I stand before the girl, my mouth hanging open like I’m some special kind of idiot. She stares up at me, her eyes lit with a fire I can’t even begin to describe. It’s like she knows who I am, why I’m here, and how to destroy me.

“Your dad wanted me to watch you,” I say, and she blinks, as if this answer is a total surprise. She tilts her head to the side and her thick, dark hair shifts, revealing a length down her back with some curls near the end, like her heavy hair can’t quite hold the curls but clings to the few it can near the bottom.

I watch her little face scrunch up as if she’s internally poking holes in my story. “Where’s Gertie?” she asks, and I find myself at a loss.

“I’m not sure,” I say, deciding honesty is the best idea. She continues to stare me down, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I don’t like Gertie. She always smacks my bottom when I’m not ladylike,” she says, her honesty melting my heart.

“That’s not very ladylike of her.”

Instantly the girl smiles and it feels like the sun is shining down on me. While I’m doing well, I decide to keep things rolling. “So, what do you usually do when you get home?” I ask, but she pushes toward me, thrusting her hand toward me.

“I’m Grace.”

I take her hand and shake it, surprised that her little fingers feel strong. “I’m May.”

“May flowers,” she giggles, and I smile at her sweet little face. She’s too stinkin’ cute. I want to pinch her chubby little pink cheek, but I’m not going to put hands on her. I know better. Besides, I remember how demoralizing that felt to have people touch me without my permission when I was little.

“Are you hungry, Grace?” I ask, and she nods. With quick hands, I find some foods that’ll go over well. Comfort food that I choose because she’s adjusting to something new; me. Mac and cheese and hot dogs. The kind of stuff I have fond memories of as a child.

“Want to help me?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at her. Her little face lights up and I pull a chair into the kitchen for her to stand on. Shoulder to shoulder we stand before the stove, opening a box of Mac and Cheese, dumping noodles into a pot of water, busy work. Simple work. Things that’ll help her feel independent while she’s safe from harm.

Things I wish I could have had when I was little.

“Do you have kids?” She asks me, her little face full of curiosity.

“I don’t.” I say, my tone bright as I tackle the hard question. I wanted kids. But that bastard… I clamp down and shut out the painful memories. I’m not ready to face them. Besides, little Grace doesn’t need to see me lose it.

“Are you married?” she asks, and I can’t help but be in awe of her. She’s so very mature. She speaks like an adult. Her mind is bright, curious, and she’s very quick to just talk rather than hang on propriety. It’s refreshing.

“I’m not.” I say, then turn her game on her. “How about you? Kids? A hubby I need to know about?”

Her face scrunches up and she laughs. “No!” We laugh together and I realize that this is the first real laugh I’ve had in longer than I can remember.

* * *

In bed, I listen to the house. It’s totally quiet. No traffic noises, no loud, party loving neighbors, nothing. Every once in a while the house settles on a sigh, like it too is winding down from the day.

Grace had fallen asleep on the couch, but I’d wandered quickly and found her room. One I knew where to take her, I’d carried her into her room and settled her in her pretty bedroom. The whole place had been decorated with horses right down to the blanket on her bed.

It had been a good night. I felt confident that she would make being here easy. And if this was the work Clint wanted from me, I’d be more than happy to stay on and work as long as he’d have me.

Outside, I hear what sounds like the slam of a car door and I bolt upright. My heart settles into my gut and I feel like throwing up as I sit straight, straining my ears to listen for anything that might be a sound.

He couldn’t be here.

There’s no way he followed me. I was so careful…

I creep out of bed and toward the living room. The curtains give me a view into the front of the place where my car sits, dejected and alone. The slam happens again and I realize the barn door is ajar. When it catches the wind, it bangs on itself. I can see a chain locking it closed, but the noise still makes my hands tremble like I’m going to barf.

I’d thought it was him.

I sink onto the couch, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth as if I can keep back the bile backing up my throat. Tears stream down my cheeks as I think about the fear, the absolute helplessness I feel. He has power over me and he’s not even fucking here! I got away from him and he’s still controlling me across a distance so great I can’t even imagine it.

My throat aches and I keep my volume to little sniffs as tears stream down my face. It’s just not fair. Life isn’t fair.

“Why are you crying?”

I jolt, startled and look into the worried brown eyes of Grace.