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Authors: Conlan Brown
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belle of the ball. Beauty of the backwoods. She’d broken more hearts than any girl had a right to and was known as the catch of the county. Prom queen, homecoming queen, hometown pageant winner—all by the age of seventeen. She dated the quarterback—and was three months pregnant with his child at graduation.
What had started out a fairy tale had become a nightmare. The child’s father married her but was hardly an equal partner—he was a drunk, mean, and hardly able to keep a job. It fell on her to serve as breadwinner. When he finally beat her so badly that she thought she might lose the baby, she fled. She gave birth to her son, Jonathan Temple, in Reno, Nevada, while she was working as a waitress.
As a result John had been raised on the road, moving up and down the coast and along Route 66, never staying long in any one place. Despite her stunning looks and striking figure, she declined every one of the many men who approached her. John was the only man in her life, and he was not going to take a backseat to another user.
When John was eighteen, he moved on to college, paying his tuition with the hefty nest egg his mother had saved for him in her many years of waiting tables throughout the American West. And the moment she was done raising and taking care of her little man, she went looking for a man to take care of her.
It took five years before she met Barry, a doughy, bald accountant from Sacramento. He was hardly a thing of glamour, but he genuinely, desperately loved John’s mother. He was good to her and spent every spare moment he had with her.
The phone rang for a moment, then the answering machine picked up: “Hi, you’ve reached Barry and Marcia Parson. We’re not able to come to the phone right now…”
John set the phone down and lay back again. It was for the best; she’d only ask if he’d seen Trista, and that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have again.
He wondered if he’d see Trista in San Antonio, then heaved a sigh, reprimanding himself.
“Let her go, John.”
Chapter 6
H ANNAH STEPPED OUT of the car and looked around.
The ranch was home. It was where she spent her summers growing up. She didn’t say anything. Too much of herself still felt more comfortable nestled in her mind, away from the world, for her to share her feelings. The blizzard had passed, and in true Colorado form, nearly a foot of snow had melted to slush in less than a week. Colorado could be like that, a foot of snow one day, spring the next. There was a stinging chill to the air, even though the sun was shining.
“Come on,” her grandfather said, offering her an arm.
She took it, silently, and followed him into the house.
Hannah leaned against the fence, watching the cattle.
Blake walked and leaned next to her.
Hannah had known him most of her life. He was tall, blond, handsome, and strong. Blake was a tough man who had never lost a fight and was an expert marksman. As a result, her grandfather had kept him around like a bodyguard. She didn’t understand, but she had come to accept him. In fact, in her young teens she’d been madly in love with him, a crush that had soon passed.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
She didn’t reply. She felt sickly, nauseous. She felt—
Cold night. A man in a car. Another man—she couldn’t make out his face—approaching. Glass blistering with jagged bullet holes.
She felt death crawl up her skin.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, turning to walk away. “I feel sick. I’m going inside.”
She wandered through the dark halls of the house, the same as she had done every day for the past two weeks, running her hand along the coarse wallpaper in the dim light. Rows of pictures adorned the wall, hung in patterns that made little to no sense.
Then she saw herself, her reflection, tired and distant, floating in the glassy sheet that covered a picture frame. Her hair was a mess and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She didn’t touch her hair, not even to
What had started out a fairy tale had become a nightmare. The child’s father married her but was hardly an equal partner—he was a drunk, mean, and hardly able to keep a job. It fell on her to serve as breadwinner. When he finally beat her so badly that she thought she might lose the baby, she fled. She gave birth to her son, Jonathan Temple, in Reno, Nevada, while she was working as a waitress.
As a result John had been raised on the road, moving up and down the coast and along Route 66, never staying long in any one place. Despite her stunning looks and striking figure, she declined every one of the many men who approached her. John was the only man in her life, and he was not going to take a backseat to another user.
When John was eighteen, he moved on to college, paying his tuition with the hefty nest egg his mother had saved for him in her many years of waiting tables throughout the American West. And the moment she was done raising and taking care of her little man, she went looking for a man to take care of her.
It took five years before she met Barry, a doughy, bald accountant from Sacramento. He was hardly a thing of glamour, but he genuinely, desperately loved John’s mother. He was good to her and spent every spare moment he had with her.
The phone rang for a moment, then the answering machine picked up: “Hi, you’ve reached Barry and Marcia Parson. We’re not able to come to the phone right now…”
John set the phone down and lay back again. It was for the best; she’d only ask if he’d seen Trista, and that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have again.
He wondered if he’d see Trista in San Antonio, then heaved a sigh, reprimanding himself.
“Let her go, John.”
Chapter 6
H ANNAH STEPPED OUT of the car and looked around.
The ranch was home. It was where she spent her summers growing up. She didn’t say anything. Too much of herself still felt more comfortable nestled in her mind, away from the world, for her to share her feelings. The blizzard had passed, and in true Colorado form, nearly a foot of snow had melted to slush in less than a week. Colorado could be like that, a foot of snow one day, spring the next. There was a stinging chill to the air, even though the sun was shining.
“Come on,” her grandfather said, offering her an arm.
She took it, silently, and followed him into the house.
Hannah leaned against the fence, watching the cattle.
Blake walked and leaned next to her.
Hannah had known him most of her life. He was tall, blond, handsome, and strong. Blake was a tough man who had never lost a fight and was an expert marksman. As a result, her grandfather had kept him around like a bodyguard. She didn’t understand, but she had come to accept him. In fact, in her young teens she’d been madly in love with him, a crush that had soon passed.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
She didn’t reply. She felt sickly, nauseous. She felt—
Cold night. A man in a car. Another man—she couldn’t make out his face—approaching. Glass blistering with jagged bullet holes.
She felt death crawl up her skin.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, turning to walk away. “I feel sick. I’m going inside.”
She wandered through the dark halls of the house, the same as she had done every day for the past two weeks, running her hand along the coarse wallpaper in the dim light. Rows of pictures adorned the wall, hung in patterns that made little to no sense.
Then she saw herself, her reflection, tired and distant, floating in the glassy sheet that covered a picture frame. Her hair was a mess and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She didn’t touch her hair, not even to
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