A Creed in Stone Creek - Linda Lael Miller [52]
Lord, she missed her sister.
Melissa jogged on, passing by the library, and the log post office, with its large green lawn, flag and flagpole, and the row of bright blue mailboxes facing the street. It was time to head for home, she decided, leaving Main for the oak-shaded residential street that lay parallel to it.
Every house was familiar; Melissa knew who lived there now and who had lived there before that, and before that. She knew the people and their histories and their hopes and the names of their pets, living and gone.
That was life in a small town for you.
Eventually, she reached Ashley’s B&B, and was pleased to note a conspicuous absence of naked croquet players, at least in the front yard. Maybe it was the inclement weather, she thought, with a smile.
Or they could be around back, cavorting away.
Melissa was so distracted by those thoughts, and so used to running along that street in the early morning, that she wasn’t paying attention, and nearly got run over as she crossed the dirt-and-gravel alley between the B&B and the Crockett sisters’ place.
Brakes screeched, shrill as fingernails on some celestial blackboard, and tiny rocks peppered Melissa’s skin. Even though the rain was still coming down, dust boiled up around her in a cloud. Trying to fling herself out of the path of doom, she leaped for the nearest patch of grass, stumbled and tore open the knees of her sweatpants when she fell just short of her aim.
Moments passed, taking their sweet time.
Everything seemed to vibrate around Melissa, like some void. Sounds dragged, as though someone had put a finger on an old vinyl record as it went around on the turntable.
And then Andrea was crouching in front of her, taking her firmly by the shoulders. “Are you all right?” the girl croaked out. “Oh, my God, Melissa, are you hurt?”
Melissa stood up, with some help from Andrea, trembling and coughing wet dust out of her lungs and shaking her head, all at once. It was then that she saw Byron standing nearby, looking worried, his hair sleep-rumpled. His clothes had that hastily put-on look.
Andrea followed Melissa’s glance then focused on her face again and rushed on. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”
“Maybe she ought to see a doctor,” Byron said.
Again, Melissa shook her head. She’d gotten a scare, and she’d scraped her knees, but she wasn’t seriously injured. At home, she’d shower and, if it turned out she’d broken any skin, she could apply antibacterial ointment and bandages.
None of which meant she was going to let the incident pass without comment, however. Yes, she should have watched where she was going, should have looked before sprinting across the alley. Yet that old car had been going way too fast.
“Who was driving?” she asked, looking from Byron to Andrea.
A flush of color moved up Byron’s neck, and he shoved a hand through his hair.
“I was,” Andrea said, a mite too quickly. “It’s my car.”
Melissa wasn’t convinced that Andrea had been behind the wheel, but she’d made her point, and no laws had been broken, after all. She bent to pull the torn fabric of her sweatpants away from her knees, and the burning sensation made her wince.
Byron started to move, hesitated, and then took a resolute step toward her. “You might be hurt,” he said.
A swift and wholly unexpected rage swelled within Melissa in that moment, stealing her breath away, no doubt triggered by the near miss she’d just had. Her mind flashed on the photos of Chavonne Rowan’s small, broken body, taken at the medical examiner’s office in Flagstaff. And those images were still vivid in her recollection; as if she’d seen them only moments before.
You might be hurt.
Hurt, indeed. The way Chavonne had been hurt?
“At least let us give you a ride home,” Andrea pleaded, her expressive eyes brimming.