Creighton's Hideaway (17 page)

She took a step in retreat, hurt blanching color from her face.

He pivoted and started back the direction they had come. What had entered his mind, kissing her like that? He couldn't afford to get closer to her! When she knew what he was really like, the things that he had done, she'd never want to hear his name again, let alone spend time with him.

Shana would only get hurt. He was too damaged to be the kind of man she deserved. And that parting remark—fine Christian he was.

The first time she mentioned Hope Circle he thought he'd swallow his tongue. He knew more than he ever wanted to know about that place. After all, he'd been a resident in recovery.

Creighton put a halt to his pounding pace and looked back.

Headed in the opposite direction, Shana's hasty footsteps had spread quite a distance between them. At least she didn't stand there and cry. She chose her way with care, avoiding more cactus and prairie dog or badger holes.

He was proud of her. When he was on the hill above his cabin, a dark blue pickup pulled into the driveway. Howie Mitchell stepped out of his truck.

That's all he needed. Someone uninvited sniffing around. Someone whom he wanted to keep in the past.

Howie tipped back the brim of his hat, set his hands on his hips, and turn in a slow circle. At the sight of Creighton's approach, Howie took off his hat and waved. “Hey there, Rice.”

Creighton placed his hand in Howie Mitchell's for a knuckle-numbing eight second contest.

“Well, neither one of us is over the hill,” Mitchell guffawed and released his hold. “So, where are these cabins I've heard about?”

“They're along the creek. Five all together. The two further back are for hunters.”

“Hmm. If they look as good as the porch and roof on the old homestead, I'd say you know how to swing a hammer. And, I suppose you don't get lonely when people are rentin'.” He paused and raised his eyebrows. “‘Specially when one's a looker like that little gal from Lincoln.”

Creighton clenched his jaw, refusing to dignify that with an answer. He scanned the hills and spied Shana, striding to her cabin. The heaviness in his chest dimmed. He was glad that she wore a hooded jacket to ward off the gusting wind, always stronger and more biting in the open.

“Ah. No wonder you stay out here,” Mitchell said with a sly twist to his mouth.

“I'll get my quad and take you to an empty cabin.” The faster he took this thorn from his past to an empty cabin in the opposite direction from Shana, the sooner Howie would be gone.

The powerful engine of the four-wheeler had no trouble bearing the extra weight. Creighton took a shortcut, rather than his usual creek trail that led directly to Shana's cabin. No enjoyable scenery this trip. In minutes, he caught sight of the brick red roof and pointed it out to his passenger. Once there, he sat with the engine idling. Howie Mitchell swung off the seat and walked towards the dwelling.

He only turned the key off when Mitchell yelled from the porch, “OK if I go in?”

Creighton waved his assent but didn't join him. Instead, his mind traveled back to a black night when he had come to consciousness in a ditch, thrown from his first car. He closed his eyes at the memory of the young girl lying motionless a dozen feet away. Howie had raced to the edge of the road, cursing. His face dripped blood that Creighton only saw when the headlights of the sheriff's cruiser came across the accident.

Maybe the guy had changed over the years, but Creighton had no desire to face him and the reminders of their wild ways. He glowered as Mitchell barred the cabin door and leaped off the porch.

“You've done good work here, Creighton. If I know of anybody who wants to get away from it all, I'll hook ‘em up with ya.”

“Sounds good,” he replied absently, his mind on Shana. With a twinge of guilt, Creighton realized that he hadn't exactly welcomed Howie with Christian hospitality. “You have time for a cold drink before you head out?”

“Only if it's nonalcoholic. The Lord has removed the temptation for anything stronger than a soft drink.”

Creighton smiled for the first time since Howie arrived. And another pang of guilt for the snap judgment he had made hit him low in the belly. He needed to spend more time on his knees.

 

****

 

Shana was exhausted, yet invigorated, after her brisk walk. A dark bank of clouds had rolled in making the air downright chilly. She went into the kitchen to prepare a cup of hot chocolate.

The four-wheeler had revved up during her walk, but Creighton hadn't come by. Another engine sounded later. Had he gone off somewhere?

Ah, Creighton. Would he open up to her and share what lay so heavy on his conscience?

You have to do the same with him.

Where had that voice in her head come from? Shana warmed her hands on the mug, recalling how she'd almost fallen over at his warm, gentle touch in the pasture. She felt more at home here on the ranch than she had inside her duplex in Lincoln. What was it about this place that made her come to life? Outside, in those wide open spaces, the land grabbed at her heartstrings. Her gaze landed on the leather-bound Bible next to the hymnal she had picked up from Creighton's home. The songs were becoming more familiar.

Could the Bible also become familiar? Were the answers to life tucked between the covers? Did she have a chance to find this faith Creighton relied on for strength?

She crossed the room and smoothed a hand over the worn Bible cover. Why not check it out? Creighton sure knew the book.

Shana flipped open the cover. The name
Vera Rice
was written in flowing script at the top of the second page. She turned to the genealogy page and traced Creighton's name. Born December 29. He'd turn thirty-one this year. Shana found herself curious about the woman who had also born Rita and Thomas.

She fanned the pages from back to front and stopped at Genesis. The beginning chapter became real to her for the very first time. She had heard snippets through her lifetime, like “Let there be light,” but she had never appreciated the magnitude of that statement until she experienced how black the night could be here on the ranch.

Earlier, she stood on a hilltop and faced how small she felt underneath the breadth of the sky during the day. With the smell of the earth, the twitter of birds, the chirp of insects, the strength of the wind gusts, and the gentleness of a cooling breeze, Shana faced the truth.

God spoke, put it all in place, and then declared His creation very good.

How could she not believe? The evidence surrounded her.

She peered out the wide window with its vista of the creek, the trees, and hills beyond. The gray clouds didn't hamper her appreciation. “Thank you, Lord God, for proof of Your existence, and please forgive me for my unbelief.”

A peace flooded Shana's soul, a calm that took her breath away. Now she knew where to turn. Should she start from scratch? She wanted to leap and dance. She'd enjoy the next few days on the ranch. She could allow anger over the theft, but she wouldn't dwell in the depths of self-pity.

She opened the hymnal and skimmed the choruses of several hymns. Voicing the notes took energy. Before long, she scrounged up a mixed salad topped with tuna. There was more tuna than she could eat. She set the can out on the deck.

Halfway through eating her salad, movement outside the window caught her eye. A long-haired, gray tabby cat licked at the tuna. When finished, the cat turned to the window and rubbed against the glass door frame, shooting what seemed to be a green-eyed thank-you.

With a laugh, Shana opened the slider and smoothed her hand down the cat's back. A resounding purr and raised tail brought more laughter. Shana stroked under the cat's chin and down a front leg. She lifted a paw. “Oh, my goodness!”

“I see you've discovered old Paw Paw,” Creighton's deep voice rose from the dusk in the area near the cottonwood.

“I've never seen paws like this. What's it called?” she asked, caressing the extra digits of the cat's paw between her fingers and thumb.

“The common name is mitten paws. The technical one is polydactyl.”

“I'll bet Valerie likes that word.”

“She likes the cat.”

“Well, what a nice kitty you are, Paw Paw. I thought you were supposed to be wild. Must be the tuna.” She sneezed. “But I don't want these hairs in here where I eat and sleep.” Shana nudged the cat over and closed the door. She leaned her elbows on the rail and gazed down at Creighton. “So, did you come to apologize, or just out on your evening stroll?”

“Both. The sound of the creek water calms me after a hard day. I had just about gathered up the courage to eat crow.”

“I'd never feed you crow. Possum or skunk, maybe.”

He laughed. “OK if I come up?”

“Sure. Coffee?”

“You bet.” He picked up the cat and nuzzled its neck.

Shana stuck her head through the slider. “Do you want to come in, or sit out here?”

He put the cat down, and ushered her in. “Since I'm going to bare my soul,” he said slowly, “I'd like a comfortable seat.”

Creighton crossed to the cupboard, chose a mug with the picture of a howling wolf, and watched the coffee run into the carafe.

Shana waited for the coffee to finish, took a mug, and then led him to the couch. She settled into a corner, kicked off her shoes, and lifted her feet to rest on the middle cushion.

He would progress at his own pace. This was his show, and even if she felt his tension, he had to get over whatever bothered him in his own way. He gulped his coffee, surely fast enough to burn his tongue.

Shana gulped air when Creighton wrapped his strong fingers around her stocking-covered foot.

“OK, here goes. I think you know that my dad drank. Well, I had a hard time growing up around him. For some reason, I was never good enough for him. No matter how Mom praised my accomplishments, how I lettered in sports in school, nothing pleased my father.” Creighton set his mug on the floor. He massaged the ball of her foot.

How could she take in his words when he caused such a ruckus to her nervous system? She fixed her gaze on his face.

“I didn't know until I admitted I was a drunk, that Dad probably had a hard time with me because it was like looking into a mirror.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “Now, Thomas. He was gentle. And even though he pulled his weight when it came to expected chores, he hit the books more than I ever did.” Creighton switched to her right foot. “Howie Mitchell and I were hell-raisers. There's no other way to put it. We had older guys buy us beer when we were seventeen. Or, we could go into South Dakota and buy it ourselves.” He kept one hand on her foot and stretched his left arm across the back of the couch, where he played with the multi-colored fringe of the throw. “We stayed out until the wee hours, sometimes all night. I'd often get home and take care of the animals before hitting the sack.” Creighton reached for her hand.

Shana turned hers so their fingers entwined. She ran a thumb over a thick scar.

He took a deep breath and blew it out over his shoulder before turning back to her. “It got so bad that I'd wake up in the pickup, wherever I had passed out after driving Howie home. More than one morning, I woke up with bloody knuckles.”

So not all the scars on his hands are from ranching and carpentry or fencing.

“The worst night was when I was nineteen.” He turned away and looked through the window into the night. “I woke up in a ditch. A few feet away lay Howie's date. She has a crippled leg to this day, and I found out first-hand what Hope Circle's treatment program is all about.”

“Rita mentioned that, but gave me no details.” Shana waited. She finally straightened her legs to swing them down, and set aside her own cup. She slid onto the middle cushion and wrapped Creighton's arm around her shoulder, then laced her fingers with his once again, and memorized the shape of his fingers. “Things happen out of our control, Creighton, like what happened in that accident. I'd say Howie and his date have come to terms with it. And look at you. You're sober. Good has resulted from bad.” Her head rose with the rise and fall of his chest, and he rested his chin against her hair. She could handle this, wrapped warm and safe in this man's embrace. “It's rather a small world, isn't it? For both of us to be involved with Hope Circle? It has to be a God thing.”

 

****

 

A God thing?

Did Shana believe that or was she saying it for his benefit? He hadn't expected any particular reaction from her, but her cuddling against him melted Creighton's insides.

Could she possibly care for him, woman to man? Or, was hers an act of compassion, the way she offered comfort to the young clients she was in charge of on the job? Creighton closed his eyes and inhaled the vanilla fragrance of her hair. He drew a ragged breath.

A
meow
whined from the other side of the glass.

Shana rubbed her cheek over Creighton's knuckles. The velvet softness of her face seemed to heal each raised scar. Then she placed a lingering kiss on the back of his hand.

He shook his head in wonder. “You know, this may seem corny to you.” He hesitated, laughed brokenly. “But not too long ago I considered your stay here as a gift from God. Before you came, I thought I was happy. But my home is just a house since you've been inside. After the first time you visited, I asked myself if I should buy a dog.”

Shana's eyes popped open. “So that's what I'm worth. Canine company.”

Creighton couldn't help himself. He leaned down to meet her lips in a kiss. But he felt the impact travel through his skin and penetrate his chest. He whispered a kiss over the corner where her lips met, and ended with her cheek. “I'd better go.” He drew away slowly. “See you tomorrow if you don't decide that you hate me.”