“It’s him!” I hiss, diving off Lawrence’s lap and reaching for my slingshot on the floor.
I grab a handful of chalk pellets and throw open the shutters just as Old Saint Streaky dashes by beneath us, headed for the weak spot in the fence, just as I thought.
I knew this was where he must be escaping!
But there isn’t time to pat myself on the back for my excellent use of logic. There’s barely enough time to load a chalk pellet into the leather pad and pull it back.
Ignoring Lawrence’s call to—“Wait, Lucy!”—I lob a missile at the nude man’s back.
But, of course, now that it matters, my aim is off. The pellet goes wild, and I curse under my breath, loading another, though I know it might already be too late for a second chance.
You can say a lot of disparaging things about this man—that his backside is grossly hairy, that he has no respect for privacy or common decency, that his sense of humor is deeply flawed in an inexcusable way—but he’s fast.
“Lucy, wait!” Lawrence shouts, but I’m already leaning out the window and taking aim.
I’m so focused on the sight of Streaky’s nude form disappearing into the thicker shadows beyond the blind that I don’t realize the implications of the splintering sound beneath me until I’m falling through the air, on a collision course with the cold winter ground.
4
Lawrence
I see the crack snaking up the board, but when I reach for her, I’m too late.
She’s already falling.
My stomach drops along with her, clutching into a knot as she cries out in pain from the ground below.
I throw open the hatch leading to the ladder and scramble down, rushing across the stiff brown grass to where Lucy lies curled on her side.
She’s still—too still. Lucy is always in motion. She talks with her hands and has a permanent bounce in her step. She taps her foot to music only she can hear and dances to the Muzak in the grocery store.
A few months ago, I caught her swaying by the pumpkin pie display in a pair of dirt-streaked overalls. I couldn’t help but duck behind the stuffing pyramid to watch her even though I knew I’d never be able to tell her that she was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. Even if we’d been friends at the time, she probably wouldn’t have appreciated the “cute” comment. She’s a tough nut, Lucy, a go-getter who takes care of business and does her best to hide her softer side.
But she’s more vulnerable than she lets on.
And now she might be seriously hurt, all because my damned reflexes aren’t fast enough.
I skid to a stop beside her, falling to my knees and resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Luce? Are you all right? Where does it hurt?”
“My hip,” she says in a tight voice. “And my knee. And…my head.”
Jaw clenched, I nod. “Then you stay put. We shouldn’t move you with a head injury. I’m not getting service here, so I’ll pop over the rise, call the ambulance, and be back before you can say Jack Robinson.”
“No, I don’t need an ambulance.” She rolls onto her back, gazing up into my face in the soft moonlight, her brow furrowed. “I just need…”
I smooth the hair carefully from her forehead, looking for a bump or bruise, but her skin is clear. She must have knocked herself beneath her hair. “What do you need, love?”
“I need…” She blinks in confusion. “I’m sorry, but I’m having trouble remembering… Do I know you?”
My heart lurches, and fear dumps into my bloodstream, but then I catch the twitching of her lips and realize I’ve been played. “You. You’re terrible,” I say, relaxing onto the ground beside her with a relieved huff. “You scared the hell out of me.”
She grins. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. Wouldn’t that have been the worst? If we’d just cleared up our misunderstanding, and I’d been struck with a tragic case of amnesia?” Her giggle ends with a wince. “But I did knock my hip pretty good. I think I hit a rock or something.” She pushes into a seated position, taking the hand I offer and squeezing my fingers with a sigh as she gazes over my shoulder. “And that jerk got away scot-free. Again. And I’ve lost the element of surprise.”
I wrap my free arm around her shoulders. “Probably for the best. Landing in jail for assault with a deadly weapon would put a damper on our budding romance.”
She laughs again. “You wouldn’t visit me in prison?”
“Would I be granted conjugal visits?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her voice huskier than it was before. “I imagine that would be up to the judge. I think that would be a hard no, however, since we’re not married. Or even seriously dating.”
“Well, then we should fix that, posthaste,” I murmur.