fed the birds and the spirit. Spring would soon arrive and Nana’s lilacs and forsythias would brighten the world.
She didn’t want to move again.
Since she’d joined Dr. Ramos last September, her practice had grown rapidly. She loved knowing her patients on a personal basis, seeing them at church and in stores. People liked her personal involvement, her follow-up phone calls, the smart, concerned care she gave. She was a good certified registered nurse practitioner, and she wanted to practice in a rural town where doctors were in short supply. Gabriel’s Crossing was perfect. Almost.
Derrick was furious with her about the kittens and had locked himself in his room with his computer, refusing to come out until this morning. Oddly, he’d been up and dressed but his eyes were red rimmed and tired, as if he hadn’t slept much.
He worried her out of her mind. And she felt guilty about the baby kittens. Had Quinn fed them? Would he?
Quinn. The biggest problem of all.
Lord, what am I supposed to do? I can’t break my promise, but I can’t return to Houston. Derrick is better off here in a small town where I can keep a close eye on him. But what if—
Someone tapped on the exam room door. “Gena?”
“Come on in.” She glanced up.
Alabama Watts, both nurse and friend, poked her head around the door edge. “Mr. Chard in room three and little Clara Jameson in five are both ready. And Dr. Ramos wants you to take his patients for the next couple of hours. He had an emergency at the hospital.”
Gena shut off the water and reached for a paper towel.
She was needed here. Badly.
“Who’s first?”
“Mr. Chard. I set up a suture tray. His hand is wrapped in a towel but bleeding through. Chain saw bit him, he said.”
“Ouch. Let’s go see.”
The rest of her day was wildly busy, so by the time she arrived home, the sun had set. She parked the SUV under the carport and opened the side entry door, frowning to see no light glowing from Derrick’s room. The bus ran by the house around four. He should have been home three hours ago.
“Derrick?” She tossed her keys and bag on the kitchen counter and went to his room.
The door was shut. She tapped. “Derrick, honey. I’m home.”
Nothing.
“Are you hungry?” Wasn’t he always?
Still no answer, so she tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. With a deep breath, she stepped into his bedroom. It was empty. His laptop was open and on but dark. His books had been dumped on his unmade bed. If he had homework, he’d likely not done it.
With an exasperated growl, she knew where he’d gone. Quinn’s. The kittens.
Wearily, she rubbed at her temples.
She’d been foolish to believe she could avoid anyone in a town this small. Derrick’s blatant disregard for her rules meant he was sure to do exactly what she forbade.
As she started out, some gut instinct stopped her. She stared at Derrick’s laptop.
She’d not checked his history in a while, and from his weariness this morning, she suspected he’d stayed up late last night trolling the internet. With him out of the house, it was a good time to have a look at his search history without starting another war.
She tapped the touch pad and the screen lit up.
Facebook. Dandy. He wasn’t old enough to have an account. But when had she been able to stop Derrick from doing something he wanted to do?
She stared at the selfies of the handsome young boy with the sullen mouth and that blasted black hoodie pulled low over his eyes.
With a tap, she refreshed the screen and scrolled, checking out his friends and messages.
The more she read, the colder she got. One “friend” flashed gang signs and puffed on something that looked suspiciously like a marijuana joint. One urged him to hitch his way back to Houston. Another bragged about a “piece” he’d stolen from his old man.
A piece? As in a gun?
“Oh no. Not guns and drugs.” She’d thought the shoplifting episode was scary. “He’s not even twelve!”
But the young and angry, she knew from her clinic experience in the inner city, were prime targets for gangs and trouble. Derrick was both.
Holding her stomach, she closed the laptop and left the room, reeling. What if he’d read the messages and run away? Houston was miles and miles from Gabriel’s Crossing.
Frightened now, Gena grabbed her keys and loped for the Xterra, praying he was at Quinn’s place with the kittens. Even there was better than on the road to Houston.
Quinn stirred the stew pot and breathed in the warming beef-and-tomato scent. Though the calendar had turned a page, the weather remained lousy cold until he wondered if spring would ever come. A pot of stew would last him for days.
He clanged the lid on and went to his work table; the plans he was tweaking for Brady waited. Work and pain. That’s all his life amounted to these days.
He rubbed his arm, wishing for relief like always this time of day, when the last painkiller had long since worn off and the hours until the next one loomed long and horrible.
The kid was with the kittens, but Quinn saw no reason to join him. He wasn’t in the mood for company.
He’d spotted Derrick coming through the woods as he’d pulled in from work, grumpy as usual after a day of haggling with his workaholic father and brother. The Huckleberry Addition had been problematic since they’d turned the first shovel of dirt. Vandalism, delays, changes.
He focused on the blueprints. Adding an extra bathroom and closet meant an overhaul of the south side. He’d have to give it some thought and run some cost calculations.
The pain crept down his shoulder, flared like hot embers in his bent elbow and spread into his fingers. He opened and closed his hand. He used to do that after a touchdown pass. Flex his fingers, feel the strength that allowed him to throw a ball like a precision torpedo thirty or forty yards past the line of scrimmage. Long, medium or short—no matter the yardage, the Mighty Quinn had been deadly accurate.
These days he couldn’t hit a trash can with a paper wad.
Rotten day. Rotten weather. Stinkin’ rotten nagging pain.
He glanced at the clock.
Too long. He’d never make it. Why fight the inevitable?
Before he could think too much, he walked the short distance to the sink and opened the brown prescription bottle. One or two? He shook the pills into his hand. Two.
He was going down the tubes anyway. Might as well go without his arm screaming.
Quickly, he washed the pills back with a slug of water. The medication had no more than hit bottom when the shame rushed in.
Failure and shame. Once a month, he drove an hour to refill his prescriptions so no one in Gabriel’s Crossing would know their former gridiron hero might have a drug problem.
He was a Christian, or professed to be. Christians weren’t supposed to become dependent on painkillers. So where did that leave him?
Defeated, he made his way back to the computer, then to the stove, restless and waiting for relief.
Quinn wondered if Gena had learned about her nephew’s trudge through the woods last night.
He should probably tell her, but she didn’t