Hidden Shadows (The Shadow Series Book 1) (31 page)

She propped herself up as best she could, tried to see over the top of the tall table feet away where her girl laid wailing.

Hand still in Heidi’s grip, Joseph had stretched, spanned the distance between her bed and the warming table, and peered over it now. Though she couldn’t see his face, she felt his emotion as his hand squeezed reflexively over and over again.

Then he turned and had a mound of life in his arms that was in her womb mere moments ago.

Emotion of the greatest kind coursed through her, enveloped her.

He bent slowly, transferred the white-blanketed bundle into her arms. And in spite of the fighting spirit she’d expected at a reunion with Joseph, peace prevailed.

It surrounded her. A quiet gratefulness and absolute peace.

How could it not?

The scent of sweet, new life filled her. Fragrant as honeysuckle on a warm, summer day in the south of Mississippi where she’d been raised. Fresh as the morning dew surrounding the land of the log cabin she lived in now in Tennessee. Soft as the petals of the most delicate flowers that the Aston men had made a life out of planting.

And she had done it. Brought this precious, full-of-life girl into the world.

She gazed at the flawless, smooth face with its flushed skin, petite rosebud mouth, and delicate nose, decided without doubt she’d do anything to protect the tiny new creature.

Realizing for the first time how quiet the room had become, she looked up, saw that Ben and Jenna had inconspicuously left and only the persistent nurse remained, cleaning up and readying to take the baby for the necessary assessments and pampering after birth.

Joseph sat beside her, balanced on the edge of the hospital bed, and stared ahead to the large canvas situated directly on a table in front of her.

She wondered that she didn’t feel embarrassment or shame that she’d brought his work, his painting, to be her focal point, her center of focus and calm.

The serene colors used to merge and mesh and form sky and sea and two bodies embracing on the water-soaked sand had allowed her to drift into its created moment. Given her tranquility and a place to go to . . . until she dilated to about a seven, then all was lost.

But it had been a source of help at some point in getting her sweet baby here, so no, she wasn’t embarrassed.

She only felt longing, regret, and thousands of other emotions that were not the one she’d expected.

Joseph was feeling too, thinking she didn’t know what, but definitely thinking something. Or many something’s.

The mist layering those stark blue eyes told her so.

No matter the separation or its length, she knew his eyes. Always had, always would.

“Will you be staying?” she suddenly heard herself ask, finding it heartbreaking and unsettling that these were the first words between husband and wife after the birth of their child.

He turned his head slowly back to hers, stroked the soft cap on their daughter’s head while his eyes searched hers. The simple gesture moved Heidi, made her hate that she wished his answer would be a repetitive, resounding
yes
.

“Of course.” The unsettled nerves settled a bit. “How could I not? If I had known, I’d have been here sooner, I’d—”

“No.” With a swift shake of her head and wave of her hand, Heidi pushed away the coming conversation. “We won’t talk about that now. No questions. No answers. No back and forth. Not here. Not today.” She hugged her warm, now quiet girl, brought the little body in close to her chest. “Today is her day. We won’t take that away from her,” she looked back to Joseph, “or ourselves.”

“Now,” she changed gears, went with the euphoria she felt as she brought a fingertip to the soft cheeks, stroked her child’s skin for the first time, "a name is in order for you my little one.”

“You didn’t know she was a she, did you?”

Heidi shook her head.

“But you have something picked.”

“Of course,” she said softly. “I was leaning toward Lilly.”

He made a sound deep in this throat, cleared it. “Our favorite, Monet’s
Water Lilies
.”

Heidi only nodded, kept staring at her Lilly instead of looking at the eyes she knew had tipped from misting to brimming.

Because it seemed right somehow, she grasped his hand that rested by her thigh, shifted closer with Lilly so they could both see their miracle.

“I have a middle name picked, too.”

“Of course you do,” he said with a hint of amusement.

“Anne. For your mother. She’s been an angel in . . . in your absence.”

He was silent briefly, then said simply, “Perfect.”

As he lowered his face to the soft, solid weight of child in her arms, looked in his daughter’s eyes, Heidi watched with the opposing forces of bittersweet contentment as he pecked a kiss to the tiny forehead, placed a large hand behind the baby’s head to cradle it and cover Heidi's, and said in that voice she had longed to hear for many heartbreaking nights, “Welcome to the world, Lilly Anne Aston.”

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ONE

His small fingers groped the dark and found what they were seeking. They curled possessively around the barrel of the shotgun.

Deftly, he began the maneuver to bring his arm back through the narrow space, making sure the sought and found possession was carried with it. Some might think he’d pulled the weapon from its hiding place a hundred times, but he hadn’t. Not even once.

But today was different. He had to today.

Finally able to reach the wide wooden base, he grabbed it as it emerged, careful to keep the barrel upright. He didn’t want to do something foolish and shoot himself. Or make the thing go off and give away his hiding spot.

He inspected it as best he could in the black. It was heavier than he imagined, sturdier too. And his hands shook as he pressed the long gun to his chest.

Carefully, he flattened himself into the thickest shadows of the small, cramped quarters. He may have avoided this closet all the rest of his life, but today, being here was clever. He was proud. If all went well, they’d never find him here. And if they did find him, well, he grimaced, tightening his grip on the metal, he’d just have to find a way to get some courage and use this thing.

He could do it.

He would do it.

He was not a wimp, not a coward, or sissy, or any of the other words Daddy said.

He was a man. And he would protect and save what he loved.

He had never shot a gun before. Hadn’t even been allowed to touch one. But he knew about this one, where the trigger was, that the front had to be pumped before firing.

And he knew, too, that deep down, even with the finest courage, he was not very excited about the possibility of using it. He’d seen what it could do. How it could rip and tear, maim and destroy.

But as the siren wails became louder and louder, pounding in his eardrums, his head, his heart, he knew he’d use it if he must.

Instinctively, he wrapped his fingers around the cool barrel again as the noise heightened outside the dark.

Feet rushed down the hall many times. Once, the compact space flooded with light as a policeman threw open the door, poked his head in, and looked from side to side. But the short man did not see over the panel that held this bleak part of the small closet.

The hideaway, the prison.

“Clear!” the man yelled as he closed the door with a slam.

Inside, the boy let himself release the breath he’d been holding. He blinked a couple of times to clear the spots the sudden pool of light had brought on. Stared hard at the white laces on his shoes, hoping if he looked long enough, he might start to see something besides black.

Sometimes he would practice at night, seeing in the pitch dark. He’d hold his hand up to his face, wiggling his fingers, waving the hand back and forth until he could see its outline, then very dimly begin to make out tips of fingers, and still more, until, finally, his whole hand appeared.

After what seemed like hours, the noise quieted, the sirens became harder to hear, until he was certain there were none altogether. He relaxed, letting his aching back slide against the wall, his tired legs crumble beneath him.

They had not found him after all.

Then, a dog barked. Once. Twice. Three shrill times.

And he returned his death grip to the gun.

Only this time, instead of purposefully turning it upward so it wouldn’t harm, he aimed it. And went toward the door.

Reese Sheppard had fallen in love a thousand times.

This made one thousand and one, she realized, staring at the whiskey brown eyes peering from the shadows.

The medium-sized dog cowered in the back of the rambling shack, eyes darting everywhere but her quiet and constant gaze. His legs quivered, and she could just make out the spiky tips of fur standing on end.

Poor baby was terrified.

The wailing sirens, flashing lights, and chaotic movement couldn’t have helped, but right now, he was scared of her. Scared that she would do what the others before her had done. She wouldn’t; she was here to do the very opposite. But he didn't know that yet.

It was going to take time, but she would also gain his trust. And lure him out of that pitiful excuse for a doghouse.

Glancing over her shoulder to her assistant lingering paces behind at the bowed chain-link fence, she called, “Layla, pass the treats, please . . . slowly.”

Petite and light on her feet, Layla eased forward, smoothly transferred a palm full of brown, crumbling treats resembling slices of sausage to Reese’s outstretched hand. The clinic staff called it puppy crack; few dogs could refuse, and once they got a taste, you could bet they’d be coming back for more. It served as the perfect reward when training a dog to Come—they only received the “puppy crack” when they obeyed the command and no other occasion, thus, a pure indulgence—or for a situation such as this.

Reese extended her arm, careful to stay at a non-threatening distance. She stretched her hand and opened it, letting him smell the aroma, letting him know she wasn’t forcing anything on him.

His ears stood on end, pointed into almost perfect triangles; the black nose twitched back and forth.

“Here, boy. C’mon.” She made a kissing sound, inched forward in her crouch, and placed one of the treats feet from his house. He recoiled, pushing his back as far against the rear of the house as he could.

Deciding to stay put for now, and uncomfortable with her own quaking calves—she really had to add squats back to her workout—she simply folded her legs and sat on the muddy ground.

For September, the earth was soggy and damp, a sign Tennessee’s fall was coming wet and early this year. Cool too, if Mr. Sherbert’s bones could be trusted.

Reese was glad for that after the humid, sticky summer they’d suffered. Gladder still this call had come in before the weather turned once again and went to freezing.

Recognizing the dog had not moved even though she’d plopped smack in the middle of his line-of-sight (and means of escape), the corner of her mouth turned up reflexively—his nerves were settling.

She coaxed a bit more, let the affection from her heart travel to her voice and her expression. Finally, he slunk forward, rose off his haunches, and stood . . . though it was more of a hunker inside the too-small house.

His thick, blunt snout poked out into the world beyond the shabby walls.

Pleased, Reese released her breath slowly. “Hi buddy. You hungry?” She showed him the treats. “You’ll like these.”

Carefully, she lobbed one.

He jumped back, but after a few moments, returned to his position, nose out sniffing. He inspected the crumble, ventured out a little further, neck craned, and in a flash, gobbled the tasty morsel from the ground.

“Good boy. Good.” Reese smiled, delighted at his quick progress.

He looked up, titled his head slightly, and brought one paw forward into the light.

He touched it to the ground.

She offered another treat.

Out came the second paw.

She inspected him now, his neck, the dirty red collar wrapped around it, the heavy chain attached to that. “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

His head cocked inquisitively, again, before he stuck his nose back to the patchy ground, and roamed around for more treats. Half his body still remained in his house; two paws planted firmly outside seemed to be enough.