Walk the Right Road: The Complete Series by Lorhainne Eckhart Page B
Authors: Lorhainne Eckhart
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sink.
“Now how am I supposed to open the door?”
* * * *
Sam knocked and waited with a plastic bag filled with dinner and groceries. Marcie’s soft padded footsteps approached. The bolt clanked when she slid it open. Sam sniffed at the fragrant tang of vinegar. The fridge door was propped open by a white plastic jug. She’d been busy.
“What did you do with all the crap in the fridge?”
She walked ahead of him and knelt down on her bare knees, picking up a rag on the bottom shelf, sticking her head in the rounded fridge. He couldn’t help appreciating the wiggle of her bottom and the way it made a simple pair of shorts drive him to the point that he wanted to give her derriere an intimate and friendly squeeze. “I threw all of it in a garbage bag I found in the cupboard and dumped it in the can around back.”
His blood heated as he set down the groceries on the small wooden table. “Dammit, Marcie, what’d I tell you? Didn’t I say to stay out of sight and not open the door to anyone?”
She froze, tossing the silky mane of endless hair tumbling over her shoulders, and then stood up, blinking. She clutched a pathetic checkered rag and tilted her chin in a determined way, keeping her words even and very matter of fact. “But I didn’t open the door to anyone, and I made sure no one saw me. I was careful. I looked around both ways before I went out. There was no one around.”
He wanted to throw his hands up and yell, but instead he stomped to the door, jerked it open, and flung the screen door wide until it smacked the outside wall with an echoing thud, rocking ancient, rusty hinges. Did he feel better? No .
Chapter Twelve
T he wind whipped around his dark, tousled hair. The familiar man was filled with a powerful hate as he gripped the steering wheel of a rusty brown Mustang convertible. In a flash, the scene changed to a man and a woman standing at the edge of a steep mountain road with a bare fir tree and unbarricaded cliff beside them. The tall blond man had his arm around the despairing, curvy woman. Their heads were lowered, standing before a simple cross. Jerome flashed in front of her, arms crossed over his broad chest, his golden hair whipping in the wind. “Go to the attic, Marcie. You’ll find some answers there.”
Marcie bolted upright. Beads of sweat danced over her chilled skin. Her breath shook, and she struggled in the surrounding darkness to shake loose the dreamlike state—that memory. And Jerome—Jesus, what was he trying to show her?
A faint light illuminated a yellow rectangle into the room from the open door. Marcie crept out of bed wearing just her long beige shirt. She could hear Sam talking, so she followed his deep voice to where he stood by the dim window, his cell phone pressed to his ear, listening.
He disconnected without turning around and slipped the phone in the back pocket of his blue jeans. He didn’t acknowledge her or turn around. He leaned his arm upon the chipped window frame, staring out into the darkness. “What’re you doing up?”
Obviously, he’d heard her. She should have realized she couldn’t sneak up on him. His words were clipped. He must still have been mad.
Dinner had been tense, quiet, and lonely. The hamburgers had tasted like sawdust when she tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. He had so many quirks in his personality. Sam pulled into himself when he was irritated, as if he replayed whatever bothered him over and over in his mind.
His response to anything she asked had been either a grunt or a curt one-word answer. Her traitorous thoughts shifted. Maybe he couldn’t stand being in the same room with her—maybe he’d had enough and questioned his wisdom in helping a virtual stranger. This must be the end. Yes, he’d turn her in and walk away. At dinner, she’d been unable to bear that thought, so she excused herself, pushing her full plate away, saying she was tired and escaping to the only bedroom. She didn’t know how
“Now how am I supposed to open the door?”
* * * *
Sam knocked and waited with a plastic bag filled with dinner and groceries. Marcie’s soft padded footsteps approached. The bolt clanked when she slid it open. Sam sniffed at the fragrant tang of vinegar. The fridge door was propped open by a white plastic jug. She’d been busy.
“What did you do with all the crap in the fridge?”
She walked ahead of him and knelt down on her bare knees, picking up a rag on the bottom shelf, sticking her head in the rounded fridge. He couldn’t help appreciating the wiggle of her bottom and the way it made a simple pair of shorts drive him to the point that he wanted to give her derriere an intimate and friendly squeeze. “I threw all of it in a garbage bag I found in the cupboard and dumped it in the can around back.”
His blood heated as he set down the groceries on the small wooden table. “Dammit, Marcie, what’d I tell you? Didn’t I say to stay out of sight and not open the door to anyone?”
She froze, tossing the silky mane of endless hair tumbling over her shoulders, and then stood up, blinking. She clutched a pathetic checkered rag and tilted her chin in a determined way, keeping her words even and very matter of fact. “But I didn’t open the door to anyone, and I made sure no one saw me. I was careful. I looked around both ways before I went out. There was no one around.”
He wanted to throw his hands up and yell, but instead he stomped to the door, jerked it open, and flung the screen door wide until it smacked the outside wall with an echoing thud, rocking ancient, rusty hinges. Did he feel better? No .
Chapter Twelve
T he wind whipped around his dark, tousled hair. The familiar man was filled with a powerful hate as he gripped the steering wheel of a rusty brown Mustang convertible. In a flash, the scene changed to a man and a woman standing at the edge of a steep mountain road with a bare fir tree and unbarricaded cliff beside them. The tall blond man had his arm around the despairing, curvy woman. Their heads were lowered, standing before a simple cross. Jerome flashed in front of her, arms crossed over his broad chest, his golden hair whipping in the wind. “Go to the attic, Marcie. You’ll find some answers there.”
Marcie bolted upright. Beads of sweat danced over her chilled skin. Her breath shook, and she struggled in the surrounding darkness to shake loose the dreamlike state—that memory. And Jerome—Jesus, what was he trying to show her?
A faint light illuminated a yellow rectangle into the room from the open door. Marcie crept out of bed wearing just her long beige shirt. She could hear Sam talking, so she followed his deep voice to where he stood by the dim window, his cell phone pressed to his ear, listening.
He disconnected without turning around and slipped the phone in the back pocket of his blue jeans. He didn’t acknowledge her or turn around. He leaned his arm upon the chipped window frame, staring out into the darkness. “What’re you doing up?”
Obviously, he’d heard her. She should have realized she couldn’t sneak up on him. His words were clipped. He must still have been mad.
Dinner had been tense, quiet, and lonely. The hamburgers had tasted like sawdust when she tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. He had so many quirks in his personality. Sam pulled into himself when he was irritated, as if he replayed whatever bothered him over and over in his mind.
His response to anything she asked had been either a grunt or a curt one-word answer. Her traitorous thoughts shifted. Maybe he couldn’t stand being in the same room with her—maybe he’d had enough and questioned his wisdom in helping a virtual stranger. This must be the end. Yes, he’d turn her in and walk away. At dinner, she’d been unable to bear that thought, so she excused herself, pushing her full plate away, saying she was tired and escaping to the only bedroom. She didn’t know how
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