Full Contact. Tara Quinn Taylor
perched on his hip, Aaron’s eyebrows drew together in concern as he looked at her. “How you doing, El?”
“Fine! Great!” The smile she gave him was genuine. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too.”
Then they stood there with nothing to say. There had been no big angry outbursts between them, no hatred or resentment or bitterness. Just a sadness that had infiltrated every breath they took together.
“I better get him through security.” Aaron’s comment filled the dead air. “Our flight will be boarding in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. Well, then…”
Aaron put Josh down. “We’ll call you the second we land, El, I promise,” he said, his gaze filled with the sympathy she’d learned to dread. “And you have my cell number. Call anytime. As often as you…need.”
She knelt in front of Josh. “You be a good boy and listen to your daddy.”
He nodded, tears in his eyes again.
“I love you, bud.”
“I love you, too.”
Ellen kissed him. Josh kissed her back. Like usual. Then the little boy threw his arms around her neck, clutching her in a death grip.
Ellen couldn’t breathe. Without thought she jerked the boy’s arms apart, stopping herself in time to keep from flinging those tiny arms completely away from her. She held on to Josh’s small hands, instead, squeezing them.
The boy didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. A glance at Aaron’s closed face told her his father had witnessed her reaction.
She gathered her son against her, close to her heart, and held on before finally letting go. “Now, have fun and remember to store up all kinds of things to tell me when you call,” she said with a smile as she stood.
“’Kay.”
She watched as the two men who used to be her entire world walked away, her jaw hurting with the effort to keep the smile in place in case Josh turned around to wave goodbye.
She made it outside the airport before she let the tears fall. But she let go for only a second. Josh was going to be fine. And so was she.
ELLEN WAS COMING AROUND the corner of Mesa and Lantana streets Tuesday afternoon, her second jog since Josh had left, when she heard the bike roar into town. Without conscious thought, she took stock of her surroundings. Ben and Tory Sanders’ home was on the corner. Bonnie Nielson—owner of the day care Josh had attended the first four years of his life and would attend after school once kindergarten started the following month—had a home around the next corner. Bonnie and Keith wouldn’t be home. Tory would be. It took only a second for the awareness to settle over Ellen.
Staying safe was second nature to her. She always knew, at any given moment, where her safety spots were.
She didn’t alter her course, though. Not yet. Though she wanted to. But because she wanted to run for cover, she maintained her trek.
Slowing her pace, Ellen controlled her breathing with effort, her gaze pinned to the spot where the bike would appear—a stop sign at the corner. Waited to see who would roar past her.
Sam Montford had a new motorcycle. But it had a muffler, or something that made it run much quieter than the noise pollution she was hearing.
Sheriff Greg Richards had one now, too. He’d bought it as a gas saving measure. His bike was like Sam’s—the quieter variety.
And there he was. A body in black leather on a black machine framed by shiny chrome. She didn’t have to know anything about motorcycles to know that this monstrosity was top-of-the-line. It even had a trunk-looking thing that was big enough for a suitcase.
Ellen noticed, without stopping. Shortening her stride, she jogged. And watched.
Black Leather was not from around Shelter Valley. Of that she was certain. The bike and black leather were dead giveaways. The ponytail hanging down the guy’s back was advertisement for outsider.
Tensing, Ellen paused, jogging in place at the end of Tory’s driveway. If the guy turned onto this street, she was running to the front door.
If not, she’d continue with her run. Her day. Her life.
Her mother was having a family dinner tonight— Rebecca and her husband, Shelley and, of course, Tim, who still lived at home—and Ellen was bringing brownies for dessert. Brownies that weren’t yet made.
She also had to stop by the Stricklands’ house to collect the mail. And she wanted to call Josh. It was an hour later in Colorado. Her son would be in bed before she got home from her mother’s.
With his feet on the ground on either side of his mammoth machine, the biker mastered the weight between his legs, seemingly unaware of the disruptive noise he was emitting along the quiet and peaceful streets of Shelter Valley.
A light blue Cadillac drove by. Becca Parsons—the mayor. Becca was Martha’s best friend. Ellen’s youngest sister, Rebecca, was named after her. Ellen could see the woman’s frown from a block away.
Hot-rod engines simply didn’t belong in Shelter Valley.
BLACK LEATHER DIDN’T SEEM to see the car at all. He sat there, gunning his motor with a gloved hand, unaware that within minutes Sheriff Richards would be all over him.
Or at least, right behind him, finding a reason to stop him and determine his business in town. And if that business wasn’t just passing through, Black Leather would be on the radar. The heroines of Shelter Valley—the core group of women whose strength and nurturing of each other and everyone else in town were the glue that held Shelter Valley together—would convince him so sweetly to exit their borders, he would never know the departure wasn’t his idea.
That was how it worked around here. The people of Shelter Valley would help anyone. They were compassionate. Welcoming. And anyone who didn’t emulate the town’s values and ways was encouraged to find happiness elsewhere. That’s what kept Shelter Valley what it was—a town that embraced and protected in a balance that was even enough to create a form of heaven on earth.
At least most of its residents, including Ellen, thought so.
Black Leather picked up his feet, his gaze locked straight ahead as Becca drove past. He yanked on his throttle one more time.
Ellen watched the thirty-second episode, her chest tight, and wondered at the man’s audacity. Wondered why she didn’t simply go say hello to Tory. Ask how the kids were doing during this last hot month of summer.
“Ellen? You okay, sweetie?”
Tory’s soft voice floated to Ellen from the front steps. The thirty-one-year-old stay-at-home mother looked as put together and beautiful as always.
“I’m fine,” Ellen called with easy assurance, staring down the street.
Black Leather leaned. He was turning in the opposite direction. She breathed a little easier and with a wave to her mother’s much younger friend, resumed her course down the street. As she increased her pace, Black Leather glanced her way, pinning her with a stare that struck at her core.
Then he was gone.
But the memory of him wasn’t.
The man had guts. And the seeming intelligence of someone who would house bulls in china shops. Fortunately, he was not her problem to worry about.
HE’D SPENT TIME IN MORE boring places. But Jay Billingsley couldn’t remember when. Or where. He was ready to leave. Every place and every activity the quiet desert city had to offer he’d already been to and done. And he’d been in town only twenty minutes.
Didn’t bode well for his future, since for the foreseeable part of it, he was here—living in the furnished home a few blocks from the clinic where he’d be working part-time