Chapter 3

[Mavis]

I shouldn’t have stayed but I didn’t have the heart to leave. Clay Sylver was so sick. I was certain he had the flu, and as much as I didn’t want to expose myself to him for fear Dutton would have a relapse, I couldn’t leave him.

After watching him fall on his face the other night, I scrambled from the Jetta, grateful to find Clay had not locked his front door when he entered his home. Thankfully, he hadn’t broken his nose when he landed on the floor. By the grace of all things holy, I was able to rouse him enough to help him sit upright and then lead him to his bedroom, although he leaned heavily on me. His clothing was soaked. His skin was a cloying mixture of chilly and clammy. Unceremoniously, I dropped him on his bed and stared down at him, a war raging within me.

Stay or go .

I selected option one but first I had to get Dutton from the car. Rushing back to the vehicle, I picked up my six-year-old, struggling with the new weight he’d gained and the deadweight of a lanky sleeping child. I brought him into Clay’s house, tucking him in on the couch with a decorative pillow and a throw blanket. Returning to my car I retrieved our suitcases. The two large bags contained most of our belongings. The few other things we owned remain in Florida for now.

Then I settled in to take care of Clay.

As an out-of-work nurse, I told myself to treat him like any patient. Rolling him over was another struggle as a sleeping, grown man is five times the deadweight of a child. I peeled his wet leather jacket from him and wrestled with the Henley beneath it that was sticky and tricky to remove. Clay was hardly disturbed while I held my breath and occasionally let out a laugh at my awkward attempts. His boots came next, easy enough to tug off him, and then removal of his socks that were disgustingly saturated. His jeans, however, were my real dilemma.

I didn’t want to feel like I was taking advantage of Clay in any manner, but extreme times call for extreme measures, and Clay could not sleep in wet denim that was suckered to him like a second skin. Gingerly, I popped the button at his waist before realizing they were button fly as well and I couldn’t do a simple unzip to relieve him of his pants. No, I had to cautiously pop open each button, working deliberately while quickly, so I didn’t disturb a particular body part I had no business thinking about.

Certain the sudden movement of tugging at his waistband near his hips would wake him, I pulled hard and fast.

Clay didn’t rouse and, thankfully, neither did any other part of him.

Once his jeans were removed, he rolled over without a glance at me. His entire body shivered while I willed myself not to give him an appraising glance. However, the struggle was real. Clay might be over forty, but his body was tight. His muscles honed from manual labor. His back had divots I didn’t think could exist. His legs had definition. His forearms were covered in tattoos.

I tried not to objectify him, but my imagination took flight, wondering how it would feel to have those arms wrapped around me in comfort. How a body that tight pressed against mine might feel like safety. Would his skin be warm like a blanket of security?

When he trembled again, a slight moan added to the quiver. I pulled the blankets up and over him knowing he could really use a shower to warm up and maybe some fever medication. He was burning up.

I should have walked away then. He was safely in his home. He was removed from the rain-soaked clothes. He was tucked into his bed. But I didn’t go. I didn’t have anywhere pressing to be.

Only a cheap motel some forty minutes away awaited us.

And while I should have laid on the couch next to Dutton, cuddling my little man, then left as soon as the sun rose, I didn’t.

Instead, I snuck in a quick warmup shower for myself, helped myself to a T-shirt on the back of his bathroom door, and laid down beside Clay, keeping the blankets around him as a barrier between us. I figured if he woke with me beside him, I could explain myself without a scene in front of Dutton.

Dutton had already had enough scenes in his young life.

However, Clay slept into the late afternoon, and I busied Dutton with our normal routine. I’d been homeschooling him since August which wasn’t ideal, and another reason I’d decided to leave Florida. I wanted him to be in a school setting where he could interact with children his age. Plus, I needed a job. I’d lost my nursing position in Florida, which had been another sign to exit the southern-most state. I couldn’t continue to rely on the shaky hospitality my parents had given us.

When a heavy knock rattles the front door, I freeze from picking up Dutton’s afternoon snack. He’d worked hard in the morning, following the homeschooling curriculum resources I’d found online, and had earned free time to play safe video games on my tablet. He didn’t even look up at the interruption, but my breath caught. My hands trembled.

Breathe, Mavis. Breathe .

Setting Dutton’s plate by the sink, I head toward the front door where I hear the distinct whirl of the keypad lock unlatching. As the door swings open, I pause beside Clay’s couch, wringing my hands together and waiting on whomever might be entering.

With a stunned expression that mirrors mine, I face Stone Sylver, the local sheriff and Clay’s eldest brother.

“Mavis Holland?”

“Hi.” I weakly wave. “It’s Mavis Grant, actually. Nice to see you again, Sheriff Sylver.”

Stone is a large man with hair as silver as his brother’s. His eyes are a softer blue, though. His presence intimidating while strangely reassuring. He’s the law around here, and the impressive uniform he’s wearing reinforces that position. Plus, I respect him.

His thick brows crease, the question between them the same one I’ve been asking myself for the last twelve plus hours.

What are you doing here?

Stone keeps those Sylver-clan blue eyes on me a second before looking around the room. “Is Clay around?”

“He’s in his room. He’s very sick.” My answers sound stilted like I’ve been caught shoplifting, which I’d never do, and haven’t done here. While I am invading Clay’s privacy, I wouldn’t say I’m breaking and entering. A quick glance at my open suitcase in the corner suggests I might be a squatter in a non-vacant home.

With a heavy exhale, I release my wringing fingers and smooth my hands down my upper thighs. “He was stranded on the side of the road two nights ago.”

Stone’s brows rise.

“And there was a storm.”

He nods to agree, as if remembering.

“So, I pulled over when I recognized him.”

Stone’s facial expression goes blank. Not a hint of surprise or suggestion of concern.

“He must have been out there for a while because he was soaked to the bone, and he had a horrible cough.”

Stone lowers his head, shaking it side to side while the corner of his mouth crooks in a manner similar to his closest-in-age brother.

“He made it inside the house, and I was set to leave but through the windows, I saw him fall.” I point at the floor to ceiling windows behind Stone. The glass panels are like sheets of clear drywall and provide a spectacular view to the immediate outdoors. A large field stone fireplace is the focal point of this room, though. A soft, caramel-colored leather couch faces the hearth while an oversized chair and matching ottoman sit in the corner closest to the fireplace. I’d previously admired the natural color scheme in the slightly masculine room, but now, I explain myself.

“I helped him up and took him to bed.”

Stone’s head lifts at those words, eyes expressive and wide.

I clear my throat as my face heats. “I mean, I helped him into his bed, tucked him, and then—” And then what? Helped myself to stay here overnight? Made meals with food that wasn’t mine with the intention I’d pay him back?

Stone watches me a long, awkward moment before stating, “Clay’s lucky you are here.”

I want to take that praise and roll in the genuine warmth of Stone’s words, but I know better. Luck and I are not friends. We aren’t even neighbors.

“I was hoping to get him to eat something and then we’ll be on our way.”

“We?” Stone arches a brow, glancing around me.

“Do you remember my son, Dutton?” My voice lowers, embarrassed and ashamed of how I first encountered Stone Sylver. A cold sweat breaks out on my neck. I don’t know if the sheriff remembers all his cases or if situations eventually blur together. We hadn’t lived in Sterling Falls for long before everything fell apart.

How had my life become such a mess?

Oh wait, I know the answer to this one . Because I had a proclivity for alpha-holes instead of cinnamon rolls in my life, and my ex had been the biggest jackass.

“How is he?” Stone asks, his voice firm, but comforting. His question is as genuine as his smile.

I remember when he told me how proud he was of me, for finding the courage and the opportunity to admit to him what had been happening in my life. Like I had done something truly amazing and brave. I didn’t think I had, but Stone made me feel like I had.

If only I had gone to Stone sooner. Would it have made my life easier, or more difficult? Leaving came down to timing, and I’d almost been too late to freely make the decision on my own. There are statistics and reports on the number of women who stay in abusive relationships, and volumes written about the psychology of such decisions, but no one understands the toxic position like the woman who lives it.

The hope that he doesn’t mean his ugly words.

The desire to believe he loves us.

The way he made me feel during the good times.

The absolute lie in every touch and word and promise .

I focus on those lies to remind myself of what happened to me and Dutton.

My sister would have been so ashamed of me and the mess I made.

“He’s doing well. Better.” I slip my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “We’ve been in Florida for a while. But I wanted to come home.”

Again, we hadn’t lived in Sterling Falls for long, but I’d liked it here. A sense of community existed. People were friendly. Business owners polite. We’d found a routine I appreciated. I’d had a good job. We had a beautiful home.

The thought of that house makes my skin crawl. I won’t ever go back there, which was another reason to return. I had insurance claims to collect and the shell of a residence to sell, and I’d made the assumption that being present would speed up the already painfully long, drawn out process.

Stone continues to watch me before glancing around his brother’s living room. “If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.”

“Thank you.” We remain pinned in place. Him eyeing me; me trying to hold my ground. I should be restating how I’ll leave after Clay takes some dinner. I should tell the local sheriff that I’ll be staying in a motel some forty minutes from here because it was the cheapest place I could afford on my unemployed budget. I should ask if he’s seen or heard anything about Wesley Holland.

But I don’t.

Stone nods, then tips his head toward the long hallway that runs the length of the house, the outer wall all glass panels until the end where Clay’s bedroom begins. “I’m gonna go check on the invalid.” His smile softens again.

I smile in return and relax for the first time in a long time.