Chapter 8: Night Visit

The headlights swung across my bedroom ceiling at ten past two.

I was out of bed before I was awake, with my grandfather's old twelve-gauge in my hands.

An engine idled at the cattle guard.

A car door slammed.

Then someone started kicking my gate, and I knew the rhythm of that kick.

I had heard it on the garage door the night the dealership lost a bonus.

I dialed the sheriff's non-emergency line from the kitchen.

"This is Lena Haskell on Ridge Road," I said. "I have a man at my gate, intoxicated, trying to break in. He's my husband. Send someone."

Then I pulled on my boots and walked out into the cold.

Brent stood on the far side of the gate with a bottle in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

His collar was open. His face was wet and red.

"There she is," he said. "Mrs. Haskell. The soldier."

"Go home, Brent."

"Open the gate."

"No."

"I need the keys to the truck." He gripped the bars. "It's half mine. The house is half mine. You can't just throw me out of my own life."

"Funny," I said. "I've heard that argument."

"Open it, Lena. Shelby's in a motel with Cody and a dog and nothing in her purse. You did that. Sign the farm over, and I'll go."

"You forged my name."

"I did what I had to do for my family!"

He had never said the word that way when he talked about me.

I stood where I was.

The shotgun was a heavy and familiar weight in my hands, and I did not raise it.

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