Hearts Awakened
by Linda Winfree
Copyright © 2017 by Linda Winfree. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
“I told you what happened. Why won’t you believe me?”
The fear in the tremulous voice tugged at Tori Calvert’s heart. She leaned forward, careful not to touch Maggie Stinson’s hand. Maggie would only pull away.
Tori clasped her hands in her lap. Not long ago, she’d been unable to bear a casual touch too. “I want to help you, but I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me.”
In the silence between them, the hospital’s PA system dinged and paged Dr. Mackey. Behind the curtain separating the emergency cubicles, another patient moaned and a female voice whispered reassurances. The lingering scent of disinfectant and Betadine hung in the air.
Maggie’s swollen mouth trembled and firmed into a thin line. She winced. “It’s like Jed told you. I opened the cabinet, and the cans tumbled out. One of them caught me in the face and busted my lip. That’s all.”
Must’ve been a pretty big can. Tori eyed the red bruise that extended from the left corner of Maggie’s mouth to her eye. A big can with a right-handed fist and a nasty temper.
“I want to see my wife!” Jed Stinson’s voice boomed through the small ER area. Maggie jumped, a visible shiver traveling over her frame. This time, Tori did take her hand, and for just a moment, Maggie clung to her before letting go. With a shaky sigh, she pushed her thin brown hair away from her face, hooking the strands behind her ears.
“Hold your horses, Jed.” That resolute no-nonsense tone belonged to sheriff’s investigator Mark Cook, and Tori relaxed. As long as Cookie was outside the curtain, Jed wouldn’t get in until they were ready. “We have to finish your statement and Layla’s waiting for the local to take effect before she puts in Maggie’s stitches. Now tell me again what happened? I didn’t get it all last time.”
Jed repeated the story Tori had already heard three times. She’d give the Stinsons one thing—they always had their version of the facts straight. The only problem was their version never jived with the physical evidence. And Maggie Stinson would never sign a complaint against her husband.
At the other end of the cubicle, a slender hand swept the curtain aside and Layla Jackson stepped inside. Turquoise surgical scrubs highlighted flawless skin like dark honey. Pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, she smiled at Maggie. “Well, let’s see if we’re ready for those stitches.”
During the few minutes it took her to deftly close the wound at the corner of Maggie’s lip, Layla kept up a light, comforting monologue. Under Layla’s smooth voice, the tension gradually drained from Maggie’s posture. The male voices outside the curtain drifted away. Once Layla finished, Maggie fidgeted, clutching her prescription for antibiotics. “Can I go home now?”
Tori glanced up and met Layla’s resigned gaze, her large eyes like liquid ebony. Layla nodded. “Sure.”
As Maggie slid from the table and straightened her oversized, blood-spattered T-shirt, Tori stood. “I’ll walk out with you.”
“No!” Maggie shook her head and slid the crumpled prescription in her pocket. “That’s okay. I’m just going to find Jed and go home.”
“Wait.” Tori dug in the pocket of her jeans and came up with a card bearing the phone number of the women’s crisis center. She smoothed out one bent corner against her thigh and snagged Layla’s pen to scribble her cell number on the back. “Take this. Call if you need anything.”
Maggie crammed the vellum rectangle into her pocket without looking at it. “Thanks.”
She slipped out between the curtains and was gone. Tori sighed and turned to Layla. “This is, what? The third time since May?”
Layla nodded, clearing away her supplies. She pulled off her gloves and dropped them in the wastebasket. “Broken wrist in May. The burns to her hands in August. Now, this busted lip. And those are just the ‘accidents’ that bring her here. No telling what she handles at home by herself.”
Tori swallowed a frustrated growl. More than the administrative duties of her position as the crisis center’s director, she hated this part of her job—knowing someone needed help, but meeting resistance when offering assistance. “We’ve got to do something. I’m going to talk to Cookie.”
“I’ll come with you. Jay’s getting the toothache in cubicle two and I’m due a break.”
For a Friday night, the emergency room remained relatively deserted. Only a couple of people sat in the waiting room—a young man dozing in front of the television and a woman with a short skirt and too-blonde hair. She leafed through an old Cosmopolitan, her expression bored. Jed and Maggie were gone and Cookie was nowhere to be seen.
Tori lifted her hands and let them fall against her jeans. “Where is he?”
The automatic door slid open, admitting a brisk gust of wind and Mark Cook. His green sheriff’s department windbreaker topped jeans and a Florida State T-shirt, and with them, he wore an expression of extreme disgust. Tori’s stomach lifted and fell with the odd little flutter it had developed whenever she saw him lately. She started to tunnel a hand through her hair, remembered she’d pulled it into a messy ponytail earlier, and stopped.
“Hey,” she said, tucking her hands in her back pockets. “Did you get anywhere?”
Cookie’s mouth tightened and he passed a hand over his close-cropped brown hair. “No. She swears it was a can falling out of the cabinet and he sure as hell isn’t going to say otherwise.”
“Can’t you do anything?” Frustration curled in her chest, making breathing difficult. She glanced at the other occupants of the waiting room and forced her voice to a low tone. “Come on, Cookie. This is the third time she’s been in here in five months. He’s hurting her and if we don’t do something about it, she could end up dead.”
Unwrapping a piece of gum, he didn’t rise to her agitation, not that she expected him to. In the past couple of years, she’d worked countless assault and domestic abuse cases with him, and he always remained utterly cool, completely unruffled. “What do you want me to do? I can’t arrest him unless she files a complaint or we get called out to the house on a domestic. And there aren’t any neighbors out there to complain.”
Then their intervention plan meant nothing? When she’d developed the idea and written the grant for it during her domestic-violence course, her professor had raved. No one had pointed out how cold, hard reality would grind her idealism into the dust.
She sighed. “Thanks for coming anyway. I know it’s your night off.”
“No problem.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a grin and her stomach performed its silly little somersault again. He glanced over at the blonde. “Angel, you ready to go?”
Angel tossed the magazine on the chair beside hers and rose. She smoothed the snug denim skirt and sashayed to Cookie’s side. Her breasts, obviously not bound by a bra, bounced inside the skinny tank top she wore under a corduroy jacket. “More than ready, baby.”
Her blonde head barely reached his broad shoulders. Tori hunched a little bit. Petite women always made her feel like a huge, clunky Amazon. Cookie stood a couple inches taller than she did, but in her low-heeled boots, they were eye to eye. Catching his cynical gray gaze, she looked away before he saw the insecurity in hers.
Glancing away might have been a mistake. Now her gaze lay on his hand patting Angel’s hip. Tori bit her lip. Geez, this was ridiculous. She wasn’t twelve and this wasn’t middle school. She shouldn’t be getting her feelings hurt because Cookie was interested in someone else. It wasn’t like he’d even think of looking twice at her. Angel was his type—blonde, lushly endowed, overtly sensual. Everything Tori wasn’t.
“Well, I’m outta here.” He sounded relieved, and with his smile, the slight slashes by his mouth deepened. Tori pulled her attention from the angles of his face—the serious set of his brow, strong jaw, the cleft chin. His observant gray eyes saw too much and the last thing she wanted was to be caught staring at him. “Call if you need anything else.”
“Sure. Have fun.” The words hurt her throat, but she watched until he and Angel crossed the street and he helped her climb into his ancient Blazer.
“Huh.” Layla snorted. “Only one kind of fun they’ll be having. Did you see that skirt?”
“Layla, that’s mean.” She didn’t have to ask what kind of fun Layla meant. Heck, that kind of fun Cookie was famous for. “She was cute.”
“Tori, please. The woman was wearing pink glitter on her eyelids. She looked like a third grader’s art project.”
“Boy, am I glad you’re my friend. I’d hate to have you talking behind my back.”
Layla tugged at the sleeve of Tori’s long-sleeved T-shirt. “I could start on your fashion sense, but I won’t. Come on. I only have ten minutes and I need a caffeine fix.”
They grabbed sodas from the vending machines and took them outside. The insistent breeze picked up leaves from the gutter and tossed them across the parking lot. Bright light spilled from halogen security lights and kept the shadows at bay. Tori leaned against the wall, not sure which one she didn’t want to think about more: Maggie Stinson going home with Jed or Cookie having “fun” with his Angel. She set her soda on the brick ledge by the steps, depression settling on her.
“There’s that look again.” Layla took a long sip of her own drink. “Like the weight of the whole world is on those skinny little shoulders of yours.”
Skinny? Tori shot her a look and refrained from asking when was the last time Layla had an eye exam. She was too curvy up top and too fond of her mama’s homemade biscuits, which went straight to her butt, to qualify as skinny. “I’m afraid next time Maggie won’t turn up in the ER.”
“Honey, I know you want to save the world, and I admire you for it.” Layla rolled her soda can between her hands. “But someone has to want to be saved before you can help them. And right now, Maggie wants Jed more than she wants help.”
“I don’t get it. Why would she want him? He hurts her and this is going on with the kids in the house.”
“You’re the one with the psych degree. You tell me.”
Tori shook her head. Oh, she held a master’s degree in psychology, was working on her doctorate and could rattle off the textbook reasons why some women remained in abusive relationships, but that didn’t mean she understood it. Maggie’s insistence on protecting Jed, on staying in the marriage, just didn’t make sense.
Layla gripped the ends of her stethoscope, looped around her neck. “So are you hanging out here or going home?”
Smothering a yawn, Tori stretched. She retrieved her almost-full soda and tossed it in the waste can by the steps. “I’m going home to take a hot bath and read twenty pages on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“Sounds like fun.” Layla made a face. “I’ll trade you a chapter on infectious diseases.”
“No, thanks.” Laughing, Tori tugged her keys from her pocket and moved toward the parking lot.
“Want me to walk with you?” Layla called after her, concern wrapping around the words.
Tori did, but the desire to appear normal was stronger than the fear and weakness. She shook her head. “That’s okay. I’ll see you later.”
Forcing herself to walk, she headed for her Miata, its silver paint gleaming under the bright lights. She kept her gaze moving in a constant scan of the parking lot until she was in the driver’s seat. Once the doors were locked, the painful stress in her stomach let up some. She flexed her fingers on the wheel and took a deep breath before starting the engine.
During the short drive home, she focused on the pools of light cast by streetlights, unable to look at the shadows waiting beyond the sidewalks. Driving at night remained one of her greatest obstacles, and even though she refused to let it cripple her life, it always made her feel sick before, during and after.
She slowed to take the left into the parking lot of her apartment complex. The three buildings stood away from the road in a horseshoe shape around a sparkling heated pool. Although it was October, a handful of her neighbors sat around the water and a couple were swimming. She pulled into her parking space, directly in front of the stairs and looked around. No one on the sidewalk. Nobody under or at the top of the stairs. Her living room lights remained lit.
The dark beyond those lights pressed in on her, suffocating in its heaviness. The sense of panic twisted in her throat and she shoved it away. She wasn’t alone. The Bolingers and Braswells were at the pool, a scream away. No one waited for her in the dark. Not tonight.
Keys ready, she swung out of the car.
“Hey, Tori!” She jerked at the male voice calling across the lot. Her fingers tightened on her keys, attached to a small karate bo, and adrenaline surged through her body in an uncomfortable rush. She forced herself to breathe at a normal rate—in, out, in, out. She knew the voice. It was only Randy Braswell, calling from the pool area.
She turned, schooling her expression into a polite mask. “Hi, Randy.”
He gestured toward the pool area and his wife waved. “Why don’t you come join us? It’s a real nice night.”
Sit outside at night? In the dark? Uh, no. She shook her head. “Thanks anyway. I have a lot of studying to do.”
“Maybe next time,” Patty Braswell called. “Don’t study too hard.”
With a wave, Tori jogged up the stairs to her apartment door. The lock turned smoothly and she was inside, the door closed and locked. Still grasping the wooden finger bo on her key ring, she moved through each room of the small apartment, opening closet doors and checking every possible hiding space. The lack of a dust ruffle on her bed let her see beneath the bed from any angle in her room. Sheer drapes over vinyl blinds eliminated another opportunity for camouflage. Her shower curtain was a sheet of clear plastic.
The apartment was empty.
Afterwards, she dropped her keys on the counter next to the phone and laughed at herself, a harsh sound of self-derision. Would she ever get beyond the ritual? Probably not, since she performed it every time she entered the apartment and had since she’d moved in three years before.
Silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional voice from outside. She slipped to the window and peeked between the slats of her blinds. Sarah Bolinger arched in a dive, splashing into the water. The middle building was dark. Across the parking lot, in the third building, a light burned in the living room that mirrored hers.
Cookie’s Blazer wasn’t in his spot, though. He’d left his light on, but he wasn’t home. She didn’t have to imagine where he was or what he was doing. Hatred burned in her throat like bile. She hated him because she cared, hated herself for the same reason. This whole thing—every breathless, stomach-fluttering moment of it—was pointless. She wasn’t the type of woman Mark Cook would be interested in.
And she never would be.
…
Mark Cook tugged his jeans into place and zipped them. A Mel Gibson movie blared from the motel television and Angel sat against the headboard, wearing her panties and tank top and eating French fries from a McDonald’s bag. He reached for his T-shirt. A burger and motel cable weren’t what he’d had in mind when he’d offered her dinner and a movie, but he hadn’t expected to end up at the hospital dealing with Jed Stinson again either.
Not that Angel seemed to care one way or the other, since she’d gotten what she’d really gone out with him for. He brushed pink glitter from his chest and tugged the T-shirt over his head.
Angel glanced up from the television and pointed a crisp, golden fry in his direction. “You have lost weight since the last time I saw you, baby. How much?”
“About twenty pounds.” And twelve to go to make Jay Mackey, physician from hell, happy. Retrieving his socks, he looked around for his shoes.
“They’re by the door.” Angel spoke around a mouthful of French fries.
“Thanks.” He grabbed them and settled on the edge of the bed. Glancing at the television, he pulled on his socks. Mel kissed a very pregnant Rene Russo and Mark looked away. He stomped a foot into a tennis shoe.
“Baby, you don’t have to go yet.” Angel wrapped her arms around his neck, the rounded softness of her breasts pressed to his back. A French fry rested near his collarbone, its salty aroma filling his nose. She nuzzled the side of his neck. “We could still have a little more fun.”
“I have to work tomorrow.” If they weren’t old friends and he didn’t know better, he’d think she kept calling him baby because she didn’t remember his name. Hell, he’d used the ruse often enough in the past.
She bit the lobe of his ear, one hand wandering down his chest. With the other, she trailed the French fry across his lips. “You could spend the night here, with me.”
If he did, he wouldn’t get any sleep. The lifestyle had definitely lost its appeal when he wanted the French fry and a few uninterrupted hours of rest instead of the warm, willing woman trying to entice him. With a sigh, he turned his head and captured the fry with his teeth. Salt and grease exploded on his tongue. God, that was good. Surely one wouldn’t kill him. How many calories and fat grams in one little fry? He caught her hand before it slid below his belt.
“Angel, baby.” He brushed his mouth against her palm. “You wore me out, honey. I have to be up early in the morning. But feel free to hang out.”
She traced his jaw with her finger. “Well, you know I prefer you to Mel any day, but if you’re sure…”
He was. Actually, after dealing with Jed’s stubborn ass earlier, he wouldn’t have minded simply dinner and a movie, a hot kiss goodnight and his own bed, but Angel’s sweet persuasion and the need to dodge his own disquiet had led him down the same old path. He stood, her arms falling away, and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “I’m sure. Enjoy your movie.”
Her attention already diverted, she eyed the television and waved at him. “Sweet dreams.”
“Yeah. You too.”
“Hey, before you go…the brunette at the hospital, the tall one? Was that Tick’s little sister?”
He didn’t want Tori’s image mixed up in the sordidness of this motel room. “Yeah.”
Angel tilted her head to one side, munching again. “I thought so. She looks like him. She’d be real cute too, if she’d fix herself up a little.”
“Night, Angel.” He stepped outside and made sure the door latched.
The damp air wrapped around him, mist moving beneath the lights in the parking lot. Truck engines rumbled out on the highway and he dragged in deep breaths, trying to clear Angel’s perfume from his nose. The Blazer’s door creaked when he opened it and the cracked leather driver’s seat hugged him like a glove when he slid behind the wheel.
He stuck the key in the ignition and rested his head on the steering wheel. Tori—Tori—would be real cute if she’d fix herself up a little? He laughed. Tori Calvert had to be the most genuine, naturally gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. Her brand of beauty came from deep inside, a softness that glowed in her dark eyes and transformed her face when she smiled. Fixing up that face with pink glitter, red lipstick and too much black mascara would be a travesty.
Lifting his head, he started the truck. He wasn’t going to think about her. Tori was purity and goodness and everything wonderful.
Not to mention the fact Tick would kill him for looking twice at her. A slow, painful and creative death, for sure. When it came to his baby sister, Tick Calvert didn’t play.
Mark threw the truck in reverse and backed out. Headlights swept the parking lot and a white patrol car turned the corner. Its searchlight played across his windshield, blinding him a moment. He cursed and threw up a hand to protect his eyes.
The patrol unit idled to a slow stop next to his truck. Mark rolled down his window and, through the green spots blurring his vision, eyed the young deputy in the driver’s seat. “Troy Lee, what are you doing?”
“Patrolling.” Troy Lee’s white teeth flashed in the grin that had half of Chandler County’s young women speeding, just on the chance the department’s youngest deputy would pull them over. “What are you doing?”
“Going home.”
Troy Lee draped a hand on the steering wheel, his gaze resting on Angel’s bright yellow Mustang. “Ever notice how many local tags there are in this parking lot on a Friday night?”
Yeah. The Mercedes parked at the end room belonged to the chairman of the county commission. The SUV next to it did not belong to the chairman’s wife. Probably half the cars had local owners. However, if anybody’s name got tossed around the gossip circles after church Sunday, it would be his. Chandler County had a pecking order and he was still an outsider, still at the bottom.
He fixed Troy Lee with a hard stare. “Yeah, but I don’t want to hear anything out in the county tomorrow about whose car was where. It’s none of our business. Got that?”
Troy Lee’s grin disappeared into a little boy pout. “Sure. I got it.”
“Good.” Just because the chairman’s wife knew about her husband’s philandering didn’t mean having the local gossips throw it in her face wasn’t painful. The old-biddy committee didn’t need any fresh ammo. They made up enough on their own.
Mark gunned his engine a little and shifted into drive. “Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned left out of the parking lot, Troy Lee heading off to the right. This late, the empty streets lay quiet. The fast-food joints stood closed and dark, a few cars in front of the all-night diner on the main drag. Inside, waitresses in bright orange dresses moved under the harsh lights.
His stomach growled and he wavered. The diner served the best patty melts in town. The single French fry he’d eaten earlier called to him, beckoning him to abandon the self-discipline he’d built over the last four months.
Shaking his head, he drove on. Twelve pounds. Avoiding that patty melt, and the apple pie he’d surely order with it, would get him that much closer to his goal.
When he pulled into his apartment complex, nothing moved except lacy crape-myrtle branches. The security lights illuminated the stairways and parking lot. The pool area lay silent and empty. Of the twelve apartments, lights shone in only two. His and Tori’s.
He stepped out of the truck and stared across at her windows. Her living room lights burned all the time, so he had no way of knowing whether she slept beyond that pool of brightness. A lot of nights, the nights when the dreams and the memories were too strong, she didn’t sleep, but roamed her apartment. She hadn’t shared that and he’d never been beyond her front door. He knew because he saw her silhouette move against the blinds and because when Tick worried about her, he talked.
That was how Mark had learned his presence in the complex made her feel safe. Secure. Not as alone. The knowledge warmed him too much for comfort. Getting hung up on Tori Calvert was a dead-end street. The fact he was halfway there and had been for the last two years or so didn’t help.
Turning away, he jogged up the stairs to his place. If she was awake, he didn’t want her to see him watching her apartment, didn’t want her to feel the moment’s panic that would cause until she figured out it was him.
He’d promised Tick he’d look out for her, keep her safe. So as long as she needed him, he’d be here.
Watching over her.
…
Tori opened the bag of microwave popcorn, careful to keep her fingers clear of the poof of escaping steam. She poured the fluffy kernels into a bowl and popped a few in her mouth. Hot against her tongue, the salty snack seemed to melt. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste.
She carried the bowl into the living room. Her abandoned textbook rested on the coffee table and she settled on the couch, legs crossed lotus-style. On the television, a pair of clothing designers helped a college student find a new, more professional style. Tori eyed the pointy-toed stiletto heels the girl picked out. She wiggled her own toes. Those had to hurt.
The phone rang and she swallowed a mouthful of popcorn without chewing. Lord, please not another trip to the ER tonight. She reached for the cordless phone and a quick glance at the caller ID sent a rush of relief through her. Not the hospital, but the only other person who would call her at eleven-thirty at night. “Yes, Tick?”
His deep chuckle filled her ear. “How did you know it was me?”
She rolled her eyes and muted the television. “Who else would it be? What if I’d been asleep?”
“Were you?” He managed to sound contrite for maybe half a second. She sighed. Some things never changed and autocratic, overprotective big brothers were one of them.
“No.” She looked at her textbook and suppressed a spurt of guilt. That chapter on post-traumatic stress didn’t contain any information she didn’t already know firsthand. “What do you want?”
“Holy hell, you’re a brat. I can’t just call and check on you?”
How many times had she told him she didn’t need a keeper? “I’m fine. Now, what do you want?”
“I hear Maggie was in the ER again tonight. Jed didn’t give you a hard time, did he?” A familiar edge entered his voice.
“No, Cookie handled him.” She set the popcorn aside, her appetite gone.
“Cookie? He was off tonight.”
“Yeah, well, your deputies were tied up with some wild party out at the Butler farm. Obviously, they called Cookie instead of you.” She wished Tick had been available. Then she wouldn’t be stuck with movie-sharp images of Mark Cook wrapped up with blonde, pretty, glittery Angel. This was ridiculous. Twenty-seven years old, a virgin—mentally if not technically—and obsessed with her brother’s best friend’s sex life. Lord, she needed a few cats to complete the cliché.
She cleared her throat against a sudden lump. “Anyway, I’m fine. Jed and Maggie went home and I’ve got some studying to do before my class Monday night. Stop worrying and get some rest.”
“You too. Night, Tor.”
“Good night.” She killed the connection and tossed the phone on the couch. Unfolding from the couch, she crossed to the window. Cookie’s Blazer sat in its spot. His apartment was dark. Her lights remained the only ones in the complex. She wrapped her arms around her midriff, trying to hug away the ache there.
She was alone.
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