Page 4 of Heartstrings & Horseshoes

“Do you like lemonade?” I ask.

She’s shy but says she likes lemonade and gives me a tiny smile that makes me feel funny in my stomach.

“My mom makes the world’s best lemonade. I bet she has cookies too. Come on, you’re coming home with me.”

3

I’m sitting on Connor’s living room floor, surrounded by boxes containing my entire life. Everything happened so quickly. I can’t wrap my head around my reality.

Not even sixteen hours ago, I was sleeping on the same twin bed I always had—snuggled beneath layers of blankets, because Mom didn’t pay the gas bill. Again.

Spring is shining her light brighter every day, but it’s still downright freezing overnight in the Rocky Mountains. When I got home last night, as late as I could bear before I fell asleep on my feet, Mom was passed out face-down on the kitchen table. I found a relatively clean blanket to cover her with and quietly pushed the beer cans away from her face.

I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. I’ve been avoiding home as much as possible since my sister moved in with her fiancé. I can’t bear being alone with my mother anymore. It’s hard work finding things to do at all hours of the day to stay out of my house, so I’m exhausted every night.

I was a few hours into dreamland when the unmistakable sound of glass breaking ricocheted around the small trailer. I was jolted awake and on high alert.

I thought, please just let it be Mom stumbling around. Maybe she knocked over some dishes. How naive of me to think I was safe in my own home.

The front door slammed open against the outside of the trailer, meaning someone broke the glass to reach inside and unlock it. Loud boots stomped across the hollow floor, and shouts of rage filled the air—several different male voices, and of course, my inebriated mother, slurring and crying.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time in my twenty-four years of life the sanctity of my home had been destroyed. I knew all too well what type those men were, and what they were after.

I dressed in whatever clothes I could find in the dark, grabbed my phone, and opened the small window in my room. This wasn’t the first time I’d had to escape, not my first rodeo, so to speak. I know exactly how to lift and shimmy the window along the rusty track to make the least amount of noise, and gently popped out the screen, letting it fall to the snowpack below.

Things were being thrown and broken, and doors ripped open. I was out of time. I jumped out of the window and was spotted by the man who was standing look-out. He shouted at me to stop, and to alert the thugs inside, but I was already gone.

I ran through the trailer park weaving around homes, cars, junk, and piles of snow. I lost my footing several times in the icy night but had to get as far away from the trailer as possible. Once I was nearing the trailer park entrance, I hid behind a dumpster and called the one number that would guarantee my safety.

Minutes later, tires squealed down Main Street heading towards me. Tires that normally took twice as long to arrive. Connor jumped out of his truck, door swung open, engine running, shouting my name.

I didn’t look back as I ran into his arms. He wasted no time getting me into his truck and taking me away.

Like I said, not our first rodeo.

Connor Hayes has been my knight in shining armor since I was seven years old. And here we were again, the brave knight rescuing the damsel in distress from the evil witch.

I didn’t buckle my seatbelt. I burrowed under Connor’s arm as he drove us to his apartment. No words were needed, we’d said them all countless times before and nothing ever changed.

Violent shivers from the cold and adrenaline wracked my body when we arrived at the drawbridge, so the knight carried the damsel up the castle steps without needing to be asked.

Connor deposited my shaking body on the closed toilet seat and turned on his shower, filling the small bathroom with steam.

He returned with clean clothes for me to sleep in and shut the door behind him. I went through the motions of showering, warming my bones, towel drying and braiding my long hair, and dressing before padding into his bedroom. Connor sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but sleep shorts, head hung low between his shoulders, elbows resting on his knees.

Despite the morose aura in the room, I couldn’t help but notice Connor’s beauty. Hearing me approach, he reached over to his nightstand and passed me a glass of water and two pain killers.

He flipped back his covers and slid into bed, holding them open for me to join him. I curled into his warm, hard chest and disappeared into a deep sleep.

This morning was far less peaceful. Connor and I have a history of going rounds arguing about my living situation. He wanted me out. I did too but I was never brave enough to make the move. And in the harsh morning light, in the aftermath of yet another close call, everything was game for discussion.

I was inappropriately relieved we needed to head out for Sam’s memorial, because Connor wouldn’t argue with me there.

I should’ve known better.

Even when he pisses me off, Connor always has my best interests at heart, and last night pushed him over the edge into raging-alpha-protector-mode. I would’ve found it sexy had I not been so furious with him.

We tabled the argument during the gathering along Whitetail River where our sole attention needed to be on supporting our loved ones.