Creighton's Hideaway (4 page)

 

****

 

Creighton barred the door of the southernmost log cabin, his thoughts once again on Shana. He wanted to help her find peace. Was she making this a bigger deal than it was?

His mind went back to his own dark days, too many to count. What would Shana think of him if she knew his past? Nights when black hours had passed without his attention. His life was spent in a dreary fog back then, clouded even more by the alcohol consumption. His steps ceased. He raised his gaze to the expanse overhead. “Thank You, dear Lord, for taking away the desire to drink; and for giving me new life.” He watched a hawk dip its wings and soar on the wind currents. Thinking of eagles, he smiled, and turned his eyes back to the earth at his feet.

The earth, this abundant grassland that his father had invested his life in, sobered him. Reminders of his father always soured Creighton's memories. Kevin Rice loved the bottle more than he had loved the land. Or his children. How the man had delighted in directing that sour life towards his oldest son.

Creighton again came to a stop. He said to the browning grass at his feet, “I was never good enough for you, was I, Dad? Well, you're gone now, and here I am.” He lifted his billed cap, scratched his head, and resettled the hat. “All I wanted was a father, not a dictator. You acted like you owned me, but you sure didn't act like you loved me.”

Once he reached his quad, he ran his hands over his face, erasing the ugly memories. He asked the Lord to enable him to have a good day. Creighton forced his body to relax. He was on his way to see Shana and her expressive greenish-blue eyes.

Bouncing over the prairie, Creighton recalled the haunted look of her, and marveled at this intense longing he had to wrap her in his arms and make the world go away. That urge would have to be ignored. His life was just fine the way it was, he didn't need some little slip of a thing with luminous eyes getting under his skin.

Shana was waiting on the deck when he pulled up.

“Got your list ready?” he raised his voice over the idling engine.

“Yes. But are you in a big hurry or would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I never say no to coffee.” He turned off the quad.

“Black?”

He was close enough now to smell the rich aroma of the brew in her cup. “You bet.”

He kept his gaze on Shana's retreat into the cabin, admitting his enjoyment of her company.

When she returned, her nearness touched him someplace deep.

“You know, I hardly pay attention to the weather at home. I think late summer is becoming my favorite season.”

He turned his head to watch the play of expression fill her gaze.

“The sun feels hot, yet there's a hint of briskness when the wind picks up. It's invigorating, isn't it?” Shana held out a mug that sported a painted rooster, filled to the brim.

Creighton faced his land once more. “I enjoy all the seasons and never seem to get tired of the weather. You know Nebraska. The skies can change as fast as the wind blows, or drop fifty degrees in a few hours.”

“Brrrr.” Shana rubbed her arms and laughed. “Come on, I want to enjoy fall. I don't want to think about cold temperatures yet!”

“Sorry. Guess I'm in one of my moods.”

“Listen to me talk about the weather when I have to get working so I can earn that degree.”

He downed the remaining half of his coffee in one gulp and set it on the corner bench. “I'll take that list now.”

Shana reached for the list in her pants pocket and handed it to him. The folded paper went into his shirt and felt warm against his heart. He chose not to think about that warmth he didn't deserve, and went on his way.

 

****

 

Clouds scudded across the face of the sun as though Creighton's mood had brought on the gathering gray.

Shana again rubbed her arms. She turned and went inside. She took one last sip at the sink and decided the cold coffee now tasted bitter. Dumping the remains down the drain, she wiped a bit of soap over the mugs, letting her mind go blank.

Time slipped away. Later, she sat at the small table, trying to eat a bite of lunch and make sense of the outline on her laptop screen. She had the assignment mostly written, but the order needed help. Shana shook her head, coming out of her daze, and looked at the microwave clock. Another whole hour had disappeared. She recalled how the hours of the previous night had taken forever to pass.

Scanning the cozy room, she reminded herself to do something active. She skimmed over her notes. When she lifted her eyes, she noticed several Nebraska magazines in a wicker basket next to the dresser. She grabbed the whole pile and wiggled into a corner of the couch. Photographs of the great outdoors with all its flora and fauna soon blurred. Her eyes drifted shut.

“Hello, the cabin.”

Shana jolted upright and yawned.

Footsteps sounded, followed by a knock on the door.

“Coming.” She untangled her legs from a cushion and on unsteady legs, squinted at the mound of research notes on the table.

Creighton carried in two plastic sacks and set them on the counter. “According to your grocery list, you don't eat much.”

Shana yawned again and looked at the clock. Two more hours had disappeared. “Sorry.” She shook her head and turned to him. “I guess I fell asleep.”

“I'm the one who should apologize. Sometimes I think too much and it turns me surly. To make amends, I'll fix you a Reuben sandwich. Call it early evening sustenance. No arguments.” He busied himself with the bags.

“OK.” Flustered, Shana folded her arms. “I'll be back in a minute.” She shut the door to the small bathroom and groaned at herself in the mirror. A deep crease streaked across the left side of her face. Shana bent and splashed cold water over her eyes and rubbed her cheeks. She blinked, opened her eyes wide, and shook her head.

Surly? That was a good term for how Creighton had acted earlier.

She ran a comb through her short curls. Maybe she'd add some highlights once she got back home. In the meantime, what was that niggling sense something was happening she needed to know about? She glided back into the kitchen area, where containers of pungent sweet sauerkraut and fresh corned beef sat open on the counter. “I think I'm awake now. Mmm. That smells great.”

Creighton glanced away from the toaster and over his shoulder. “I mistakenly put the Swiss in the fridge, could you get it, please? And here's the Thousand Island dressing to spread on the rye bread toast.” He handed her the bottle, and then reached into the cupboard for two plates. He crossed to the table and in one scoop, piled her laptop and notes against the back of the couch.

Shana picked up a sandwich half.

Creighton's hand reached over and encircled her wrist. “I'd like to say grace, if you don't mind.”

Her pulse increased at his touch. She gave a slight nod and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Dear Father God, I thank You for this day, for the gift of life, and for this food. Please ease the turmoil that Shana is going through and give her clarity of thought, enabling her to accomplish what she sets out to do. And help her enjoy her time here. Amen.”

Her eyes had remained fixed on the cinnamon highlights in Creighton's coffee-dark hair during his quick prayer.

He released her, and she turned attention to her sandwich.

“So, tell me about your job. Do you like bossing my sister around?”

An unexpected laugh burbled up. “Rita is the best assistant any manager could have. I like to think that we bounce ideas off one another, that she doesn't view me as ‘the program manager.' We're a team. It takes all of us to get through the barriers those kids erect.”

“What's been your most challenging situation?”

She sipped tart lemonade while formulating her answer. “I don't think I can pick one over another. About the hardest thing we have to do are the restraints. Now with Rita pregnant, there's a little added tension because the men think they need to keep her from physical harm as much as attend to the youth who is acting out. But, so far so good.”

“I realize you can't be specific, but isn't it hard sometimes, dealing with all their problems? Do their troubles ever drag you down?”

Shana bit into her bread and caught a dangle of kraut with her fingers. After swallowing, she lifted her gaze. She watched the motion of Creighton's full lips as he chewed. “Not really. I spend most of my time organizing programs and meetings and such. I try to leave the clients at the door of The Pines at the end of the day. In the long scheme of life, I know I'm not responsible for them.”

Hesitating, she considered Creighton's mouth as distracting as the direct look in his eyes. She lowered her gaze and rolled a caraway seed across her plate. “Once in a while I have to go in for a crisis situation in the middle of the night. I guess it's just the way of the world. But those young people also have physical or psychological disorders.”

“Like?” Creighton encouraged.

Shana tore off another bite, kept it between her fingers. “It can be a daunting list. Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's appalling how many have no fathers, often victims of homicide. Chemical imbalances. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Schizophrenia. On and on. And they don't learn from their parents' mistakes. They fall into the same addictive patterns.”

“The sins of the fathers.” Creighton's face tightened and a curtain drew over his tanned features.

Shana had seen many such expressions of closed-off emotions when she'd conducted the interviews at Hope Circle. What was Creighton running from?

They finished the rest of the meal, lost in their own thoughts.

Creighton claimed he had things to do, and made a quick exit.

He left Shana with the memory of his scarred, working man's hand on her much smaller wrist, and his shuttered eyes that covered as much as her toughest teenaged client. Had he felt her pulse beating against his fingers during their gentle connection?

“Twenty-four hours I've been here,” she later said to the clean countertop. “It's time I pull those notes together.” Shana grabbed her textbook on grief, along with her notes, and took them outside. She did need to pull it all together, or she faced an uncertain future.

The sun warmed the south and west sides of the cabin. She took a deep breath of the nature-fresh air, a little dry, but unsullied by exhaust fumes and cooking odors. She thought she caught a glimpse of Creighton's red cap rounding the corner of his ranch house.

Since the north deck faced the road and not much else, she made a complete circle and sauntered down the steps on the creek side of the cabin. She settled against the trunk of the cottonwood, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

Ripe, earthy scents and clear sounds filled her senses. She quieted her thoughts, opened her book, and began to read. The steps of grief were so familiar she had often recited them to her staff. She had grieved right along with two of the patients over the loss of their parents.

Shock. Anger. Depression. Bargaining. Acceptance. Recovery.

How was she going to tie the testimony notes she'd taken at Hope Circle and their ongoing recovery to the lives of her young clients in Lincoln? And attempt to help prevent the youth she had contact with from lives of loss and addiction?

She shook her head, switching her train of thoughts in a new direction. Shana smiled at how sweet her parents were. They had taught her to focus on the positive and kept her sheltered.

Sometimes too sheltered.

Her father's retirement income wasn't that great since he had invested in some bad stock. Health insurance premiums for her parents left little to live on. At least the small house on Doane Street between the university campuses was paid for. Since her mother had been a homemaker all of Shana's life, her parents needed their assets for the proverbial rainy day of possible bad health or long-term care.

She needed her Master of Arts degree so they wouldn't worry about her future, and she could help secure theirs.

Time passed. The lush colors of sunset painted the sky in varied pastels. Shana let herself relax for the first time since her arrival. The landscape turned into gradational shades of gray. She lumbered to her feet. Singing crickets and cicadas escorted her inside the cabin.

She switched on the light and familiarized herself with the contents of every cupboard, drawer, and pantry shelf. Judging by all the supplies Creighton had brought in addition to her list, he wanted her to eat like a cowboy who herded cattle all day. She decided on a can of clam chowder and a slice of dill rye bread, alternating bites with yawns.

As the food digested, she tried in vain to repress swirling feelings where Creighton was concerned. He bothered her and had shaken her comfortable world as much as the ugly family tales of youth she'd come across.

She became drowsy, and remembered she'd forgotten to call her parents.

 

 

 

 

4

 

Shana's heart leaped into her throat when she heard the same eerie sound that had shrieked through the air the previous night. What in the world was it? Bird, or beast? She longed for daylight, for city sounds. For signs of other humans.

She tossed back the light blanket. It was a much warmer night than the one before, even on the muggy side. She stomped over to the door and flicked on the light.

“I can't handle another sleepless night, folks.” The words hung in the air.

A footfall on the bottom porch step upped the thundering of her heart.

“Shana?” At the sound of Creighton's voice, she unbarred the door.

“Hi. I was out walking and your light came on. Everything OK?”

“Fine. I was in a sound sleep and some creature woke me a few minutes ago. Scared me to death.” She rubbed her arms with memory of the mournful wail.