“It just breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Bev shook her head sadly. “I would just love to reach out and help women like that.”
Her mother seemed sincere, but Ruth wondered how deep that compassion ran. Would it apply to her own daughter if Ruth told her about the events of that horrible night fifteen years earlier? Maybe. Or perhaps the shame of an ugly attack would overshadow Bev’s desire to be a do-gooder. “You know, Mom, you could volunteer on the hotline. Ultimately, I’ll return all the calls, but we need people to answer when I’m unavailable. We have a recording, but it’s so much better to get a real person on the line. We could use someone like you, a calm, soothing voice in the face of panic.”
“Oh, I could never do that.” Bev gave an exaggerated shudder. “You know your father wouldn’t approve. He’s not at all comfortable with the idea of you bringing attention to that sort of thing.”
“Right.” Ruth’s heart sank as she prepared to have one of her father’s platitudes parroted. “He doesn’t believe that rape exists.”
“It’s just that he thinks that talking about it only encourages the bad behavior.”
“But, Mom, women who’ve survived a sexual assault need to talk about it.”
“I know.” Bev patted her heart with a sad smile. “But it’s not my place to argue with your father. Are you and the girls staying for dinner? I can put burgers on the grill.”
“I promised the girls we’d go to Molly’s Diner. It’s taco night.”
“I can make tacos,” Bev insisted. “It’s no trouble at all.”
“But dining out is an event for them. How long have they been out there?” Ruth asked, stealing another glance through the kitchen window.
Bev shrugged. “An hour or so? I love the way they occupy each other.”
“I’m going to see if they’re about ready to go.”
“Ask them if they want to stay for dinner,” Bev called after her as she headed into the backyard.
Crossing the sun-dappled lawn, Ruth felt a tug of the old love she’d once known for this place, this yard, this town. Her parents’ yard backed up to three land-locked acres that the neighbors had shared for gardening and recreation, and she’d spent many an afternoon back here, barefoot and blissful, picking wild berries from the fence or playing kickball. This was the sort of joyful childhood she wanted for Penny.
Although the sun was low in the sky, the air was still baking hot, and gnats jumped from the grass as she rounded the garage. She saw the potting shed, a small hut covered in the same gray siding as the house. Its door hung open. Two plastic pots on the bench contained tender-looking yellow, purple, and red flowers that leaned gingerly against each other, as if ready to faint from the heat. Not the best day for moving plants.
The flower bowls were complete, but Penny and Jessica were nowhere in sight.
“Penny?” There was a catch in Ruth’s voice, and she braced herself to keep the panic out of her voice. Penny and Jessica were safe here, in their mother’s backyard, in the cradle of this slow-moving prairie town. Of course they were.
Then why was her heart pounding? Adrenaline electrified her nerves as she shouted for her daughter. Where could she be? Penny knew that she was never to leave without asking permission.
She was running now, tearing around the garden, tall blades of grass whipping at her legs as she tore through the community field and plunged into the garden between rows of cabbages and tomatoes.
“Penny, where are you?” she demanded, pausing to take in the lazy summer landscape of grass and plants, sweating shrubs and trees. “Where are you?” The words stuck in her dry throat.
She paused, listening, but there was no answer in the birdsong, the buzz of a distant lawn mower, and the pounding of her heartbeat. Should she return to the house and alert her mother? Call the police? Search the potting shed? Maybe they were hiding, playing a trick on her. Or maybe they’d gone to Jessica’s house without asking permission.
Ruth was headed back to the shed when the sound of voices and a child’s scream sent her wheeling around. Oh God, where had it come from?
There were two screaming voices now, shrill and young, and they seemed to be coming from one of the nearby yards to the west, where the setting sun was ablaze in the sky. These properties were fenced off, but she followed the fence lines, some of them post and rail, others six-foot wooden fences.
“No! Stop!” came a young voice, followed by another shriek.
It was Penny.
Oh God, something terrible was happening.
Memory jarred her, the darkest moments of her life replaying in her mind. It couldn’t be . . . not Penny.
Galvanizing herself against the memory, Ruth ran into the blinding sunlight to save her daughter.
Chapter 13
“Penny!” Ruth shouted, racing to the source of the sound. “Penny, where are you?”
She couldn’t see over the fence, but the gate sat ajar and unlatched. Rusted hinges screeched as she yanked it open and combed the yard for her girl. Her view was blocked by a fat oak trunk and an overgrown lilac bush that lent a sweet scent to the sourness in her throat. “Penny?” she shouted, skirting the bush.
“Mom?” The hesitant whimper squeezed her heart as she caught sight of her daughter, who stared at her, as if paralyzed. Penny clung gingerly to a small linden tree just beyond Jessica, who was flitting through the yard like a moth fighting a breeze. Her shirt was removed and her orange shorts clung to her, sopping wet as she dodged the spray of a hose held by a big bear of a cowboy type who acknowledged Ruth with a sultry nod.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ruth demanded.
“Well, that’s a fine howdy.” The cowboy pushed off the porch steps and went to turn the hose off. The hands that turned the spigot were thick and strong.
Wide girth, thick hands . . . His legs were covered by jeans, but the green T-shirt that stretched over his broad chest revealed arms furred with blond hair, and a tightly trimmed beard covered his jaw. He wasn’t overtly menacing, but somehow that made him all the more of a threat.
Ruth braced herself to control the trembling fury that threatened to overtake her. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing to these girls?”
“Calm down, now. This is my yard, Ruthie.”
He knew her. He knew her, and he was trying to intimidate her. His smug grin chilled her, despite the humid air.
“I’m Cal Haney. I know your father from church. And these carpet munchers came to me, looking for water for some plants or something.”
“You told us we could have water. And then you sprayed us,” Jessica said, dancing in a puddle that had formed in a patch of dirt. It looked as if someone had turned the earth to plant sod and never completed the task. “That’s not fair, Uncle Cal.”
Uncle? Ruth looked from the man to the girl. “You’re related?” Or was it one of those sick relationships in which he’d asked her to call him uncle?