matter what he got involved in, he gave it everything he had. Full throttle.

A gentle knock snapped Sydney out of her musings. She glanced at the foyer, wondering who could be here at this late hour. Heart in her throat, she plodded to the door, loosening the shirt around her belly. Pausing, she considered not answering, given how late it was and the fact that her mother had been killed in a suspicious fire.

She tiptoed to the far corner of the living room and peered through the thin slots of the plantation shutters. A large black truck sat parked at the curb. She’d seen that vehicle before. Back at the door, she hesitated. “Who is it?”

“Pardon the intrusion, ma’am, but your husband, Max, asked me to deliver something.”

Opening the door a crack, Sydney’s heart skipped a beat. The man from the hearing stood on her stoop. She eased the door open more. “He sent you?”

Kind blue eyes sparkled under the strain of the porch light. “Yes, ma’am.” He held his large black Stetson, turning it nervously in circles. “Sorry for it being so late and all, but Max said this couldn’t wait.” With a half smile, he extended a hand—and a small black box.

A gift. Obviously jewelry.

Her breath backed up into her throat. This wasn’t fair. “I can’t … won’t.” Seedlings of anger sprouted. “Tell Max this is low. He shouldn’t be sending me gifts. I don’t want gifts.”
I want my marriage back
.

He pursed his lips and looked down before bringing his rugged face back to hers. “I understand.” Donning his hat, he gave her a curt nod. “Night, ma’am.”

“Wait.” She stepped onto the porch. “You were with him at the MSA meeting. Why? I mean, I’ve never met you before. Have you known him long?”

“’Bout five months.” With one foot on a higher step than the other, he turned toward her. “I reckon you could call it moral support.”

“Support? Or restraint?”

The cowboy grinned—and the man could knock a woman off her feet with those pearly whites. “Well, ma’am, not really my place to say.” He started down the steps again.

“Why would you venture out in the middle of the night to deliver something to a coworker’s wife whom he’s separated from?”

Hat on, he faced her again. “Max is a friend. He’s never asked for anything in the months I’ve known him. All-sufficient, if you know what I mean.”

“Definitely,” Sydney said with a laugh.

“So, I couldn’t refuse when he asked.” He stared at the box, popped it up in the air a few times, then shrugged. “I’m sure he had his reasons, but I didn’t ask.” He touched the brim of his hat and said, “‘Night.”

Why did the thought of him leaving with that box send her into a panic? She
did
want that gift. She wanted the minuscule hope that things might work out, that this baby she carried would be raised by a mother
and
a father.

Was it a fool’s fancy?

“Wait.” Sydney tentatively moved down the steps and joined him on the sidewalk. “What’s your name?”

He tipped his hat. “Colton Neeley, ma’am.”

“Well, Colton,” she said, steeling herself and uncertain she wanted to do this, “my husband is a very deliberate man. Intense. Passionate.” Tears pricked her eyes. “It’s one of the things I love about him.” She drew in a quick breath. “So like you said, when he does something, he usually has a reason, even if I can’t understand it.”

A faint nod.

She held out her hand. “May I have the box?”

Slowly, he set the gift in her hand and left without another word. Sydney watched as the lights of his truck faded into the black void of the warm Virginia night. Back inside, she flipped the dead bolt and returned to the sofa. Cuddling a pillow close, she inhaled deeply then braved the contents of the box.

A solid gold anchor with a row of diamonds swirling around the post like sparkling ropes gleamed up at her. Tears flooded as words Max had once uttered rushed to the front of her mind.

You’ll always be my anchor, Syd
.

B
itterness sprouted long ugly roots. Though Jon tried to rip the tangled threads from his heart, he only ended up watering them, waiting as he recovered for the strength to effect an escape plan, watching the way his wife and daughter went white like flour at any sign of their captors. His thirst for freedom—or was it vengeance?—served as a heaping dose of fertilizer on the gnarly roots.

If God wasn’t going to act …

Kimber nuzzled into his arms, night descending deep and thick. The heavy rains pecked out a soothing rhythm on the roof and seeped gently into the hut, dribbling on them. Despite the cooling rain, heat radiated to Jon. An hour earlier, they’d tucked Maecel under a blanket and made a pallet high enough off the ground that she could sleep in relative warmth.

“God’s going to rescue us, Jon.” Kimber’s words came faint and breathless.

Was that a question? He hoped not, because his faith was seriously lacking. And in the last few days, he’d seen even Kimber’s rock-solid faith begin to wane. He wanted to tell her that they just needed to trust God. But isn’t that what so many before him had done? And how many of those had come home in a pine box?

Sure, yeah. Jon was willing to make sacrifices when it came to fighting for the cause. And he didn’t want to limit God—but
this?
Waiting for a group of radicals to hand him and his family off to a group of ultraradicals, who would take great pleasure in dragging their naked bodies through the streets as a sign of what they did to the infidels of the Great Satan?

Who knew what they’d already done to Kimber? Over the last several days since he’d awoken from the coma, she’d been vague and downright evasive about what had happened to her during those days of unconsciousness.

“Kimber, what did they do to you?” He finally whispered the question, letting it hang as thick as the deluge pelting the shelter.

She tightened her arms around his waist. “It doesn’t matter.” Her body trembled, radiating firelike heat.

He clenched his jaw. “It
does
matter.”

Raised up on her elbow, she stared down at him. “Why? Why does it matter?”

How could she even ask that? “Because you’re my wife. I’m supposed to protect you.”

“And what would you do?” Kimber traced his bearded jaw, smoothing the wiry hairs. “Jon, the only reason you want to know is to fuel that anger I already see burning in your eyes. To fan the flames of your pride. Let it go.”

“How can you—”

“Because, this,” she said, motioning around them and up and down her body, “is all temporal. But our witness, our God, is eternal.”

He pushed off the cot, his legs nearly buckling—which made his feet slip on the mucky earthen floor. Steadied, he trudged to a small chair on the opposite side of the room. “We have to do something.”

She came to his side, her clothes all but hanging on her after the weeks in captivity. “We pray. That’s all we can do. Besides, Kezia is still here.” Kneeling before him, she peered up with those dark eyes that had stilled more than one storm in him. “I have hope that they will release her to us.”

“Kezia?” Jon pushed himself out of the chair and raked a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on the muddied, bloodied, tangled kinks. “Kezia! You’re worrying about her, but what about you? And Maecel?”

She smiled. “God will provide, Jon. You’re always telling me that. Besides, Kezia is the reason we’re here. I’m positive. I’ve seen it in my dreams. She’s going to be an amazing woman.” Kimber crossed the gap between them and placed a hand on his arm. “God
will
provide a way.”

Yeah.

But did he believe it? How many times had he uttered that axiom? They’d been tested before. But never like this. Never truly, brutally tested. Would this time be different? Would they, like Abraham, need a sacrificial ram to take their places? Jon wasn’t sure he could do something like that, offer his own daughter to God. His gaze drifted to the sleeping form of Maecel, and everything in him bunched up into a million knots.
He
would be the ram if it meant Kimber and Maecel lived and were freed.