Читать книгу Finally a Hero - Pamela Tracy - Страница 10

Chapter One

The only thing Jesse Campbell wanted, as he stepped out of the enclosure and through the back gate of Florence State Prison, was to leave the premises, to watch the prison disappear from view, and to enjoy the sweet smell of freedom.

Forever.

Reality, however, always made its presence known.

“See you soon,” said the prison guard escorting him. Five years in Florence State Prison had taught Jesse quite a bit about the system, especially when it came to the guards who played a game called “How Long Before This One Returns.”

Jesse looked the man straight in the eye, something not done on the inside, and shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Perspiration, tasting faintly of salt, beaded on Jesse’s upper lip. The air crackled with the dryness that only a 110-degree July Arizona afternoon could provide. And as for the exhilaration that came with freedom, it disappeared before it got a toehold when Jesse looked down the walkway to the parking lot. Mike Hamm, the prison minister who’d taken Jesse under his wing, had volunteered to pick Jesse up and deliver him to his new home and job. But, two days ago, Mike’s first daughter had been born a month prematurely, and he was needed elsewhere.

“No problem,” Jesse had said. The prison van would take him to the bus station. The bus would drop him off in the small town of Apache Creek where he had a job lined up.

But instead of the prison van, he saw his mother standing by a broken-down, faded blue Chevy Cavalier.

He froze, unsure whether to move forward or turn back, and more than annoyed that five years in prison had taught him to wait and let someone tell him what to do.

Susan Campbell’s dark hair hung past her shoulders, still long and thick. Today she wore a billowy top and tight shorts. She’d always dressed as if she were sixteen and looked as though she needed a good meal. He’d have recognized her anywhere even though he’d not seen her in seven years, two months and six days.

In prison, keeping track of dates was a favorite pastime.

Two days ago, he’d received an opened envelope with a note from his mother, their first contact in five years, two months and four days. The staff member who’d handed Jesse the envelope had raised an eyebrow while passing it over.

This note from his mother wasn’t censored. Words on plain white paper proclaimed, “I’ll be in touch after you get out. Got a surprise for you. S.”

This was the surprise? Her coming to pick him up?

Yeah, right. She’d never been the kind of mother who understood that surprises were supposed to be good, fun, memorable. Her idea of a surprise during his early childhood had been dropping him off for an extended stay at some relative’s house so she could run off and have fun with her newest boyfriend.

Back then, like the guard, she’d often said, “See you soon,” and it had been Jesse playing the guessing game: how long before Mom comes back?

If ever.

The guard at Jesse’s left tensed. “I thought you’d arranged for the van?”

“I did, but it’s okay.” The old Jesse would have said a few choice words to dear old Mom and walked away. He’d have boarded the van without giving her a chance to say a word to him. Susan had never given much of anything to him. But he wasn’t the old Jesse, the angry young man who’d made a bad choice and paid the price. He was forgiven, made anew, and had the scripture from Second Corinthians to prove it: “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come.”

One of his goals as this new person was to tie up the loose ends of his life and forgive, if he could, this woman who looked older, harder, yet the same.

Susan pushed off from the car and walked toward them, stopping a few feet away when the guard held up his hand. Now Jesse could see strands of gray in her hair. “Well, you just going to stand there?” she asked.

He gripped his duffel bag more tightly. Everything he owned was inside. The bag wasn’t heavy.

“You don’t sound too sure,” the guard said. “Is she on the list?”

“She’s my mother. And, I’m not sure of anything,” Jesse continued, as together they walked to meet her, “except that I don’t ever want to come back to this place.”

Susan hadn’t moved from where she stood, but she agreed, “I’m glad to hear that. Prison’s no fun.”

The guard took her name, motioned her closer so he could look at her driver’s license, and radioed the information in. Surprise, surprise, she was on a list Jesse didn’t know existed, and yes, she could pick him up.

“Get in,” she instructed him.

Every instinct warned him: Don’t do it! Run. Take the prison van. But he’d not seen her for over seven years. Some stupid part of him still hoped she had changed. And even if she hadn’t, he had. He was through running from his problems. From now on, he’d face them directly. He slowly followed her to the two-door car and settled his body in the passenger seat with his mostly empty duffel bag on the floorboard under his feet.

The Chevy looked like she’d been living in it with suitcases, taped boxes, dirty laundry and fast-food wrappers scattered throughout.

“Where do you want to go?” she asked, starting the engine and waving at the guard, who didn’t wave back.

“Apache Creek. You need to—”

“I know where it is and how to get there.”

His mother drove the way she always had, speeding toward her destination—sure that whatever was ahead improved on what she’d left behind. He fastened his seat belt and rolled the window down, not even bothering to ask about air conditioning.

Silence, an intangible accusation, accompanied them for a good five miles. Finally, Jesse couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m surprised you knew I was in, much less when I was getting out.”

She smiled, a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t, not until last week. That’s when I wrote you the letter.”

He didn’t bother to tell her that thirteen words didn’t constitute a letter. Half afraid to hear the answer, he asked, “What happened last week?”

Instead of answering, she muttered, “I hate confinement.”

Jesse knew of only two times his mother had been a guest of the system. Both times he’d wound up a ward of the state.

Could he forgive her for that, and for everything else? He knew the answer should be yes...and yet he couldn’t decide, not today when he had fifty bucks tucked in his sock, just the most rudimentary belongings in his duffel and the phone number of a stranger offering a job in his pocket. He was supposed to call the man at two o’clock.

He couldn’t afford to blow this opportunity. If Susan ruined it for him, as she’d ruined so many things in the past, then that would be a real challenge even for a Christian to forgive.

As they sped down the highway, he took note of his surroundings. It had been, after all, over five years since his view wasn’t obstructed by a chain-link fence. The scenery wasn’t much to brag about. To his right was a giant parking area waiting for winter when a flock of snowbirds in RVs would descend. To the left was the empty shell used by the Renaissance fair in the winter. Neither landmark welcomed him to sweet freedom.

Both were better than prison.

“What happened last week?” he finally asked again. “Does it have to do with the surprise you wrote about?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she nodded toward an interstate sign announcing Apache Creek Next Exit and left the highway. As she slowed the car, she looked in the rearview mirror, at the suitcases, boxes and clothes scattered in the back. He’d seen that expression on her face many a time. She felt trapped, like life had passed her by and somehow she’d missed out on what she deserved.

“I had a ride,” he said. “You didn’t need to pick me up.”

“Yes, I did.” She drove down the main drag, slowing when she passed a fast-food restaurant, then a bar and grill, before finally turning into the parking lot of a rustic café. “You hungry?”

He doubted he could swallow a bite. For the past hour, he’d been trapped in a car with the mother he needed to forgive. The whole hour had felt eerily like still being in jail: trapped, at someone else’s mercy.

If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come.

He’d eat with her, forgive her and walk away knowing he’d done the right thing. “I’m a bit hungry.”

She parked close to the front door. Jesse grabbed his duffel and exited the car. He had the address for his new job in his pocket; he’d get directions and walk from here. He didn’t care how hot it was. Walking would still be better than getting a ride from Susan, letting her know where to find him if she wanted to drag him into her troubles again. He stepped back, watching his toes, as a big blue pickup truck pulled in next to them. A curvy blonde, playing country music loud enough for him to sing along, turned off the engine, opened her door and climbed down.

She smiled, the half-shy expression of someone who knew how to be polite. Then she hurried around them and toward the front door of the Miner’s Lamp Café.

His mother hesitated for the first time, acting almost insecure. “I need to introduce you to someone.” He looked at the restaurant, noticing the blonde still watching him. His mother, however, wasn’t looking at the woman. His mother’s gaze centered on one spot in the cluttered backseat, and Jesse leaned in to see what had her so distracted.

What Jesse had mistaken for dirty laundry was anything but. Now he saw the end of one bare foot sticking out from old jeans too big for the boy’s small frame. Then came a dirty T-shirt advertising a rock group no child that age should know about.

“Timmy, wake up!”

A small head rose with dark-brown hair—the same color as Jesse’s—badly in need of a wash. The boy’s thumb was in his mouth. Sweat trickled down his cheek, looking like a teardrop.

Suddenly Jesse couldn’t swallow. There was a huge lump in his throat, and it hurt.

This was him twenty-odd years ago, maybe five years old. Had his mother—?

“Meet your son,” his mother said.

* * *

Eva Hubrecht tried not to listen, tried to hurry into the restaurant without disturbing the man and woman in the blue car. They were obviously in crisis, and with everything that was going on in her own life, she couldn’t handle one more.

Turning the corner, she overheard the woman say, “Really, this is your son. His name is Timmy.”

Eva didn’t stop to hear what the man said next. It would keep her awake at night. Make her think that losing next week’s wedding party, accounting for half the ranch’s July reservations, wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to someone after all.

The wedding had been called off entirely, and because the couple had canceled more than forty-eight hours in advance, Eva now had six empty rooms, three empty suites, two empty cabins and not even a hefty cancellation fee to make up for the lost revenue.

It was a seven-thousand-dollar loss, during the summer, when they could least afford it.

She allowed the restaurant door to slam behind her, didn’t wait for the hostess, and instead headed for her favorite booth. Her ultimate goal had been to settle into a booth, bemoan her bad luck to the waitress, her best friend Jane de la Rosa, and maybe lose herself in a paperback.

Now she felt even more unsettled, questioned just how bad her luck was and doubted she’d be able to read past a paragraph.

What had she just witnessed? Possibly a family more dysfunctional than hers?

“Hey, girlfriend.” Jane set an iced tea in front of Eva. “Tell me, did you do it?”

Eva knew exactly what Jane was talking about. “No. I made it all the way to the stable, walked to Snow White’s stall and actually aimed my hand for her nose.”

“Then?”

“Then, Pistol let out a loud snort and did a dance in the next stall.” Finally Eva admitted, “I ran.”

“Anyone see?”

“I’m pretty sure Harold was in the tack room. But he didn’t look out, laugh or say anything. Last week he offered to help me on Snow White’s back and walk me around the arena. But I don’t want to feel like I’m eight years old, needing someone to hold my hand before I can deal with a horse. And I don’t want to fail in front of anyone, especially not my dad.”

“Nothing wrong with being eight years old,” Jane said. “Sometimes you need to start where you left off. And the only failure is not trying.”

Then, without writing a single word on her order pad, Jane stuck it in her apron pocket and said, “I already told the kitchen you were here. They started your meal. So, you look to be in a mood. Something else happening at home?”

“No, something happening in your parking lot. Just a strange family...” Eva let her words taper off. It really wasn’t any of her business. “...Having some, er, difficulties.”

“I’m sorry I had to cancel our movie tonight,” Jane said, not even blinking at the thought of a strange family outside. Eva figured she probably saw plenty of odd people passing through town. The Miner’s Lamp Café was one of the few sit-down restaurants between Phoenix and Florence.

“I need the extra shift money,” Jane continued. “Did you ask someone else to go with you?”

Eva shook her head.

“You know, Sam Miller would love to go to the movies with you,” Jane said. “If you go with him, my mother would stop nudging me in his direction.”

That both Eva and Jane were single put them at the top of Jane’s mom’s to-do list. Sam was the only single guy at their church who fit Patti de la Rosa’s fit-for-my-daughter criteria list: age-appropriate, employed and Christian. That he was also a high school friend and a cop worked in his favor.

Jane’s mother was a full-time employee on the Lost Dutchman Ranch and had been offering Eva’s dad parenting advice since Eva was in grade school, thus her name on a wish list. Patti claimed that neither of the girls got out enough and seemed to see it as her job to fix that.

“No, not interested,” Eva said. “Dad’s got a new ranch hand coming in today, and I want to be there. Something’s going on, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dad’s being secretive, more so than usual. Makes me worry. Last time we brought in a new hire this quickly, it was Mitch.”

Jane made a face. “I remember. Last summer he was the one who wanted to sleep until noon every day and then needed two hours before he was ready to work. You hired him back, right?”

“Dad did. And the time before that it was some writer who wanted to work on the ranch as research for his book. We actually needed someone in that position. He quit the second day, muttering about dirty fingernails and finding a scorpion in his boot.”

“I hate when my fingernails get dirty,” Jane joked.

“Yeah.” Eva looked at her own nails. Unpainted, cut short, but very clean. Then she studied her hands, smooth and soft—without the calluses she’d have if she could find the courage to get back in the saddle. “We certainly can’t afford a new hand, especially now. But Dad just says yes to anyone who asks.”

“Your busy season’s coming up in a month or two. Maybe your dad’s thinking ahead.”

“Maybe,” Eva said, but she didn’t believe it. Her dad had a weakness for hard-luck cases and a habit of taking in ex-alcoholics, ex-cons and ex-rodeoers. Sometimes the ex-rodeoers worked out.

A bell sounded from the kitchen. Jane headed for the back with an “I’ll be right out with your meal.”

The moment Jane disappeared, the restaurant’s door opened. Eva reached down, snagged her book from her purse and randomly turned to a page as she tried to ignore the family. It wasn’t easy. They were the elephant in the room, and fact was much more entertaining than fiction.

The woman was loud and defensive. She kept prodding the little boy forward. “Hurry up, Timmy. Sit down, Timmy.” Once the kid was settled, she dropped her car keys on the table with a clatter. The man wore brand-new jeans, about two sizes too big, and a dark-blue T-shirt that stretched across his chest. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Well, from what Eva had overheard, no wonder. He slid a duffel bag under the table and put his left foot on it as if he were afraid it would escape. His gaze slid across the room, finding hers and locking in. His eyes were dark and brooding. The little boy looked in need of a bath and scared of both adults.

Embarrassed, Eva turned away. Her youngest sister, Emily, would see a story begging to be told. Eva just saw people struggling with problems they’d made for themselves and probably did nothing to change.

“Here ya go,” Jane said, putting a hot plate in front of Eva and snagging ketchup and maple syrup from her apron pocket. “Your toast will be out in a few minutes. Cook burnt it.”

“That’s okay. You’ve got some other customers.” Eva nodded at the newcomers.

“Oh, thanks. I didn’t hear them come in.” Jane took out her pad and headed over to stand between the man and boy.

The little boy was eating a cracker left on the table from a previous diner. His dirty, bare feet were tucked under him as if he knew that shoes were required.

“I’m hungry, haven’t eaten since last night,” the woman said, then loudly gave her order and the boy’s. Once the man made his selection and Jane walked away, the man leaned in to do the talking.

“I can’t believe you didn’t call me, didn’t put this in the letter,” the man said, obviously trying to keep his voice low.

Maybe Eva should just leave. When Jane came back, Eva’d ask for a to-go box, never mind the toast.

“Surprise for me, too,” the woman insisted. “This Matilda showed up at my house last Monday. She said she couldn’t take care of Timmy anymore. She showed me his birth certificate. Your name isn’t on it, but look at the kid. He’s you all over again.”

Eva peeked over her book. Same hair, same facial shape, same skin tone, same deer-in-the-headlights expression. Yup, they were related.

Just then Jane brought out salads for their table. The moment she finished, Eva would let her know she needed a to-go box. The woman dug right in. So did the boy. The man, however, bowed his head in prayer.

Something Eva had forgotten to do.

She’d been too busy being judgmental.