Her fantasy was… What was it?
It had been the big city once upon a time. Artists and galleries with her work on the walls. Now…she had no idea. Besides, people like her didn’t have sweet babies and lovely houses with flowers and landscaped gardens, husbands who mowed lawns. No, people like Uma made bad decisions, loved the wrong men, and eventually had to run far away from them, only to end up working for sad, old hags.
They had quite a lot in common, Ms. Lloyd and Uma. The woman didn’t go outside; that seemed pretty clear. And though Uma may not have been quite there yet, the way her boss had shut herself in, the frantic rituals of her life, were eerily familiar.
Her isolation may have been self-imposed, but that didn’t seem to make it any easier to break free. And Uma… Well, she’d been in a prison of her own making. She’d chosen to stay with Joey, despite all signs that she should go.
If she could rip off her skin and start all over again, she would. Before she could become like Ms. Lloyd. Before she could be trapped.
A dull sound cut through the spiral of thoughts dragging Uma down. It was loud enough to distract her from feeling sorry for herself—always a good thing—and repetitive enough to pique her curiosity. The lock on the window turned easily when she twisted it, but sliding the sash up was another story. She pushed and pulled, wanting—no, needing—to breathe the fresh country air. The sound continued, a bright punctuation in the still night, but she didn’t dare bang on the window to try to get it unstuck. She sat there instead, face pressed to the cool glass, and wondered.
Only a dim light shone from behind the white farmhouse next door—probably a porch light. In the house, there was no sign of life. But that repetitive noise, so industrious for this late at night, kept Uma on the edge of her seat, filled with curiosity, almost ready to throw on some pants and run out to find its source.
She didn’t go anywhere. But she spent long minutes, maybe hours, listening and wondering and then imagining what it could be. What on earth was he up to over there? Chopping wood? Bodies? Strangely, after everything, that notion didn’t scare her one bit.
* * *
Ive opened up a fifth can of cat food and set it down on the stoop. It was a new flavor, and he wasn’t sure how the animals would react, but he liked to mix it up every once in a while. Keep ’em guessing.
It rarely worked, now that he thought about it. They didn’t like change any more than he did. But still, it couldn’t be good for them to eat exactly the same thing every single day.
There were the five cats he fed on a daily basis. The big one, Ornery, wouldn’t let anyone touch her. Even after seven years of Fancy Feast, Ive still couldn’t get close. The chickens, the rooster. Then there was the baby skunk, Pepe, who’d recently joined the evening feeding fray. The cats didn’t seem to mind the new species, and this one was especially fond of tuna-and-shrimp medley. Little guy fit right in, wanting the same old flavor day after day.
“Not like us, right, Squeak?” he said with a smile. Because Ive did eat the same thing every single day. Not because he didn’t like other foods, but why bother changing something if it worked? And okay, so he didn’t eatexactlythe same stuff, but his selections were limited. It depended on what he’d hunted or grown, what the chickens had laid, or what some farmer had given him in trade.
He bent to grab Squeak’s bowl, filled it with dry food, and emptied half a can of wet food into it, then topped it off with water from the pump.
Once everyone was fed and had water, his charges going to town with gusto, he thought back to the woman he’d met earlier. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her.
Uma.
Ive mouthed the name, enjoying the shape of it on his lips and tongue. Strange name for a strange woman. An intriguing mix of “help me” and “fuck off.”
He patted Squeak on the back, enjoying the way the dog leaned into his caress.
Help me up, the woman had ordered, brassy as hell. Trouble. He could smell it a mile away.And not just the usual kind either, he thought, although he didn’t dwell on what he meant by that.
Trouble. Always trouble. Between the two of them, he and Squeak sure had a nose for it, didn’t they? They didn’t go looking for it exactly, but they certainly didn’t shy away from strays, as was proved by the menagerie chowing down on the doorstep.
Yep, Squeak had a gift. She’d sniffed out Uma, hadn’t she? Had known immediately that something was wrong and offered comfort the way only she knew how. Ive pictured how the woman had looked when he’d followed his dog around the side of the house—defeated, tired, scared. He recognized that look, had seen it a hundred times. Matter of fact, that was the exact expression Squeak had worn when he’d taken her from Old Man Huber’s place. Son of a bitch had beaten her so bad that Ive had had to carry her straight to Dr. Campbell’s clinic. And Squeak was just a puppy.
He closed the door and loped up the drive to his house, needing to release his built-up aggression. It happened every time he got himself a new, injured stray—this anger. Rage so strong, so painful, he had to take care of it the only way he knew how.
Better than doing what he’d done to Huber. Only a tiny bit of guilt marred Ive’s conscience over that one. He’d been so good. Hadn’t hit anyone outside a ring in more than eight years when he’d heard a puppy’s yelps over the fence. It had been bad, though.Fucking awful. Squeak and the cats and that other dog—the one Dr. Campbell hadn’t been able to save. Jesus. How could younothit a guy like that?
But he hadn’t touched anyone in anger since. Steve—the sheriff, of all people—had taught him how to hold back. “You can be as pissed off as you want,” he’d told him. “Just gotta learn not to hurt anyone. It’ll only get you in trouble. Again.” He’d taught Ive to box, then gotten him hooked on Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Ive was big, and he’d done some wrestling in high school before he dropped out, which came in handy in the ring.
Like pounding metal, fighting had saved his life.
An hour later, Ive leaned into his heavy bag, stilling it with his full body. He was slick with sweat, and the minute he stopped moving, the chill crept in. He hardly noticed it. Muscles loose, rubbery from exhaustion, his temper still simmered too close to the surface.
He couldn’t blame the woman for his feelings. It wasn’t Uma’s fault what she did to him. She couldn’t help that the sight of her, looking so defeated, had ratcheted all his repressed rage up to a boil.
He hated how scared she’d been of him, hated making her shy away. But when she’d held her hand out to him, had lifted her head defiantly despite her obvious fear, something different had entered the mix: admiration. Man, how could you not respect the balls it took for that little, frightened woman to face a big, scary-looking monster like him?
So, yes, he admired her guts. But it was more than that.
That littleHelp me up?was repeating in his mind. And when he thought of her in that moment, it scared the shit out of him. He’d never encountered this particular combination of sensations. She needed help, and he wanted to help her. He already knew that. He’d known it the second he’d seen her crouched down by Ms. Lloyd’s house. It was like crack—that certain brand of trouble he’d never been able to resist: a victim of abuse.
