Beyond Ordinary. Mary Sullivan
a minute with memories of Neil. She picked up a stone from the bedside table. Neil had given it to her because somehow time and the elements had shaped it into a heart.
He’d said it reminded him of her, of how time and life had shaped her into a truly good person.
Horse poop. It had done no such thing. As she rolled over, though, she clutched the stone.
The night lay still around her. She couldn’t breathe.
Someone stirred in Mama’s room. She knew what was coming. Or who.
Here we go again.
Phil’s footsteps whispered along the bare floor in the hallway.
He stopped at her door.
She flipped a sheet over herself and gripped it.
Come on in, Phil. I’d love to clock someone right now. Come in, buddy. Give me a reason to hit you.
He moved on, his footsteps entering the bathroom. She heard the door close.
When she’d come home on Christmas break, he’d played the same game every night.
A couple of minutes later, he retraced his steps, stopping outside Angel’s door long enough to turn the doorknob.
The door wasn’t locked. He could enter if he wanted to, and Angel would fight him tooth and nail.
After rotating a few degrees, the knob returned to its normal position and she heard Phil move on.
He was teasing her, letting her know that while he was in this house, he was the boss. He controlled everything.
Only because Mama let him. She owned it.
Angel uncurled her fingers, releasing the bedsheet she’d been gripping.
If Mama wasn’t bright enough to protect herself, Angel would have to do it for her.
At 1:00 a.m., she gave up trying to sleep. She sat on the bed and hung her head, tired of trying so hard to forget.
She dressed in the outfit she’d arrived in. Tomorrow, she’d unpack the saddlebags she’d left in the hallway.
Quietly, she stepped out of the house. These nights Angel haunted hallways and streets. After Neil’s death, she’d walked the many paths and trails of the campus every night, because to stay in bed with no distractions from thoughts of Neil and her own guilt in his death was murder.
In a strange way, it soothed her that Ordinary, Montana, never seemed to change. The street Missy had lived on for the past several years, in Harold’s house, was more upscale than what Angel had grown up in.
She rushed through the poorer part of town, where their old trailer still sat, and headed toward Main Street to see what the brouhaha about Chester’s was all about.
TIMM STOOD AT THE FRONT window of his apartment above the newspaper office trying to catch any hint of breeze to cool off.
He had a gift for insomnia. Probably did it better than anyone else he knew.
Glancing toward the end of Main Street, he watched several of Chester’s bikers drift out to their bikes, some of them none too steady on their feet.
The sheriff should be sitting out there every night, arresting them. But really, what could he do when he worked a twelve-hour shift every day and had only one deputy to take over for the night?
That issue needed to be addressed in Timm’s bid for mayor.
A movement from the other end of Main caught his eye. Angel Donovan. What the hell? He’d warned her that the town wasn’t the same one she’d grown up in now that Chester’s drew the worst clientele from the next county.
She always had been stubborn, though.
She was out there, in the dark, alone and he didn’t like it one bit.
She just had to pull old tricks and court trouble. She had a real talent for it.
He pulled on a shirt and jogged downstairs. He let himself out of the office, locking the door behind him.
From the recess of his door, he watched her. No need to tell her he was there. With a little luck, nothing would happen and she would wander home.
As Angel passed on the opposite side of the street, the bar’s door opened and a bunch of bikers stepped out.
Timm watched and waited for her to move on, but she didn’t. She’d always had too much curiosity for her own good.
A couple of the bikers mounted their hogs parked out front. Another one noticed Angel and wandered over. She stood her ground.
For God’s sake, Angel, do you have to stand up for every fight? Walk away. Run.
She didn’t.
He’d watched her fight since she was old enough to understand the names kids called her mother.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the biker said, his voice tobacco-roughened, his posture aggressive he-man. “Who are you?”
His gaze traveled her body, slowly, as if he already owned it. The hair on Timm’s arms rose. He shifted his stance, ready to defend Angel.
“No one,” she answered, obviously not impressed by the bruiser. He had a layer of fat padding his belly, but enough muscle on his bare arms to bully.
“Let’s party. Come on.” He turned but when she didn’t follow, he looked back at her. “I wasn’t asking.”
Timm straightened away from the wall. Bastard was going to cause trouble, all right.
“No, thanks,” Angel said. “Not if you were the last Neanderthal on earth.”
For God’s sake, Angel, don’t be stupid. Grit and balls are admirable in life, but with a guy like this?
The biker didn’t take her comments well. He grabbed her arm, and Timm shot out of the doorway.
As a teenager, he’d been helpless because of his injuries and had watched her fight her battles alone. He wasn’t helpless now.
“Get your hands off her,” he ordered.
At the same moment, Angel kicked the biker’s shin and he slapped her.
Timm was on the guy in an instant. Not a fair fight. A hundred and eighty pounds of intellectual versus a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound wrestler look-alike.
Timm smashed the heel of his hand against the bruiser’s nose.
“Angel, run!” he shouted.
The biker slammed his fist into Timm’s jaw and he saw stars and staggered, but caught himself before he hit the ground.
Angel jumped her attacker and grabbed a fistful of hair.
“Move on.” A voice called out from across the street. Brawny Chester Ames, with a good set of biceps, a tough attitude and a baseball bat in one hand, ran toward them and shoved the bat into the guy’s ribs.
With a roar, the biker pushed Angel away from him and spun around.
Chester held the bat raised and ready to do serious harm if the guy didn’t leave.
“You want to drink in my bar again, you go on home and stop bothering her.” Chester ground out the words. “Now.”
The biker hesitated. Chester waited. Timm bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to try to take the guy down if he dared to touch Angel again.
When the guy finally walked to his bike without a word, the breath whooshed out of Timm. Then he cursed his lack of control. He’d been too angry—he knew better than to be so emotional—and because of that emotion, he’d lost the fight. Sensei Chong had taught him how to fight smart, how to remain calm and rational.
He looked at Angel. What was it about her that called up so many feelings? That