“Daddy...it's cold.”

“Working on it, honeybee. Give me a minute and drink your hot cider. Little sips, baby girl, just like I told you.” I break another log apart, hurling the wood into the old furnace, slamming the metal grate shut.

Of course the temperature had to plummet on day fourteen of exile. Ten days past the time we should already be several states away from Port Eagle.

The real problem isn't that this trailer parked on the abandoned hunting ground is too cold, too dreary, too far removed from civilization. It's that it's working too well. It's comfortable enough to keep me here, hiding away with Mia while I try to force myself to pull the pin. There's no hurry to start the long, permanent road trip that will take us God knows where.

A different end of the country, certainly. That much, I know. Anchorage, maybe, or Tucson.

Whatever mid-sized city has never attracted a single person from Port Eagle, Iowa, and who can't identify me as the Castoff behind my growing scruff. I reach up and scratch.

Shit itches. Another week, the full beard will start feeling natural, and then I'll be able to settle into the cover story I've concocted, wherever we wind up. I'm telling our new neighbors I'm a Missoula affiliate. One of those lumbersexual gun shop owners who made a killing selling ammo to the Prairie Devils MC, or whatever the hell other scary syndicate I can name drop to make people keep their nosy ass questions to themselves.

Easy. I hope.

Leaving this place, on the other hand...putting more miles between me and Red...

God damn. I sit down next to Mia, pushing my fingers through my hair, trying not to let her see me scared.

It's hard, and it shouldn't be.

Why am I fucking up like this today? Why for the last week have I been telling myself we'll check the truck and leave? Tomorrow, honeybee.

Always tomorrow. Never today.

“Daddy, I'm hungry.” She tugs at my flannel sleeve, giving me a longing look. For a second, I look through the wall, wishing like hell I'd never posted that nanny ad.

I'm an okay cook, but nothing like Red. My little girl misses her grub even if she won't say it. Hell, so do I.

I wish I'd done things differently, like never bringing Sarah Kelley into my house. But by the time I give Mia my reassuring smile, promise her mac and cheese, and start rummaging through the tiny fridge to see if we have any frozen peas left for a veggie add-in, I know it isn't true.

I don't regret this, however much I hate roughing it out with my little girl. I don't regret her.

Fuck, I miss her more than ever.

Little Mia's sing-song humming while she waits for me to boil water just drives it home. It's the Star Spangled banner. I cock my head, listening to the national anthem. Out of place, out of context, but damn if it isn't what they were working on before the terrible night that ripped her away from me.

I try not to slam the knife down on the onions and mushrooms I'm adding to our poor man's macaroni casserole. At least I have real cheese to flesh out the instant powder.

Thinking about Red inevitably brings my mind to her asshole brother and his threats.

His threats make me think of Jenna.

Jenna makes me think of the truth, which yeah, I fucking embellished, but I never killed her.

Too bad I was caught red-handed the second asshole noticed me tampering with his brakes. I'll never understand how he deciphered the intent, or why he sat on it as long as he did.

I underestimated him. Should've done more than a basic patch job, realizing too late the garage in town never half-asses things.

It's not like it matters.

His lies were enough. They tore her away, stole my woman while she was still wearing my ring, clutching it to her trembling lip like it was the reason our world went to hell.

Not because of the lying, would-be murderer idiot standing in front of her on the icy driveway after attacking her brother. Not because of the bigger fool who ran.

I should have faced the music.

Turned myself in and let the heavens fall.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

I don't know what's in the crystal ball next. I try not to picture it, much as I need to, if we're ever getting anywhere.

Today, I'm here, boiling pasta, listening to my little girl hum a patriotic tune that tears my heart out, and not because it summons a lot of ghosts into my screwed up head.

My eyes drift over to the cheap notebook and pen. I bought it the first and last time we stopped in town, the same night we left everything, tearing down the highway to this abandoned place I've seen a thousand times. It's got hotels, routes, itineraries, whatever I could find online the first night before I switched off my phone and tossed it into the Mississippi at a scenic overlook.

There's plenty of paper left over, demanding words. For two weeks, I've resisted the biting urge to sit down and write. I can't, I can't, I so fucking can't, I keep telling myself.

Because the instant I do, and those words flow out of me, they have to find Red. I have to bring them to her. And if I let that happen, everything ends.

* * *

I wake up with a groan the next morning. I roll over, check honeybee snoozing on the blow up mattress next to me. She likes to pull her covers off at night and wake up freezing, but thankfully that's not the case this morning.

I'm careful not to wake her, fixing myself a coffee in the little kitchen. It's cheap instant shit that puts a few more hairs on my chest after the first sip. First thing I'm grabbing once we've settled into our new lives is a grinder and some fresh beans.

Even hardasses are coffee snobs sometimes.

My caffeine woes pale compared to the notebook next to the stove. The pen is still on top, calling me, ruining my day before the cold winter sun is up.

“Goddammit, I can't...” I whisper, downing more black sludge.

My hands aren't listening.

Somehow, my fingers find their way to the smudged black pen.

Somehow, I'm holding the notebook when I sit on the plastic stack of storage bins I use as a makeshift chair.

Somehow, I'm writing like a man who's lost his mind.

I can't leave town without Red knowing. Not without an explanation. Not without a clue.

My hand scribbles furiously for the next half hour, finding the words lodged in my heart like an arrow, drawing them out in quick, painful bursts. Emotion bleeds out of me and stains the pages. Wounds the old Marshal Howard never knew.

This new man I've become beats his way out of me, high on adrenaline. Alive and enraged with a cold new realization.

I never thought I'd love a woman this fucking much.

How the hell can I leave Sadie behind?

I don't know. But I have to find a way, right after I finish this note, get our crap together, and feed my little girl some breakfast.

Survival doesn't make room for heartbreak, or bitter confessions. It's cruel, unrelenting, and a bitch with zero room in her icy heart for error.

Go.

After you finish this thing, stuff it in an envelope, and drop it at her door.

This has to be the end.

I tell myself the same thing over and over. It's early, well before our small town's poor excuse for a rush hour. Maybe if I can get Mia up and dressed in the next half hour, stopping at the McDonald's on the edge of town won't be too huge a risk. Then we'll hit the highway and never look back.

Finally. I have a plan, and it's the first time it's actually felt right.

Standing, I look through the dirty windows at the first sunlight peaking up above the frosted trees. There's a heavy peace in my bones.

Then I hear the engine. It's a rough noise that shouldn't be here in the morning calm. A slow steady growl that's too ominous and far too fucking close to our hideaway.

“Mia!” I yell her name, crossing the trailer to the air mattress. “Honeybee, come on, wake up. We have to go right now.”

Now, now, right the fuck now.

I can't even wait for her to rub her little eyes. I've yanked her up in a matter of seconds, clutched tight to my chest, ripping our jackets off the back of the sofa.

That engine is coming closer still. I stop for a split second at the kitchen window, and see a familiar black truck rumbling through the morning gloom.

What little hopes I had for a lost farmer using this abandoned turf to turn around dies. I'm desperate, but I'm not delusional.

There's no mistaking it.

I know who it is, even if I can't make out his features in the driver's dark silhouette.

Jackson. And in less than another minute, he'll be at my fucking doorstep.

“Mia, baby, listen to daddy. You awake?”

“Daddy?” Her little voice sets off a new panic. I hold her tight, grabbing our pre-packed bug out bag, crashing through the door.

“Just hold on tight! We've got a bumpy ride ahead. Listen and be good, you hear?”

“Okay. Okay, daddy, I –“

I can't listen anymore. My hands are too busy shoving her in the kiddie seat, strapping her in, careful as I can be not to hurt her or miss anything important.

We have to fucking go!

The engine is on top of us now. I'm in the driver's seat, jamming the ignition, refusing to look up when I hear a vehicle's door slam shut, and then a man's voice yelling.

“Hey, asshole!” He gets two words in. No more.

We're off. My tires rip through powdery snow, crunching the overgrown brush underneath it. My truck weaves a circle around the intruder, straight to the road, and I floor it.

He's just a small dot in the distance by the time I glance in my mirrors, the only thing keeping my heart from ripping out of my chest.

Jackson hits the side of his truck hard, struggling for the door. He slips, slowing him down. Must be the ice and the frenzied attempt to chase. Thank God for small favors.

We have a head start on the highway. But I know what the bastard expects.

Logic says I should take the first fork out of town, heading south, toward the closest state line, Illinois.

But if he can't catch me, he'll probably call the Sheriff. They'll be expecting me on the route. I'll run smack into them and the handcuffs I have waiting after whatever insane story he's concocted about me murdering Jenna.

The one that isn't true.

Messing with his brakes, though...

Shit! There's plenty that actually could land me behind bars without any miracles from defense attorneys.

The muffled laughter behind me is a surprise and a welcome distraction.

“Honeybee? Everything okay back there?” My eyes flit to the mirror and see my smiling little girl.

“Again, daddy! That was fun.” Her little hands slap together like the beat of angel's wings.

Christ. My heart drops a hundred feet in a second.

Angels? Right. I could use a few of those right now, big hulking guardians with their flaming swords and earth splitting trumpets.

If there's still a way to get the hell out of here a free man, I need every bit of help I can get.

* * *

I'm walking out of the bathroom with Mia in tow. The entire day is shot and it's already dark.

We're parked at a tiny little gas station on the other side of town. The owner, Fred, is a sports junky who's completely oblivious to anything except his Hawkeyes winning. He smiles and thanks me for the crumpled cash I use to buy us a couple candy bars, then turns back to the TV broadcasting the game.

Chocolate is the least my girl deserves after the fucked up day I've given her. Not even the morning chase, which she innocently enjoyed, but the mind-mending boredom after.

I'm paralyzed. Taking any route out of town feels like a fatal mistake. I surf the radio stations for a hint, a word about traffic conditions and police activity, but Port Eagle is the armpit on the river between Dubuque and Davenport. If there's a manhunt going on, or even just the town's three man police crew lined up on every road leading out of it, I'll never know until I run smack into them.

I wish I'd packed my scanner, damn it.

After another half hour at the station, I finally fire up my engine and drive us down the road. Fred's pump is no place to spend the night with the twenty-four hour lights blaring in our eyes.

There's an eyesore about a mile away, an old rail junction with a crumbling fence. The dead grey building next to the decommissioned tracks has been a dumping ground for years. Perfect hiding spot.

My truck looks like nothing from the road, tucked between a rusted tractor and a Honda missing its windshield. Just another dark ghost, gone and forgotten.

For once, that's how I want to stay while I try to think. Sort out whether the cover of night will do us any favors.

Mia sips her cocoa and mumbles to herself. Guilt throbs in my veins. I can't keep her cooped up in this truck forever, especially if we're staying for one more night. I need time to think, to look the town over, to raise my morale.

What the hell do I do? Sitting here through dusk isn't doing us any favors.

Turning, I reach for my little girl's hand, pinching her fingers. “How about a drive? Break up the monotony.”

“Seattle, daddy?” Her eyes go big.

I smile and a numb half-laugh slips out. It's the first time in forever, so long I've forgotten the sound in my throat. “Nah, that'll be a few more days.” If we decide to head to Alaska at all, it'll be through Washington. “I mean for tonight, before we turn in.”

Honeybee nods, more than a little disappointed. It turns the wrench in my guts harder. I hope the place I have in mind doesn't bring back too many bad memories, and make this even worse.

* * *

I'm eerily calm approaching the Kelley residence. Mia drifts off before we're even there, blissfully ignorant to the pain that starts ripping through me once I'm on Sadie's street.

It's after eight o'clock. The house is weirdly dark, barely lit. There's no sign of Jackson's truck – the only thing that really matters.

I switch off the lights and wait. I count five minutes, trying not to rip off the steering wheel.

This is where I lost her. The woman I wasn't supposed to love, much less marry. She, who taught me I could live in the present, without being shackled to ghosts who haven't shut up since my fist crashed into Jackson's face.

Cinnamon hair and mischief lips. Promises I wasn't meant to break. Heart and fucking soul.

Red, beautiful Red.

God damn it.

I step out of the truck and close the door lightly, hand tucked in my pocket. Every step crunching through the snow is deafening. It doesn't slow me down.

I make it to her doorstep, slide the envelope into the screen, and beat it. It was risky coming here, riskier still to stay.

If all goes well, she'll find my note tomorrow.

She'll have till noon to make her choice. If she buys my explanation, finds it in herself to forgive, and realizes I'm not a total monster, then maybe I won't leave my ruined soul behind.

Maybe, we'll have a chance.