He was with a small group of men, their heads close, their faces serious during their discussion. Mercy approached and heard “a new chief.”
Her heart cracked. They were already speculating on who would take Truman’s job. She kept her head up and her eyes dry as she touched Owen on the shoulder. The group broke apart, and the men muttered their sympathies. Owen pulled her aside.
“How are you holding up?” His eyes searched her face.
“By the skin of my teeth,” she forcefully joked. He didn’t laugh.
“If you need anything . . . I’ve gone out with the search crews several times.” He frowned. “Since there’re no leads that point to an area to search, it’s been difficult.”
“I know. Thank you for helping.”
“They’ll find him soon.”
The platitude was wearing on Mercy, and it made her want to scream. Every time she heard it, her mind questioned whether Truman would found be dead or alive.
“Oh, honey.” Her mother suddenly appeared and enveloped Mercy in her arms, reducing her anxiety.
Nothing compares to a mother’s hug.
Over her mother’s shoulder, Mercy made eye contact with her father and was startled at the compassion on his face. Her mother released her, but Mercy couldn’t look away from her father. Ever since she’d returned to Eagle’s Nest last fall, he’d looked at her only with annoyance and anger. He’d carried a grudge for fifteen years, and it’d grown stronger when she joined the FBI and when she stood up for Rose’s right to be a single mom.
He hadn’t looked at her like this since she was a teen, and it meant more to her than all the rally’s sympathetic gazes combined.
“He’s a good man,” her father said in a gruff voice. “Not deserving of this.”
“He is good,” Mercy echoed, still holding his gaze. “I’m a better person when I’m with him.”
Her mother cupped her cheek, turning Mercy’s face toward her. “We’re all pulling for him.”
Mercy gave a wan smile. “Thank you,” she said for the thousandth time that evening. She glanced back to her father, but he was in a quiet conversation with Owen.
That didn’t last long.
She made an excuse and left her family, heading for the long food table. Every type of cake and cookie covered the surface. When people grieve, they bring food. She picked up a snickerdoodle, desperate for distraction. The cookie was tasteless and dry in her mouth.
Like every other bite of food during the last five days.
This morning she’d tightened her belt two holes beyond the usual. Stunned, she’d looked in the mirror, studying herself. Swollen eyes and thinning cheeks. Even her hair looked dull. She had marched out of her bedroom, determined to eat better, starting with a huge homemade ham-and-cheese omelet. She’d managed half of the omelet and then stared at the rest on her plate. She couldn’t shake the sensation that she was caught in a slow downward spiral.
Where will it end?
“Hey.”
Mike Bevins stopped beside her, a plate with chocolate cake in his hand. He was one of Truman’s closest friends.
Mercy swallowed the last of her cookie, searching for a warm greeting. “Hey,” she replied.
He picked at the cake with his fork, and she noticed he hadn’t eaten a bite. “If anyone can come out of this, it’ll be Truman,” he said, his gaze on his cake.
“Very true.”
“He’s tough.” He finally met her gaze. “He’s not a quitter.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He set down his cake and pulled her into a long hug. A shuddering sigh escaped from her, and she relaxed in his strong arms for a few seconds. Mike pulled back and gave a weak smile. He left without another word.
There are no truly helpful words.
But everyone feels the need to say something.
She knew the words were more for the person speaking than for her. Human nature compelled others to offer comfort, making them feel as if they had helped, done something.
Inside she wanted to hit everyone.
She picked up a cup of coffee to occupy her hands and wandered the room.
“. . . truck destroyed by fire . . .”
“. . . blood in the driveway . . .”
The whispers ricocheted in her skull. Unable to stop herself, she headed for the door, its EXIT sign calling her like a beacon. The door opened just as she approached, and Evan Bolton stepped in. He immediately spotted her and frowned.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes, I can’t take this.”
He took her arm and moved her to the side of the door. Her muscles ached to continue her escape out the door, and she glared at him. He’d ruined her mission.
“You can’t leave yet,” he said in a low voice. “These people need you.”
“No, they don’t.”
“They’re looking to you for emotional support. If they see you can hold your head up, they feel they can too.”
“I can’t hold my head up anymore tonight,” she hissed at him, pulling her arm out of his grip.
“Yes, you can,” he said firmly. “I’ll help you. It’s nearly impossible to do on your own.”
“How would you know?” she shot back. No one knows what I’m going through.
“Trust me, I do.” He looked away and studied the crowd. “Looks like something is happening.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her to where people were gathering. Fury rocked Mercy; she wanted to be gone.
Ina Smythe had stepped up on the raised dais in front of a microphone. She thumped her cane and it thundered on the wood, catching everyone’s attention.
Mercy quailed at the sight of the kind woman. I can’t listen to her talk about Truman. She started to turn toward the door again.
Evan felt Mercy shift and pressed firmly on her back. “Don’t move.”
She inhaled, steeling her spine, shutting her eyes, and wishing herself away.
Ina’s wavering voice filled the room. She spoke with hope and passion, never once implying that Truman wasn’t coming back. Mercy reluctantly opened her eyes and found the old woman looking directly at her as she spoke. Mercy absorbed the strength in the woman’s gaze, and her words wove their way into Mercy’s heart, patching small rips and tears. She’d always known Ina was tough; the woman had outlasted several husbands, and Truman adored her.
Applause and loud whoops rattled the hall. Ina gave a pleased smile and nod, and then David Aguirre jumped forward to take her arm as she stepped off the dais.
Mercy couldn’t remember one word of what the woman had said, but she felt the effects of the speech’s power and comfort. The town loved Truman.
I’m not alone.
THIRTY-THREE
Someone was singing.
Truman’s eyes stayed closed as a flat voice sang a breathy little tune. He knew the song from somewhere, and it stimulated hazy memories that were content and warm, but he couldn’t bring them into focus.
John Henry. Steel. Nine-pound hammer.
His grandparents. His grandmother had sung it while working around the house.
Truman opened his eyes and turned his head to see Ollie sitting next to him on a stool, working on a wood figure with a knife. The boy had taken off his coat, and his sweater had a rip at the collar. Truman abruptly realized he was warm, weighted down by blankets and quilts on a very uncomfortable bed. Ollie’s bedroom.
When did we get here?
“Ollie?” he croaked. His tongue was so dry it was sticky.
The teen nearly dropped his carving as he twisted to Truman. Wide brown eyes blinked at him. “Are you okay?” Ollie asked.
“I’m thirsty.”
Ollie jumped up from his stool and poured water from a small bucket into a mug. Truman tried to sit up and made the mistake of using his left arm to lever up. Explosions of light went off in his vision, and an awkward moan escaped him.
“Let me help you.”
The teen put an arm behind Truman’s back and easily lifted him to a sitting position, helping him sip the water. Truman was as weak as a baby. He drank what he could, then gestured to be laid back down as the room slowly spun. He clenched his eyes shut against the spin.
“What happened?” he muttered.
“You’ve been sick. Fever.”
“How’d I get here?”