Page 13 of Struck By Love

Hesure had. He groaned as his thoughts returned to the night he’d returned home from a grueling tour in Afghanistan, just dying to see his ten-month-old son. One whiff of Simon’s sweet-smelling skin, just one little smile from him, and all the hardship and horrors of Amos’s tour would have faded away.

With his wife already in bed, he had let himself in quietly, only to freeze at the realization that his home was stripped of furniture. He had torn up the stairs like a madman and thrown open the nursery door to find a room filled with nothing but moonlight and teddy-bear wallpaper.

Swallowing a sob, Amos turned onto his side and punched up his pillow. It didn’t take a psychologist to explain why his recovery of Grace Garrett brought back memories of his own loss.

No doubt she blamed him for separating her from Mateo, the boy. He was the one who’d put her forcibly on the Chinook. And when they’d taken off, he had ignored her pleas to go back because he’d had no choice.

If only she knew how much he understood her pain. Not a day went by since Baby Simon’s abduction that he didn’t still grieve his loss. He prayed, too, intermittently blaming God for letting Candace get away with her crime, then pleading with God for Simon to be found by the private detectives he’d hired. He’d consoled himself by reading‍—not just books, but the Bible, where Amos found comfort in knowing that hundreds before him had been helped through their suffering.

But did Grace possess the faith to see her through? He had condemned her to a level of grief known only to a parent. Every morning, her first waking thought would be of the child she’d lost. She would occasionally dream that they were reunited, only to suffer all over again when she awoke.

Guilt burrowed into Amos. He felt the need to apologize, to comfort her.

“Forgive me.” The moonlit room he shared with Ben seemed to shimmer when viewed through the moisture in his eyes. “Grace.” Her name felt both sacred and familiar on his tongue. He imagined himself holding her in his arms‍—not against her will, this time, but consoling her, protecting her. He would kiss the tears from her cheeks, her lush lips, and she would kiss him back with all the passion he had sensed in her.

With sleep now hopeless, Amos swung his bare feet to the floor and sat up, careful not to bump his head on the upper bunk where Ben slept. He stood and crossed the cool tile floor to the only desk in the room, pulled out the wooden chair, and sat down.

Ben lurched awake behind him. “Wha’s happening?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” Amos switched on the desk lamp, curving the bendable neck so the light wouldn’t shine in Ben’s eyes. He was pleased to find both a pad of paper and a military-issue ballpoint pen in the desk’s drawer.

With the paper centered in the lamp’s light, he began to write from his heart, in verse, a talent few people knew he possessed.

“To my Son,” he titled the poem.

By the time he finished it, the lamp’s light was no longer needed. The sky had brightened to a pale gray, the exact color of Baby Simon’s eyes. The lines of the original poem had been scratched through and rewritten. Once the result was transcribed to a second page, he felt a kinship with Grace Garrett that overrode reason. He wanted to comfort her in person.

Hearing Ben stir, Amos put the pen away and slipped the pad of paper back into the drawer to be dealt with later.

He had absolved himself of his guilt. But who could say whether the poem would bring Grace solace when she received it, or more despair?

CHAPTER4

MANTACHIE, MISSISSIPPI

“Ihave to go potty,” said a small voice in the back of Emma Moulton’s 2002 Chevy Impala.

If Emma weren’t so furious that her ex-husband had forgotten he had three sons, plus a nephew, to feed, she might have laughed at the predictable statement. Six-year-old Simon had the bladder of a mouse. But since the older boys were too hungry to sleep because Carl had failed to pay child support, she couldn’t bring herself to crack so much as a smile.

“We’re almost there, sweetie.” She accelerated so that her statement wasn’t a lie. “You can use the potty at the restaurant.”

Five minutes later, her Impala, which needed new shocks, bounced into the parking lot at the Steamboat Bar and Grille. Spotting Carl’s truck near the entrance, Emma firmed her lips. Of course, he was here. Resentment made her face burn. She squeezed her vehicle between Carl’s truck and a telephone pole, then ordered the boys to get out and hold hands while she pulled her sleeping ten-month-old from his car seat.

“Come on.” She ushered her small troop toward the entrance.

The bar was dimly lit, with red carpeting and brass fixtures meant to make it look like the interior of a steamboat. It was mostly empty, with just a few regulars lining the bar. Carl was right where he usually sat.

She turned toward her eldest. “Christopher, please take the boys to the restroom. Make sure you all wash your hands with soap before you leave. I’ll meet you right here after I talk to your father.”

“Yes, Mama.” Just ten years old, Chris took his responsibilities seriously.

This was more than could be said of Carl, who was so caught up in his buddy’s story he failed to notice Emma’s approach.

“Carl.”

He swiveled at her sharp tone. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“You forgot to pay this month’s support.”

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