Sara shifted onto her back and Violet thought she saw a shimmer of unshed tears in the woman’s eyes. Violet wasn’t sure if the woman’s emotional control was a good or bad sign.
“You don’t understand,” Sara said after a brief silence.
“So explain it to me,” Violet challenged.
“Hank Allen is under a lot of pressure. He owns several businesses and sometimes the stress just gets to him.”
“You think that justifies beating you?”
“He wasn’t always like this,” Sara defended without real emotion. “He doesn’t mean to get so rough.” She continued to stare at the ceiling.
Violet guessed the practiced excuses were wearing thin even to Sara. “They never are. Batterers are successful because they start out as Prince Charming and wait until later to reveal their warts. And just for your information, warts can be removed for a while, but they usually grow back.”
“I think he really wants to change this time.”
“Is that what you thought all the other times?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sara said, closing her eyes. “Marriage is a lifelong commitment.”
“Only when it’s made honestly,” Violet counseled. “When your Hank Allen stood in front of God and promised to love and honor you ‘till death do you part,’ he was lying. Seems to me your commitment was based on false promises.”
“I can’t leave him,” Sara said. “I have absolutely no money, no assets. I tried to leave once.”
“What happened?”
“Hank Allen reported the car stolen. Everything is in his name. I’m not even authorized to write a check.”
“There are places that can help you. Organizations that—”
“He’d find me.”
Violet thought about her next move for less than a minute. “Let me help.”
Sara’s eyes flew open and she jerked her head around—a motion that obviously caused her some pain. Wincing, she said, “You don’t even know me. I can’t let—”
“All the better,” Violet interrupted. “I’ll give you some money to get yourself away from this mess.”
“He’ll go crazy. Besides, I couldn’t possibly take money from a total stranger.”
“I’m Violet Mitchum from Pinto, Texas. There, now we aren’t strangers.”
“You know what I mean,” Sara argued. “This isn’t your problem. I’ll deal with it, but thank you.”
“There’s a fine line between being stubborn and being stupid, Sara.”
“I’m being neither,” Sara said. “I’m being practical. When the time is right, I’ll leave Hank Allen.”
“But when that time comes, will you still be breathing?”
CHAPTER ONE
“I’M STILL breathing, Violet,” Sara Pierce sighed as she sank lower against the stiff seat of the bus.
But Violet’s wisdom delivered nearly four years earlier had stayed with Sara. The mere fact that she had been so hopeless as to inspire a virtual stranger to take pity on her in a hospital emergency room had been just the push Sara needed. It had taken her months of careful planning and three more beatings, but she had done it.
Each week she had siphoned cash from the grocery allowance Hank Allen grudgingly provided. Sara had packed her bag a few articles of clothing at a time. If he suspected, Hank Allen never let on, but she had lived in mortal fear that he would discover her plan.
He didn’t. Eight months after that fortuitous meeting with Violet Mitchum in the Louisiana hospital, Sara Pierce had walked out on years of abuse.
After a few months in hiding, she had contacted an attorney and started the process of reclaiming her life.
She gave Hank Allen some parting gifts. First, there was a restraining order. When he violated that, Sara pressed charges and Hank Allen went to jail for six months. During his incarceration, she had obtained a divorce that included Hank Allen having to pay her rehabilitative alimony for three years. It seemed only fair that he support her while she returned to finish the college degree she had interrupted to marry that pig.
It seemed as if her life was back on track. She hadn’t seen Hank Allen in more than a year. The alimony had ended a week earlier, the day before she had earned her degree. Sara was ready to begin a new life.
But Hank Allen wasn’t finished with her yet.
She had returned from her graduation ceremony, stepped inside her apartment, and only wished she hadn’t known what hit her. It took one blow for her to recognize the all-too-familiar feel of Hank Allen’s fists.
She was convinced that he would have beaten her to death had it not been for the intervention of a neighbor.
Sara repositioned her travel bag on the seat beside her—she didn’t want any traveling companion on this trip—and crouched behind the dated newspaper she was using to obscure her face.
It seemed rather creepy that she found herself staring at the obituary page. A San Antonio socialite named Eve Bishop was smiling back at her. The wealthy woman’s death apparently warranted almost a quarter-page of the paper. If Hank Allen had been successful, Sara knew her death would have gone unnoticed. She would have been little more than a statistic.
I was a statistic! she thought with incredible frustration. But no more. She had Violet Mitchum to thank for that, which was exactly what she was about to do.
Thank her and ask for help. Sara had learned a lot in the past few years. First and foremost, she had learned that asking for help was sometimes the only way out of a bad situation. Violet’s simple offer that night in the hospital had changed the course of Sara’s life. Now she needed a little more sage advice to salvage what she had struggled so hard to achieve. She hadn’t even bothered to phone Violet—after Hank Allen’s reappearance, all she could think about was fleeing to safety.
Outside the bus window Sara could see the vast expanse of Texas roll by. Since Hank Allen had not dared show his face at the hospital that night four years ago, he had no idea who Violet was. Consequently, he wouldn’t know to look for her in some small place called Pinto. Violet would help her. Sara just knew in her bones that the kindly old woman would help her think of something. Some way to keep Hank Allen out of her life for good.
Sara shifted in the seat. The action caused her bruised ribs to smart. At least it was getting dark now. Dark enough that she no longer had to hide her battered face behind the newspaper. If the other riders noticed her bruises, they gave no outward indication.
She spotted the sign for Pinto outside the window. It made her feel safe. As an added measure of security, Sara remained on the bus until its next scheduled stop in Cactus Creek, a neighboring town. She wasn’t taking any chances this time. This time her plan would work.
No one seemed to notice when she gathered her single bag and exited the bus in the center of Cactus Creek.
“Center” was an accurate description. Cactus Creek appeared to have a main street and very little else. It was perfect. It was also fairly deserted. Aside from a diner, no light shone from the other shops dotting the dusty sidewalk.
Sara reached into her purse and pulled a tattered piece of paper from a side compartment. The writing was faded but still legible. Violet Mitchum had left her address for Sara that night—just in case. The message read “My door is always open.”
“Let’s