A Cowboy's Touch (31 page)
“Is it okay if I say something here?”
“Can I stop you?”
“Probably not.” Reagan shifted, her hand dropping from Abigail’s hair. “Sometimes I wonder if you write what you do because of Julia.”
Julia? Abigail lifted her head. “What does Julia have to do with my writing?”
“I think you’ve carried a lot of guilt about her abuse—about not telling. It changed you.”
“I was a child.”
Reagan waved her words away. “I’m not saying you had reason to feel guilty. I probably would’ve done the same thing, Abs. You were scared, rightfully so. The man was a monster.”
How could Reagan bring this up now when she was reeling over Wade and her horrid story? “And this has to do with my writing, how?”
“Think about it. You
didn’t
tell the truth then, and you’ve regretted it ever since. Now your life’s work is to expose wrongdoers through your column. You don’t see a connection?”
Abigail didn’t even want to think about it. “No, I don’t.”
“You weren’t responsible for her father’s behavior.”
“I know that, Reagan.”
“If you’d told, he might’ve come after you.”
Abigail shuddered at the thought. She had no doubt he’d been capable—it was one of the reasons she’d kept silent all those years ago.
“I think you’re trying to redeem yourself through your column,” Reagan said softly. “But there’s no way you can. That’s like trying to earn salvation, and you know that’s impossible. Let it go. You’ve carried it around too long.”
“I’ll think about it,” Abigail said to appease her sister. She would think about it later. Much later, when she didn’t have all the other stuff hanging over her head.
“Promise?”
Abigail sighed, impatient. “Yes, I promise.” She propped her elbow on the desk, bumping the mouse. The screen saver disappeared, revealing the title of her blank document. She wished she could go back to Moose Creek and do things over. She’d handle it all so differently.
“I hate regrets,” Abigail said. But she’d made her bed, and now she had to lie in it, as her dad used to say.
“Maybe he’ll forgive you in time. Once the anger fades, he might listen.”
“Only I won’t know where to find him.” Abigail remembered the confrontation in the barn. Maybe if she’d been the one to tell him the truth, if he hadn’t found out on his own . . . “You didn’t see his face, Reagan.” The way his jaw was set, that hard look in his eyes. She never wanted anyone to look at her that way again, much less the man she loved.
“And I can’t blame him,” Abigail continued. “He’s losing his home, his ranch. Maddy’ll have to make new friends, go to a new school—all because of me.”
“You were caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.”
“And I chose the wrong one.” She’d never known that hurting someone she loved could hurt so much.
“It’ll get better, honey. I promise.” Reagan gave her a sympathetic smile.
The words sounded nice, but right now, sitting in the eye of the storm with her eyes closed, it was hard to believe she’d ever feel better again.
A
bigail decided to take a break from the Moose Creek article. The words weren’t coming anyway, and she was weary of staring at a blinking curser. She locked up the office and drove from the parking garage, turning onto the empty street. The sun had gone into hiding behind a thick bank of gray clouds.
She pointed the car toward her apartment, wondering what she’d do when she got there. She’d skipped lunch but wasn’t hungry. Couldn’t stomach the thought of eating. She could use a nap, but her bed had become a place to avoid. A place where memories haunted her until she slept, and then the dreams started. Dreams that made waking up painful.
She wondered what Wade and Maddy were doing right now. Probably packing their belongings and talking about how awful Abigail was, how glad they were she was out of their lives. Where were they moving? Once they left Moose Creek, they’d be lost to her forever.
Who are you kidding, Abigail? They’re already lost to you
.
The thought knotted her stomach. Why was she torturing herself?
She made a turn and kept driving. She’d drive around all afternoon if she had to, but she couldn’t go back to those four walls. She had to stay busy.
Noise. She needed noise. She flipped on the radio, and a country and western tune filled the car. The song reminded her of riding in Wade’s pickup truck. Of that Saturday night at the Chuckwagon in Wade’s arms.
Abigail changed the channel. The sound of peaceful strains of strings and flutes filled the car. Maybe classical music would soothe her.
Leaving the city, she turned toward the suburbs and a succession of sleepy streets. She passed a group of neighborhood children running through a sprinkler, enjoying the last days of summer, a precious weekend after a week in a new school year. Maddy would start school on Monday, her first day of sixth grade.
Under the shade of a giant oak, a young girl wearing a helmet wobbled down the sidewalk on her pink bike.
Pink. Like Maddy’s.
Stop it, Abigail
.
Don’t go there
.
She turned the corner, down a lane lined by small brick homes, similar to the street where she’d grown up. A middle-aged woman, down on all fours, weeded her burgeoning flower bed. Abigail thought of Aunt Lucy’s plastic flowers, and a tiny smile formed. She thought of her vegetable garden, and the smile slid from her face. It would die now. The plants wouldn’t stand a chance under the August sun without the sprinkler. Not that it mattered, since there’d be no one around to harvest the vegetables. Soon there’d be a big commercial
For Sale
sign at the end of the drive, under the Stillwater Ranch archway.
There she went again. Why was every image, every thought, a direct highway to Moose Creek?
Abigail turned at a four-way stop and progressed down the next street. Hedges and low fences divided the small lawns. Sidewalks stretched out on both sides of the narrow street. Children played games of street hockey and kickball in the cul-de-sacs.
Reagan’s words about Julia rang in her head. Did she still carry guilt? Why else would the memory of Julia be painful after all these years? Yes, she did carry guilt. It surfaced sometimes when she least expected it.
And she subconsciously chose to expose truth now to make up for the one time she hadn’t? Is that why she experienced that satisfying sense of justice when she finished a column? Was there a connection?
It made sense, though she hated to admit it. She was driven in her job. Her mom had called her a workaholic on more than one occasion. Was she so driven because she enjoyed her work, or was she trying to earn her own redemption?
Maybe I am
. The words rang of truth, a subject she was only just beginning to understand.
Only One could redeem a person, and He was the same One who called Himself Truth. The irony didn’t escape her.
She reached the end of a street and turned right. The sign in front of a low sprawling brick building caught her eye. She hadn’t been here in years. And yet it looked just the same. Well, maybe a bit smaller.
Abigail parked the car along the grassy curb and exited the car. She hadn’t meant to wind up here, but it seemed appropriate somehow. The gray clouds swallowed the sky now, hiding any trace of the sun, shading her from its punishing heat.
She followed the curved walkway to the back of the building, passing her dad’s old classroom. Colorful construction paper pictures adorned the windows. Everyone had loved her dad. He’d been the best teacher in the school.
The walkway led to the empty playground, and Abigail followed it until she reached the metal swing set. Fresh wood chips covered the base now, a safety precaution that had been added since she’d been in school.
How many hours had she and Julia spent on this swing set? Every recess from kindergarten until fifth grade. They’d pump their legs to see who could go higher, then coast for a while playing Would You Rather.
Would you rather eat a whole jar of peanut butter or walk all the way home barefoot on the hottest day of the year? Would you rather tell Mr. Lugwig that you love him or kiss Scottie Bowlen?
Abigail lowered herself onto the rubber seat. It cradled her hips tightly, forcing her knees together, her ankles apart. She grabbed the cool metal chain and pushed off.
Would you rather clean the whole school or hitchhike to Canada?
Julia had been better at Would You Rather, making them so equivalent in difficulty it was nearly impossible to choose. They’d debate forever which exercise was worse, but in the end they’d usually agree.
Abigail pumped her legs, and the air whipped through her hair, cooling her skin. The metal links creaked and groaned rhythmically, the sound taking her back years.
She extended her arms, leaned back, and watched the leaves overhead shimmy and shake under the breeze. Beyond them, the sky was a gray abyss.
I’m sorry, Julia. I wish I’d told somebody. You were a good friend to me, and you deserved a better childhood
.
A drop of rain hit her forehead, followed by another on her arm. She dragged a foot in the wood chips on her next pass, wanting to escape before it started raining in earnest.
Then she remembered Julia’s love for playing in the rain. How she’d stay out until she was soaked to the skin and say it was no different from taking a shower except for the clothes.
A moment later a steady drizzle began to fall from the sky, wetting Abigail’s skin, her clothes. She extended her legs and leaned back again until her arms straightened. Then she blinked up at the sky.
It was time to move on, to forgive herself. She needed to lay it down and let Jesus take it, stop trying to make it right. Because no column could erase the past.
Reagan was right. She was tired of dragging a load of guilt. The stories had alleviated the feeling, but only temporarily. Abigail was ready for a permanent fix. She was tired of feeling restless. She wanted peace, and she wouldn’t have it until she found redemption. She’d spent most of her life seeking self-redemption instead of Truth. Redemption was free; how had she forgotten that?
You can have it, God. I’m giving it to you, and I’m not taking it back. I can’t work my way to redemption, and I don’t need to when you already did that for me
.
She didn’t know what that meant for the future of her career and didn’t care at the moment. She was making the choice to forgive herself and was going to move forward however God wanted her to. Abigail began pumping her legs, working higher and higher until she reached the pinnacle, then she leaned back in the rain and smiled.
W
ade’s fork scraped across his plate, gathering the last mound of macaroni and cheese. “It’s good, Maddy,” he said, breaking the silence that had strung on for several minutes. There’d been a lot of that lately. Silence.
“Abigail taught me.”
Her name still sucked the air from his lungs. After the first couple days without her, Maddy hadn’t brought her up again. Instead, she’d suffered in silence the rest of the week, a persistent frown etched between her brows. Greta, who’d looked after Maddy all week, had expressed concern. Wade didn’t know what to do. He yearned to see her smile again, had brought home a pack of Twizzlers the day before. But there weren’t enough Twizzlers in the world to cheer her up right now.
It was easier to stay busy than to see her forlorn. And between cutting out the cantankerous bulls from the cows, moving the cattle, and planning for their move, there hadn’t been time for anything but work.
And thinking of Abigail.
He’d thought staying busy would make the time pass quickly. Instead, the week had felt like a month. A long, slow, painful month.
He’d begun the process of putting his ranch on the market. Dylan had reluctantly agreed to buy his cattle and hire Pee Wee to cover the extra head. He still had to figure what to do about the house Miss Lucy rented. He couldn’t leave her homeless, even if she was a relation of Abigail’s.
“You need to sign a form for school.” Maddy pushed her macaroni around the plate.
“What kind of form?”
“Field trip. To the Western Heritage Center on Tuesday.”
“That’s in Billings.”
Maddy nodded even as Wade’s mood dropped to an all-time low. Billings was a city. Too many people. Too big a chance of being recognized.
“You know you can’t go,” he said gently.
Maddy lowered her fork. “Why not?”
“We’ve been through this a million times.”
“You never let me go anywhere!”
Wade swallowed. “We’re going somewhere real soon.”
Her brows knotted together. “I don’t want to move! We just fixed my room, and I love it here! Why can’t we be like normal people?”
She looked so much like Lizzie he wanted to scream. Instead, all his fight drained out, leaving him limp as a wet rag. “Don’t have a choice, Maddy.”
“If I can’t go to Billings, how are we gonna travel halfway across the country?”
“Very carefully.”