Samantha Hunter – Hers for the Holidays (страница 6)

She wasn’t even convinced that all of the events were connected. Maybe Smitty or Kyle had accidentally locked her in the garage, not knowing she was there, or forgotten to lock the barn, and had just not wanted to own up to it. Sportsmen on ATVs or snowmobiles, or even elk, sometimes crashed through fences. The spray painting, and the cow poisoning, however, were no joke.

If someone wanted her gone, all she could do was make it clear as possible that she would be out of here—in a few weeks.

Tonight, however, had been a completely different thing. Those cowboys had nothing good on their mind, and for the first time since she’d come home, she’d really felt unsafe. Ranches picked up temporary labor all the time, men passing through, looking for work, but something about those two men had seemed off. Like they didn’t belong here.

She shook her head. How would she know? She didn’t belong here anymore, either.

She forced herself to stop thinking about it by emptying one of the upstairs closets. She didn’t want strangers going through her family’s things. Besides, a hard look at her past would be a good reminder why she didn’t belong here anymore, and why she could never belong to a guy like Ely.

It was a difficult enough task, physically and emotionally, to distract her somewhat from her troubles. In the middle of a box of photo albums, she pulled out her high school yearbook. Freshman year. Everything had been so different then, she thought. But so what? She’d had some bad breaks, but she’d recovered, right? Made something of herself. She had a good life, a new life, though somewhere down deep, she was never really sure if she deserved it.

Back then, she never would have questioned her future. She knew exactly what she’d wanted. To work the ranch, raise horses and have the same kind of life she’d known up until that point. She’d assumed she would marry one of the rodeo champs that she and her girlfriends had huge crushes on and have several pretty, well-behaved children. It was what most thirteen-year-old girls wanted. She turned to the back of the book, her eyes scanning the signatures until she found a familiar one.

Always be best of the best, Ginny.

Ginny had meant best of best friends. And they had been. Until that summer before their junior year when everything had changed. Life had changed, and all their pretty, perfect dreams had evaporated in one cruel slam of fate. But it hadn’t been fate—it had been Lydia’s fault. None of it would have happened if not for her.

Lydia sucked in a breath, closing the book sharply. She sat there on the side of her mother’s bed, looking around her at a lifetime’s collection of memories and...stuff. There was so much to go through. How was she supposed to do this by herself? She could barely get through one closet. But the idea of anyone else going through it was unbearable. Besides, there was no one else. She was on her own, like she’d been for a long time.

Putting the book down, she blocked out her worry and lay back on the bed. Tomorrow, she’d come up with a plan for dealing with it all. Right now, she was too overwhelmed and exhausted to think of anything.

Sleep crept over her before she had a chance to get back up, change or make her way to her own room. In her dreams, she was with Ginny, playing and laughing under broad, blue Montana skies.

That summer after their freshman year in high school had been perfect and full of promise. The pimages** ran through Lydia’s mind like an old slide presentation, but it all felt real, making her smile in her sleep.

Then abruptly there was noise, a rush of hooves and screams, and the eerie beeping of some machine by the side of Ginny’s hospital bed. Lydia sat with her friend, who, when she awakened, stared at Lydia accusingly.

“Why would you do this to me?” Ginny said, and then turned her face away, other angry voices chiming in. How could you do this? What were you thinking? You ruined her life forever, you selfish little bitch.

Guilt sliced Lydia to her bones, because she knew they were right. Footsteps pounded loud somewhere behind her; a nurse, or someone coming to tell her she had no right to be there. Not after what she’d done. Get out. If you’re smart, you’ll never come back.

Lydia awoke with a start, curled up on the bed, the light still on, tears coursing from her eyes.

Dammit.

The nightmares had stopped years ago, though she never really forgot. Being here brought it all back in stark, painful color.

So did the fear that followed her every time she went into town, worry that she would bump into one of Ginny’s family and have to face it all over again. The recrimination, the blame. Her mother said it was all in the past, and that Ginny was doing fine. That she had married, gotten on with her life.

Really? How fine could she be, paralyzed from the waist down, her dreams shattered?

Lydia was glad if Ginny had managed to find some happiness, but that didn’t make what she had done any more forgivable. It was why she had to get out of here as soon as she could wrap up her obligations. She didn’t like living with all these ghosts; this was all in the past and it had to be left there.

Looking at the clock through bleary eyes, she saw she had only dozed off for less than a half hour, and she was intent on doing more work. It had to be done if she was getting out of here.

She froze as a sound traveled up from the first floor.

Footsteps.

She’d heard them in her dream, too, but now she was awake. Had she imagined it? These were heavy, hard and making their way through the bottom floor.

Holding her breath, she walked carefully to the edge of the door and heard the squeak that came from the floorboard between the dining room and the kitchen.

She wasn’t imagining it. Someone was down there. She thought she heard some voices, as well. Male voices.

Smitty? Kyle? But why would they be in the house in the middle of the night? Had the cowboys who’d harassed her earlier followed her home, or found out where she lived? But she had locked the doors; made sure to do so. Suddenly Clear River was feeling a lot more dangerous than south Philly.

Another crash made her jump, and she knew she had to do something. Slipping from the room, she edged down the hall to the stairs. At the end of the hall was her father’s gun rack; his favorite shotgun was still there.

Holding her breath, she made it to the gun rack, and retrieved the weapon. Her intruder’s footsteps were only yards away, traversing the kitchen. Lydia held her breath and moved in that direction. Stopping just outside the kitchen, she swallowed with resolve and snapped the barrel of the gun into place. Silence.

“I have a gun, and if you’re not out of this house in two seconds, I’ll use it,” she warned, her voice more steady than she would have expected. She turned the corner of the kitchen just in time to see someone duck outside the back door.

She took chase, yelling after them. When she reached the back door, she fired up into the air, hoping to shock them, to perhaps see who it was.

But the shadowy intruder disappeared into the trees.

Or so she thought.

She tried to load the gun again, but no go—it had only had one shell.

No matter, it was yanked from her hands a second later as she stumbled back into the kitchen, trying to get away. She went sprawling. A sharp pain stabbed at her hand, but she ignored it as she scrambled to find another weapon, anything within reach.

“Lydia.”

She didn’t listen, panic frying her brain.

“Lydia, stop. It’s me, Ely.”

The words finally permeated her brain, and she stopped her frantic dash across the floor, as the lights flicked on.

“Lydia, are you okay? What happened?” Kyle.

Ely and Kyle, she mentally recited.

Was she still dreaming? Ely and Kyle seemed so surreal.

But it was real.

Ely held her shotgun and a second one. Handing both to Kyle, he bent down, picking her up from the floor like she weighed nothing.

“Lydia, it’s okay,” he said gently and pulled her in close.

A weak moment, she would tell herself later. Right now, Ely was the most solid thing she’d felt in days. Weeks. She allowed herself to curl into the safety and support he offered, just for a minute. God, he felt good.

Everyone was quiet until she looked down and saw the blood soaking into the material of his sweat jacket.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered.

Ely looked down, frowning, and then cursed, taking her arm in his hand.

“No, that would be you,” he said.

She looked down and saw he was right. Her hand was bleeding where she had cut it on something on the floor. She took in the sight of the wrecked kitchen, and her knees wavered a little.

“Sit,” Ely commanded, leading her to a chair.

Ely was quiet as he examined her hand.

“It’s not bad, just bleeding a lot. You have a first-aid kit around here anywhere?”

Kyle, still watching them closely, put the guns down and went to her kitchen cupboard, pulling out a small, white box.

Lydia shook her head. She wouldn’t have known that was there. Kyle knew her house better than she did. Well, he had been here all this time, and she had not been.