Saving Trace Read online

  He shrugged and, since the furniture was so nice, tossed his duffle bag on the floor next to the door and set his guitar case on the bed.

  “My dad put in the new floor two summers ago. We’ve only had a few guests stay over since then.” She smiled at him. “You’ll be moving to the ranch house tomorrow.”

  “Ranch house?” He’d been dying to know what they’d been talking about earlier.

  “We have four of them.” She leaned back against the headboard as if she belonged in the fairytale room. “They’re for our hired hands. But, in the past few years, most of the seasonal workers have brought their own trailers to live in.” She shrugged and then suddenly stood up. “I’ll let you shower and go help my ma downstairs.” She stopped just inside the bedroom door. “I’m glad you’re okay.” She met his eyes before walking out and shutting the door behind her.

  He stood for a moment, assessing the delicate room. How the hell had he gotten here?

  He feared that he was going to break everything in the room. Grabbing up his bag, he stepped into the bathroom and relaxed slightly.

  Here, the colors were light grays, and the cupboards were solid looking. There were two tin buckets on shelves full of soft white towels that he feared he’d cover with dried blood by the end of the night.

  Thankfully, the towel hanging up by the massive glass shower was a darker gray. Pulling off his ruined clothes, he tossed them on his bag and stepped under the multiple shower heads.

  The throbbing in his head immediately lessened. He’d gotten lucky, that was for sure. Not only about Emma coming to his rescue moments after he’d landed in the ditch, but that it had been her and not someone who would have pulled him out of the ditch and sent him on his way.

  The thought of spending his hard-earned money on another hotel room displeased him and he winced.

  He supposed it could have been worse. He could have ended up spending the night in a hospital. Then he could have kissed all his meager savings goodbye.

  Resting his forehead against the wood-grained tile walls, he let the heat of the shower relax him until his entire body felt like a wet noodle.

  It was hard to stop thinking about the light kiss Emma had given him in the parking lot of the bar. How long had it been since he’d allowed himself to really cut loose about anything? Long before he and Rod had joined the marines.

  They must have been close to sixteen. He remembered neither of them had their license yet, so it had to be before. Rod’s old man had been passed out on the sofa and the boys had needed food, since there wasn’t any in the house. His mom was on one of her benders and had disappeared a few months earlier, leaving him to fend for himself. He’d gotten a part-time job walking dogs and mowing yards. Work had been easy enough to find for a teenager willing to do hard labor for pennies.

  They had decided to go pick up pizza, which meant either a twenty-minute walk or a five-minute drive. Deciding on the drive, since the summer heat had hit close to one hundred, Rod had grabbed his father’s truck keys and persuaded him to drive to the local pizza parlor.

  Rod had figured his old man was bound to find out about them taking the truck no matter what, so they decided to have fun before the shit hit the fan. They had spent close to two hours at the local arcade, spending all of Trace’s hard-earned money and flirting with every girl around in the short time.

  By the time Trace had parked the truck back in the drive, he could tell Rod was on edge.

  “Listen, why don’t you come stay at my place for a while?” He nodded to the small apartment building a few doors down.

  “Naw.” Rod shook his head. “What’s the use? Dad would know where I was anyway.” He sighed and looked off towards the house. “Go on home. I’ll face the music myself. After all, it was my idea,” Rod had said before getting out.

  But Trace had followed him inside the house anyway. Luck seemed to have followed them home, since Rod’s old man was still peacefully snoring on the sofa. Rod dumped the keys back in the bowl by the front door and looked at him.

  “Looks like we got lucky,” Trace said and slapped him on the back.

  Rod’s smile that day was one of the memories of his best friend that was seared into his mind. He often played that fun day over in his head when he felt low.

  Shaking his head clear, he dumped a handful of shampoo into his hands. Then he scraped the caked blood from his skin as best as he could. He knew he had started a few cuts on his forehead bleeding again but figured they would stop the moment he dried off.

  Stepping out of the shower, he used the dark gray towel to wipe off the rest of the blood and then tucked it around his hips. Taking up his bag, he moved to set it on the counter but stopped when he noticed movement behind him.

  He jerked around; his entire body ready for a fight. But Emma sat on the edge of the bed, smiling at him.

  “Sorry,” she said easily, then nodded towards a tray of food that she’d set on a small table between two cream cushioned chairs. “I brought up your food.”

  He took a moment to breathe until he felt relaxed again. “Thanks.” His eyes returned to hers. She was scanning the scars he’d gained in his years protecting his country.

  He glanced down to the nastiest one, which covered his left knee.

  “Does that hurt?” she asked. He looked up. She’d moved closer without him noticing.

  “What?” He felt his mouth go dry at the look she was giving him.

  “Those.” She motioned to the scars on his leg.

  “No,” he lied, but only slightly.

  “Liar,” she said with a smile.

  “Not enough to worry about,” he admitted, leaning against the counter.

  “Did you get those in combat?” She moved closer as her eyes ran over his chest now. He had fewer scars there, but still, there was a large one covering his left shoulder as large as one that crossed his left thigh. He’d received a few during his tour, but some of them were reminders of the hellish childhood he’d had.

  Instead of answering, he brought his eyes to hers. “Emma.” The taste of her name on his lips was the sweetest nectar.

  She reached up and ran a fingertip over one of the scars on his shoulder. “You’re still bleeding.” She reached in and took a small white washcloth and moved to wipe his forehead with it, but he stopped her by taking her wrist in his hand.

  “You’re going to ruin the washcloth,” he warned.

  She smiled and shrugged. “That’s what bleach is for.” She nudged his hand aside and reached up on her toes to dab at the drops of blood slowly leaking from the cuts around his hairline. Holding still while she worked on cleaning him up was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. “There,” she said after a few agonizing moments. “Done.” She stepped back and tossed the ruined washcloth into a clothes hamper. “If you want, I can take those”—she motioned to his ruined clothes—“and try to salvage them and clean them up.”

  He didn’t trust his voice at this point so instead of answering, he nodded.

  She tilted her head slightly, then sighed. “Eat your soup before it gets cold. If you need anything…” She shifted slightly. “I’m the second door on the right.”

  Again, he nodded. She bent over to pick up his ruined clothes and turned to go. She stopped at the foot of the bed. “Trace.”

  He swallowed. “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

  The more he thought about her words, the more he was positive she wasn’t talking about the accident that night.

  Chapter Six

  Emma stood at the stove, spatula in hand, letting her hips tick back and forth to the beat of the song playing on the old radio that sat on top of the fridge.

  Even though she’d never had an achy breaky heart, she had always loved the song.

  Her folks had taken off on an early morning ride, and her brother was out feeding and watering the animals, so she had figu
red it fell upon her to make breakfast for their guest.

  The sizzling bacon was bound to wake him soon. She smiled and glanced up at the ceiling and waved the spatula a little, sending the smell of fried meat up to the second floor.

  “Don’t worry, it did the trick,” came a deep voice from behind her. “And even if the smell of bacon hadn’t woken me, the loud music would have.”

  Emma smiled as Trace walked into the room. His short hair was a little mussed, like he hadn’t combed it after rolling out of bed but had just run his hands through it.

  He was wearing a fresh pair of worn jeans and what looked like a new T-shirt. The cuts on his forehead looked better, but now he was sporting a few dark bruises around them. Still, he looked rested.

  “I hope you’re hungry.” She motioned for him to sit at the table, then quickly rushed to set a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice in front of him.

  “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble for me,” he said, glancing around.

  She shrugged and turned back to take the bacon and eggs from the stove.

  “I’m just doing my part. My brother took my chores this morning. When he gets done, he’s going to be starving.” She set the plate of eggs in front of him.

  He nodded. “I was hoping you hadn’t made all of that just for me.” He motioned to the stack of bacon she’d set down.

  “Mom and Dad should be back from their ride soon.” She glanced towards the screened door when she heard a dog bark. For as long as she could remember, there had been at least one dog on the farm. Her parents’ older collie never left her mother’s side. “I hear Schultz now.” She glanced towards him. “That’s our dog,” she explained.

  “I gathered.”

  She moved around the kitchen smoothly, collecting the biscuits she’d heated up in the oven and putting the jelly on the table. She poured the sausage gravy into the glazed ocean blue bowl her mother had made one summer when she’d gotten a wild hair to take a pottery class in town. The bowl was a little lopsided but was the centerpiece of every family meal they ate.

  As she was setting out the plates, her brother walked in the back door, his dog Barney on his heels.

  “Out,” her brother said calmly. The dog wasn’t allowed in the kitchen when there was food being cooked. Not after the steak-cident. The dog hung his head and slowly made his way into his bed by the fireplace in the living room.

  “You can’t punish him forever,” Emma said smoothly as she finished setting the table.

  “I can,” Rick answered, “and will.” He turned to Trace. “Morning. You look… beat up.” He sighed. “Dad told me what happened. How are you feeling?”

  “Alive,” Trace answered. “Thanks to your sister and dad.”

  Rick nudged Emma on the shoulder. “My sister is always bringing home injured birds.” He laughed.

  “Shut up. Go wash up.” She slapped his dirty hands away from the stack of bacon. Her eyes narrowed at her brother when he tried to grab a slice again.

  “Fine.” He almost growled it out as he marched out of the kitchen just as her folks stepped inside.

  Her father held the door open for her mother. They were smiling at one another and her mother’s cheeks were slightly flushed, and Emma could tell that they had enjoyed their ride.

  “Morning,” her father said, planting a kiss on her forehead. “How are you feeling this morning, Trace?” Her dad walked over to him, and Emma could tell that he was assessing Trace’s injuries.

  “Much better, sir.” Trace had stood up and held out his hand for her father’s. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me out like this. I plan on paying you back—”

  “Nonsense,” her mother interrupted and waved her hands in the air before washing up in the kitchen sink. “It’s the least we can do. Now, how about we enjoy this wonderful breakfast before you men have to go deal with getting Trace’s van out of the ditch?”

  Her father washed his hands as her mother sat down. Emma set a cup of coffee in front of her mother.

  “Thanks, sweetie.”

  “How was your ride?” she asked, getting her father’s coffee ready for him and handing it to him before he sat down.

  “Wonderful, as always,” her mother answered.

  “We have a few new calves,” her father added before taking a sip of his coffee.

  “That means we’ll need help this week making sure they all get checked out,” her brother said as he came back into the room. “Most of our help won’t be here for another month.”

  “We’ll make do,” her mother said with a smile. “We always have.”

  Emma sat down across from Trace just as her father reached over and took her mother’s hand.

  Emma noticed her brother’s eyes shifted to Trace. “What about you?” he asked after a moment.

  “Me?” Trace asked.

  “Sure.” Emma’s father had passed the plate of bacon to Trace, and Rick took it from him. “What do you say to earning a little cash while you wait for your van to be fixed? It’s not difficult work…” Emma scoffed slightly, causing Rick to nudge her under the table. “It’s sweaty work, but you don’t have to have a fancy degree to do it,” he corrected.

  “I…” Trace frowned, and Emma could tell that he was thinking.

  “Trace is probably hoping to move on quickly,” her mother added. “I’m sure with his talents he has other gigs scheduled.”

  Emma turned her eyes to him, hoping to find the answer in his eyes. But he was difficult to read at the moment.

  “If you want, the work is there for you,” her father broke in. “But for now, let’s focus on getting your van out of the ditch and assessing the damage.”

  For the rest of the breakfast, talk turned towards what was needed to pull the van out of the ditch.

  Earlier that morning, she had mentioned to her father that she didn’t think Trace had the money to pay for both a tow truck and the repairs.

  Her father had suggested that they try to get the van out of the ditch with his truck and winch before they called in the tow truck.

  “I think with a little work, we should be able to free your van ourselves,” her father said. “I’ve pulled a full-grown cow out of mud with my truck and winch.” He chuckled. “Your van can’t weigh as much as Stella did.”

  “At least your van won’t try to kick you when we’re done getting her unstuck,” Rick said under his breath.

  “Hey, you deserved that,” Emma joked. “You did slap her on the butt after all.”

  “I’ve never had any complaints from women before when I make a move on them,” her brother joked.

  “I’ve seen all the women you”—she air quoted—“move on.” She laughed. “Way out of your league, bro.”

  Her brother shook his head at her. “As opposed to all the riffraff that come sniffing around you?”

  Her father cleared his throat, stopping the heckling.

  “If you two are done, how about you clean up while Trace and I head out to see about getting his van out of the ditch?”

  Her father stood up and Trace followed, taking his empty dishes to the sink. She met him there. “I’ve got this, go on.” She took the glass from him.

  “Thank you for breakfast,” he said softly.

  She touched his arm softly. “Any time.”

  When her dad and Trace had disappeared out the back door, her brother whistled. “Got it bad this time, huh, sis?”

  “Shut up,” she threw over her shoulder.

  Still, the entire time she cleaned up, she thought of Trace. She had less than an hour before she was supposed to open the bookshop and hoped to see Trace again before she left. But as luck would have it, she was pulling out of the drive just as they were towing his banged-up van down the drive towards her.

  She waved to her dad as he drove the truck. She smiled at Trace behind the wheel of the van, steering it behind the truck.

  When she unlocked the bookstore, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This
was where she belonged. Among her stories. Smiling and with a little bounce in her step, she went through the process of opening up shop. By the time her first customer arrived, she had the coffee machine humming and the entire place smelling of richness from the freshly delivered baked goods.

  Normally, she engrossed herself in her work, keeping her mind focused on the task at hand. However, she was finding it harder as the hours ticked by to keep her mind away from Trace.

  Knowing he was ex-military gave her insight into why he was the strong silent type. It could also account for his distant personality. But something told her that it had nothing to do with the hurt and pain she saw in those deep brown eyes. All it took was listening to him sing to know that he had baggage. Most country stars faked that much emotion. It was obvious Trace wasn’t faking it.

  But it didn’t explain why he was traveling the States in a beat-up van with just enough money in his pockets to eat, and not well enough judging by how skinny he was.

  When she’d seen him last night in nothing but a towel, her first thought had been that he was too thin. Even if he did have an impressive row of perfectly spaced ab muscles, the fact that she could see ribs had her concerned enough to make sure he had gotten as much breakfast as he wanted.

  Still, her mind and body couldn’t skate the instant attraction she’d felt seeing him with a towel tied low over his hips. She’d wanted to lick every single water droplet from his skin.

  Feeling her body heat at the thought, she downed a full glass of cold water and got back to work. Well, at least she tried to.

  Shortly after lunch, her cousin Laura rushed into the store. Her blue eyes scanned the bookshop until she found Emma stacking books near the back wall. She made her way across the floor.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” her cousin hissed in a low tone at her.

  “About?” Emma asked, glancing over her shoulder at her cousin.

  Laura leaned against the bookshelf, crossing her arms over her impressive chest, one that Emma had always been jealous of.