Without You Here Read online

  Without You Here

  By Carter Ashby

  Text Copyright © 2014 Carter Ashby

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Digital Edition. Personal use rights only. No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover Design by Red Pen Kisses

  www.redpenkisses.com

  Connect with the author at:

  www.carterashby.com

  To my husband and children. Thanks for your love and patience.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  I guess that phrase "looking for trouble" applied to me that night. I'd just fought with my boyfriend. I was fed up with him, in fact. He was a fantastic friend, but whenever we tried to date he turned into...my grandmother. You never met such a prude in all your days. Not that I was a wild child or anything. I just liked to relax and be myself. Which apparently wasn't up to his standards.

  Anyway, I was driving from his home in Apple Creek, Missouri where I'd met him at a small diner. And about twenty minutes down the road, past a little town called Hadley, I saw this bar, quaint and warm looking. It was a cool, March evening and I thought how nice it would be to warm my insides with a whiskey-laced drink. I imagined inside this small, out-of-town tavern there were probably some characters. Like the thatch-roofed taverns in Disney princess movies where the men were all gruff and wild looking until you started singing a song and they suddenly became lovable bears. That's what I figured I'd find in this bar.

  The first thing I saw, going in, was a man sitting alone at the bar. He had on a blue flannel shirt stretched across his big, broad shoulders. He cast a quick glance at me over his shoulder—a dismissive glance. Just seeing who was opening the door and letting the cool air in. Then he hunkered back over his whiskey glass. He could have just been tired from a hard week of work. Could have been the town drunk for all I knew. But my heart immediately went out to him. His posture, the deadness in his eyes, the way he cradled that whiskey glass...he just seemed so sad.

  I'd worn this real professional outfit. A black pencil skirt with a pale pink blouse tucked in, my hair pulled back in a tight bun. Just to show my boyfriend the version of myself that he wanted to see. To show him how ridiculous it was. He didn't even get it. He thought I looked nice. It was so not anything I would ever wear, but it was just what he wanted from me. It was a look that said dependability and stability. Reality. Eternity. Because to Blake, that's what true love would be. Forever. He was just that kind of guy and shame on me for not appreciating it.

  After I left the diner I'd shaken out my blond hair so that it fell around my face, loose and wild. I'd untucked the stupid blouse and dashed my wrist across my face to get rid of the tears. But there was nothing I could do to make that skirt comfortable. And it was quite an effort maneuvering up onto the barstool next to that nice looking man.

  Now that I was close enough to notice his face, I thought he was much more than nice looking. He had strong features. And stubble, like he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. He was graying just a bit. Older than I'd initially thought. But that didn't bother me any.

  He didn't show any interest in me, but I figured that was just 'cause he didn't know me yet. I hesitated only a moment; then asked, "Buy me a drink?"

  He looked at me like he'd never seen me before. Then he nodded to the bar tender.

  "Jack and Coke," I said. The man, Chuck, nodded and brought me my drink a moment later. Chuck was everything I'd hoped for in a Disney tavern keeper. Big and bulgy with ripped off sleeves that revealed a heart-shaped tattoo with the word MOM underneath. "Thanks," I said, leaning my head down to try and catch this handsome man's attention.

  "No problem," he said, staring down into his whiskey glass. I guess whatever he wanted was somewhere at the bottom of that glass. "Your mascara's running," he said.

  "Well I've been crying. That's what happens." I dug in my purse for a compact and a towelette. I fixed my face up some so I looked a little less like a character in a Tim Burton film. Then I smiled up at him. "Better?"

  He looked at me, then, and I thought he might actually smile. "Better," he said. Eyes back down to his whiskey.

  I scooted in a little closer. "Don't you want to know why I've been crying?" I asked.

  "Why would I want to know a thing like that?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "Well, you bought me a drink. That's sort of like an investment."

  "And in return I get to hear why you've been crying?" He swirled the whiskey around in his glass.

  "Aren't you the least bit curious?"

  He took a drink. "I reckon you got in a fight with your boyfriend."

  "How did you know?" I asked, truly stunned. Okay, so it doesn't take much to impress me. I lived a sheltered life.

  "Alcoholic's intuition."

  "Are you an alcoholic?"

  "No. I just drink a lot." He downed the last of his whiskey and signaled Chuck for another.

  "Are you married?" I asked. He was wearing a ring after all.

  He didn't answer.

  "Divorced?"

  Still no answer.

  "Widowed?"

  He froze, his glass in midair, just a moment. Then took another sip.

  Poor man, I thought. "Well anyway, you're right," I said. "I just got done fighting with my boyfriend. He doesn't like the way I dress."

  He glanced at me. Gave me a fairly thorough once over. "Look fine to me."

  "Well, this isn't how I normally dress. I wore this because it's what he likes. I prefer thrift shopping...finding old clothes with personality leftover from their previous owners. Or making my own. Sometimes I like to sew on spangles or patches or whatever to make my jeans more colorful. My boyfriend thinks it's childish, but I don't care." I just kept rambling on and on, figuring he wasn't really paying attention. But then I realized he was. He was watching me, his head angled slightly my direction, but not all the way. Like he wasn't quite ready to fully commit to this conversation. So I asked, "How long has your wife been dead?"

  He flinched a little. Curse my tactlessness. "Two years," he said.

  Wow. A long time to still be grieving
this heavily. But I guessed everyone dealt with things differently. Maybe this was an anniversary or something. I reached over and laid my hand on top of his. "I'm so sorry for your loss. How long were you married?"

  He frowned and watched my thumb subtly stroking his hand, that sensitive spot between the thumb and forefinger. "Twenty years," he said.

  "Wow! You must have married really young."

  His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a hint of amusement in them. "What are you after?" he asked.

  A forthright man. I could find that attractive. "I'm just lonely. And you looked lonely, too. So here I am."

  He hesitated a moment. And then finally he turned toward me, his knee bumping into mine. He took my hand in both of his. "What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked.

  My insides thrilled at the cavalier way he called me "sweetheart." Like Han Solo. Or Sawyer, from Lost. "Ettie," I told him, not bothering to hide my emotions. I'm sure I looked like a love-struck teenage girl smiling up at him like I was.

  This time he smiled back, although there was still so much sadness in it.

  "It's short for Henrietta. Henrietta Berlynn McInenny," I said.

  This got a laugh out of him. "Jesus Christ."

  I giggled and shook my head. "Family names. I ran away from home when I was twelve and went straight to City Hall to the mayor's desk and demanded that he change my name to Reese Witherspoon. Not really less of a weird name. But at least she got famous with it. Anyway he wouldn't do it and ended up calling my mom on me."

  "Rat bastard," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

  "I know, right?"

  He broke contact with my hands long enough to drain his whiskey glass. "Well, Ettie's cute. Suits you."

  "Thank you, sir," I said in my chirpiest voice. "What's your name?"

  "Wyatt."

  My heart leapt into my throat. I put my free hand on his arm and encountered sheer muscle. "That is my favorite name. And so perfect for you."

  "Oh, really?" He asked, clearly amused.

  "Yeah. You look like the gun-fighting sheriff type. I've always felt the name Wyatt exemplifies all that is masculine and rugged. That whole strong and silent thing you've got going on. Very sexy."

  He frowned and nodded, pondering my words. "Hmm." He sat up a little straighter and flexed his muscles for my benefit. "I guess that does describe me fairly accurately."

  I hugged onto his arm. He smiled kindly down at me, then, and the sadness was gone. His eyes crinkled at the corners and sparkled with true delight.

  Just then some other guy I hadn't noticed wandered over. He was younger than Wyatt, but older than me. I didn't like him. I can usually decide these things pretty fast. He had a used-car-salesman feel to him. Way too much forced personality. He put a hand on Wyatt's shoulder and smiled big and fake. "Who's your friend, old man?" he asked.

  Wyatt slid his hand along the back of my barstool. "Fuck off, Lyle. I saw her first."

  "Aw, come on, don't be like that. You can't hog all that sunshine to yourself."

  "Oh, I think I can." He dropped his arm to my shoulders, then, and winked at me.

  "Hey, why don't you kids come have a game of pool with me and Jerry over there."

  Wyatt looked at me, his eyebrows raised.

  I shrugged in answer.

  We followed Lyle to the farthest pool table, which was off in the back corner, dimly lit by a lantern hanging down over the table. We all introduced ourselves and then I turned to Wyatt and informed him that I'd never played this game before.

  "Now that's something you might have mentioned earlier," he said, pretending to be upset with me. He handed me a stick thingy...

  "It's called a cue, honey," Lyle said with a wink.

  ...And then we stood back as Jerry racked the balls. By unanimous insistence, I went first. I aimed the cue at the white ball the way I figured it was supposed to be. Then Wyatt made little adjustments to my hips and stance and to the way I was holding the cue. At one point he was leaning against me, his whole body pressed against my back. I turned and grinned at him. He grinned back, his lips close to mine. Then he grinned up at Lyle who laughed and shook his head. I was glad Wyatt was so proud to be with me like this. I figured maybe I was the kind of action he didn't normally get. Though I don't know why. He's hot as hell.

  Anyway, he helped me make my first shot, which sunk one ball. I tried the second shot on my own and the white ball bounced up and banged into a couple of other balls. But none of them went in. I turned and stuck my bottom lip out, all pouty, at Wyatt. He shook his head like he was ashamed. But I could tell he didn't really care. When I stood by his side to await our next turn, he draped his arm around me.

  We played four games before Jerry looked at his watch and said he had to get home. Lyle came and shook Wyatt's hand. "I'm clearly not going to steal this one away from you. Guess I'd better move on." He gave me a wink and went on his way.

  I turned back to Wyatt and waited for him to ask the inevitable question: would I go home with him?

  He studied me for a really long time. Too long. I thought he was going to chicken out. And then he said, "You feel like going fishing?"

  Well that wasn't what I'd expected. "Fishing? Are you sure that's what you meant to ask me?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm sure."

  I felt a smile spread across my face. "I've never been, but I've always wanted to."

  "Never been? Where're you from?"

  "Carterville." It was another nothing of a small town, less than an hour south of Apple Creek.

  "You're from Carterville and you've never been fishing?"

  "Nope." My childhood was something of a prison. Although she was never diagnosed, I believed my mother to have been mentally ill. She suffered from extreme paranoia and depression.

  He shook his head sadly. "Ain't it a strange world. Well do you want to go fishing with me tonight, or not?"

  "Yeah. I wanna go. I'm just not a hundred percent confident you don't have something else in mind is all."

  "Oh, I've got something else in mind," he said. "But first I wanna go fishing."

  I latched onto his arm and bounced lightly on the balls of my feet while he paid our tab. Then he led me out to his truck. A beat up, old blue Chevy. I climbed in, figuring he'd just bring me back for my car later. He climbed in and then gave me a funny look.

  “You do this often?” he asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Get into trucks with strangers.”

  I grinned. He probably had a point, but I was feeling fearless tonight. “Why? You gonna do bad things to me, Wyatt?”

  “Oh, definitely. But I just have to say, that, as a father—“

  “You’re not my father,” I said as I slid my hand up his thigh.

  His smile widened. “I’m right glad of that. But…if I was, my mind would be more at ease if you swore to me right now you’d never do something like this again.”

  I scooted over, rested my chin on his shoulder, and softly said, “I swear right now I won’t ever do something like this again. Can you take me fishing, now, Wyatt?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He put the truck into gear and drove us out to a gravel back road. We followed it for a couple of miles and then turned off on a dirt road that could barely be called a road. It bounced and jostled us and deposited us next to a lake.

  "What lake is this?" I asked.

  "It's private property."

  "We're trespassing?"

  "Yep." He hopped out and slammed the door shut. There were no signs of life anywhere. No lights from a house. No vehicles. So I figured we had a pretty good chance of not getting caught. I got out and looked over the bed of the truck at Wyatt, who was pulling out a tackle box and two fishing rods. Huh. Guess we really were going fishing.

  "Whose private property?" I asked.

  "Some old guy named Kenny. He's got three kids who all want this property. I'm pretty sure he's determined he'd rather just never die than to give any one of them his la
nd. Anyway, I fish out here all the time."

  "Are you friends with him?"

  He laughed. "Hell, no. I believe he'd shoot me on sight if he saw me."

  I followed, feeling a little nervous. I really didn't want to be shot. But it was kind of exciting. And what a gorgeous evening. The sun had sunk below the horizon. The crickets and frogs were going full force and there was a whippoorwill out there making a lot of noise. Wyatt took long strides toward the lake and then cut off down a rough path through the woods. It came out at the end of the lake where the dam had been built up. It was less weedy, and therefore less snake-infested, than the other side of the lake.

  He sat down and began fixing up the fishing pole. This involved attaching a hook and a small weight and a bobber--a round, red and white, floaty thingy. I did my best to sit down next to him, which was hard in those heels and that skirt. The skirt wasn't necessarily short unless you were trying to sit on the ground, and then it rode up quite a bit. I kept watching to see if he'd check out my legs. He didn't. Just went about fixing up the lines. Figured. Nobody ever checked out my legs. That was usually because I was with Lauren. She's my best friend. And she's gorgeous. Tall and lithe, with this perfect, auburn hair. And incredible legs. I myself often got distracted staring at them. Sometimes she'd come out of the shower with her towel wrapped around her and my heart would skip a beat. I'm not gay, but her hotness transcends sexual boundaries.

  "Here you go," Wyatt said. He handed me a rod. "Now hold down that button there. Then bring the rod back over your shoulder like you're going to throw it. Look back and make sure you're not going to hook my ear."

  I laughed and did as he told me and gasped. "What the hell did you put on my hook?"

  "Cricket. It's all I had."

  "You put a cricket on my hook?"

  "Sure. Now you throw the line, not the pole, and about halfway, you let go of the button. Okay?"

  I nodded, but suddenly felt like I had the first time I learned to drive a stick shift. Well, the first time someone tried to teach me. I never actually learned. "You do it first and show me."

  He grabbed a cricket out of this small, wire cage that was full of the hopping critters, and speared it with his hook. Then he cast out his line. There was a buzz and a plop. And then he turned the reel once until it clicked.