Chapter 29

[Mavis]

In the morning, Clay and I were both quiet and skittish. Dutton was in rare form. He’d been ornery and irritable, like he didn’t get enough sleep when he appeared to sleep like a hibernating bear compared to Clay and me who laid awake most of the night.

“Do you have any idea who he could have been?” Clay had asked me, keeping his voice low as we stood side by side in the kitchen sipping coffee, waiting for the jolt of caffeine to kick in. Dutton stirred his oatmeal in his bowl, hardly eating. Clay had skipped their oatmeal routine.

I didn’t want to lie to Clay, but I also didn’t have any truths to share. I had speculations, so I shook my head, afraid words would betray me. One thing I was rather certain of was the man was not Wesley. The size of the person didn’t match his stature. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a creditor, legal or otherwise, wanting money from Wesley. Or a person affiliated with Wesley somehow. I refused to believe the man was from the club. Dad told me he didn’t have anyone to spare for West Virginia, and he wouldn’t allow someone to go rogue.

Still, whoever he’d been, he was somehow familiar with Dutton and me, and I didn’t like that he’d been lingering in Sterling Falls. I didn’t want to put Clay in danger and not for the first time did I consider either returning to Florida or taking us on the run. However, a life hopping from one place to another, always looking over our shoulders, wasn’t how I wanted to raise Dutton.

I’d encouraged Clay to go to work. I had to be at the hospital. A sense of normalcy was what we needed. There was no other way to act around Dutton, who had gone into sloth mode when told to get dressed. Clay didn’t have the heart to challenge him, so he simply wished Dutton a good day and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before he left for work.

We’d both been disappointed last night hadn’t concluded the way it started, but other things took precedence. Dutton would always come first.

After Clay left, I tried to hustle Dutton along, but I was losing my patience. “Put your shoes on.”

“I want to wear the pink ones.”

I couldn’t find the left shoe of the pair, and I was running out of time. I needed to get him to Meredith’s before I went to the hospital for my shift.

“It’s got to be the blue ones today, little bear,” I said, attempting to loosen the clench of my teeth.

As Dutton fell back on the couch, his feet came upward, and he kicked my phone out of my hand. It landed somewhere near the fireplace.

“Dammit, Dutton.” I didn’t have time or patience for his attitude this morning, but my outburst had nothing to do directly with his behavior. I was on edge because I had decisions to make when I didn’t want to implode our lives again.

Wrestling with his feet to slip on the blue gym shoes, Dutton laid back on the couch, unflinching at my hasty movements.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t sleep well last night and clearly you didn’t either. I’m in a mood, little bear, and you need to give Mama a break today.”

Dutton didn’t reply but his expression shifted, chagrin for his actions. He stood once his shoes were on and helped himself into his coat as I slipped into mine and grabbed my tote bag.

Once we were out the door and heading toward town, a light dusting of snow fell from the gloomy sky.

“Look, buddy.” The winter holidays were a favorite of mine, and the sprinkling of snow hints how close they are. Ducking my head to peer out the windshield better, I glanced up at the clouds beautified by the soft flakes softly drifting downward, covering the car but not sticking to the road.

So, I was surprised when the car suddenly jerked, skidding toward the edge of the road, then hitting the shoulder despite my effort to control the Jetta.

The tires spun in the narrow strip of gravel before we pitched downward into a ditch.

When the airbag explodes, the force knocks into me so hard, I think I passed out a second. I definitely cannot right my bearings at first.

“Dutton,” I scream, battling the deployed bag to turn and confirm he is still safely inside the car.

With his booster seat shifted to the right, Dutton is pressed up against the door, but thankfully, he appears unscathed. The front of the car is aimed nose first into the sharp dip off the side of the road.

Dutton’s eyes are wide when he looks at me, and I reach behind me to make physical contact with him. The movement pinches my shoulder, but I need him to touch my hand. I need him to speak.

“Tell me if it hurts anywhere, little bear?”

“The seatbelt choked me.” His fingers shake as he reaches for the thick strap over his shoulder and near his neck. A red rash swells along the right side of his throat. I’m still concerned he hit his head.

My own shoulders and neck will be stiff later. My face stings from the airbag impact. I’m certain to have some bruising or raw skin in places as well.

“Anywhere else? Did your head jolt forward? Did you hit it on the window? Does your tummy hurt?” I’m trying to think of anything I might miss as the seat belt and booster seat held him tightly in place.

He shakes his head.

“I need to call 911.” Reaching for my bag, my own hand visibly trembles. I rustle through the large tote one handed, moving around items, realizing I never made myself lunch. When I don’t feel my phone inside the bag, I awkwardly dump the purse upside down, allowing the contents to scatter on the passenger seat. Frustrated when I don’t see my phone, I shakily unclip my seat belt, and struggle around the airbag, leaning toward the passenger seat.

Maybe the device fell into the foot well? Then, I remember Dutton kicking outward this morning when I was struggling to get his shoes on him, knocking the phone from my grasp.

Did I retrieve it off the floor?

I can’t remember but I’m leaning toward the possibility I did not when the driver’s side door opens.

A man with a weathered face and dark, shoulder-length hair stares back at me. The scent of cigarettes, worn leather, and cheap cologne conflicts with the freshness of new falling snow.

I scream before finding my voice which comes out raspy and stressed. “Darren.”

“Scar,” he reminds me.

Instantly, I shift in my seat glancing at Dutton strapped into the back. I quickly turn toward Darren. Scar . Fear fills me.

“Looks like you’re in a pickle, Mavis.” He bitterly chuckles. “And I realize I’m not exactly your knight in shining armor.”

“I’ve called 911.” I lie, unwilling to admit I don’t have my phone and have no way to call for help.

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you come with me for a while?”

“Darren,” I plead. “We’ve just been in an accident. Dutton might need medical assistance.” I don’t want Darren looking at Dutton. Don’t want him anywhere near the boy, but I’m also hoping he might find a pinch of pity in his measly heart.

Compassion for the child he deserted.

“I’ll take you to an urgent care.”

This small town doesn’t have one nearby. “The hospital would be better.” Soon, I’ll be considered missing from work and entering the emergency room is our best hope of getting away from Darren.

The man gives me a long hard look. The scar on his face accentuated by the ruddiness of his skin in the cold temperature. He’s a long way from Florida or wherever he’s been hiding.

“I’ll take care of you.”

I could argue, questioning if his version of care was like how he took care of my sister, a woman he claimed to love? But arguing with him would not be in my best interest, or Dutton’s.

When he clutches my arm, I know better than to fight him. A struggle will only make him grip harder, and I don’t want to frighten Dutton. I need to be with Dutton at all times. I need to be cognizant for him.

I awkwardly slip out of the Jetta, discovering my legs are trembling like the rest of me. Shock on two levels is kicking in—the slip into the ditch and Darren’s presence.

He leaves me beside the open driver’s door, knowing I won’t run. I won’t leave Dutton, and I follow behind Darren, not wanting his hands on Dutton. He easily opens the rear passenger door, and picks up my son, tucking him into his chest. Dutton doesn’t struggle, but his eyes remain on me.

“It’s okay, buddy. He’s going to take us to the hospital.” I don’t address who Darren is. Dutton has no recollection of a father in his life. He didn’t have a father. Darren was simply a sperm donor.

When Darren places his hand protectively on Dutton’s back, the gesture startles me. Carrying Dutton, he slips once in the wetness of the ditch wall before finishing the climb to the road. He doesn’t have the proper boost seat for a child, and I want to suggest we should just wait for the 911 call I didn’t make to dispatch emergency vehicles. But it’s cold this morning, and as the call is a lie, I don’t have time to waste hoping someone else will pass our location. I’m surprised no one noticed us slide into the ditch.

“Hate these cages,” Darren mutters about his pickup truck, setting Dutton inside the cab. I practically push Darren out of the way, ensuring I enter the truck as well, and Darren doesn’t shove me out of the way, then drive off with Dutton.

Being paranoid, I’m overly cautious for good reason. You don’t grow up in a motorcycle club with potential kidnapping survival training for nothing.

As Darren circles around the hood of the truck, I glance around the cab for anything that can be used as a weapon or protection. Then Darren hops easily into the driver’s seat and I tug Dutton to my side and buckle us together in one seatbelt.

If I thought Darren honestly meant he was taking us to the hospital, that he had a momentary lapse into being a good man, I was a fool. And as we drive out of town, away from both Sterling Falls and the direction of the hospital, I know Dutton and I are in trouble.