The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi

Chapter 31

Snow pattered against the windshield as Rae turned onto the farm’s long, winding driveway.

In the distance, the house was a flickering dot. Behind the snow-crusted dwelling, colorful lights glowed.

Rae’s heart lifted. Mom, are you looking down from heaven? Is Lark with you? Your twinkly lights . . . Dad turned them on for poker night.

The headlights bobbed. Gently, she eased off the gas. In the wet snow, she noticed a new set of tire tracks.

Had Quinn run out for snacks? If he and Connor planned on late-night poker with midnight tacos, she was begging off. Like Griffin, she had a lot to think about. Where to store a gun in the house. Whether or not to share Griffin’s concerns with her father.

Whether she’d have a future with Griffin. Much had changed in two short hours. She needed a good night’s sleep to sort herself out.

She was reaching for the garage door opener when her heart lurched.

Tire tracks rutted the lawn. Rammed against the maple tree, a blue truck glinted in the moonlight.

The door to the house hung open.

The car fishtailed as she slammed on the brakes. It came to a halt. Rae was out and through the living room in seconds.

In the kitchen, playing cards were scattered across the floor. A chair was on its side by the wall. Whoever’d jumped out of their seat, they’d done so in a hurry.

Lying prone near the sink, her father tried to get up.

“Dad!”

A thread of blood ran down his chin. As she heaved him into a sitting position, he winced.

“Dad, are you hurt? Is anything broken?” She wasn’t sure if he could stand.

He pushed her away. “Rae, they’re out back. We heard a racket outside, then Mik stormed into the house—I forgot to lock the door when you left. He beat Quinn awfully bad. I don’t know how the boy got away.”

Frantic, she glanced toward the living room. Her purse was in the car. She’d dropped her phone into her purse.

Teeth chattering, she fell back on her bottom. Dug inside her coat pocket, found the weapon.

Her father paled. “Where’d you get a gun?”

On autopilot, she filled the clip. Snapped it into place, and Connor flinched.

The dog was scrabbling at the mudroom door. Barking and then scrabbling some more, determined to get outside to protect her master. Rae pushed Shelby back. The last thing she needed was a dog injured during the fray.

Beneath Hester’s lights, the snow glistened. There were footprints everywhere. Proof of a struggle, with no obvious winner. Rae’s stomach overturned at the speckling of blood visible beneath the first tree. The area near the barn was also lit brightly. The center acreage lay in darkness. Mik was approaching the shadows.

Dragging his unconscious son. Quinn’s legs cut grooves in the snow as they moved forward.

Dread ran hot in her veins. “Mik—stop where you are!” Rae willed her pulse to slow.

A tense moment. His fist was tight on the collar of his son’s sweatshirt. Pivoting, Mik spotted her. He swayed slightly.

Then he began dragging Quinn back in her direction.

“I’m warning you—stop where you are. Let Quinn go.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he shouted back.

His retort was slurred. Rae trembled. How to deal with a man under the influence? He’d never listen to reason. Not in the state he was in.

Willing herself forward, she paused beneath the fourth tree. The lights were brighter here. The glaring ribbons of gold and green fell across her. With her right hand, Rae lifted the gun into view. To ensure Mik understood.

Incredibly, the danger incensed him. He advanced, faster now. Fast enough for Rae to glimpse the damage to Quinn’s face—the beating that had rendered him unconscious. The blood oozing from his slackened lips. Wisps of fury ran through her.

Mik roared, “You can’t disrespect me. Put it down, or I’ll teach you a lesson.”

Fear caught Rae in a desperate hold. The instinct to run was nearly overpowering.

No.

If she gave in to the fear, there was no telling what Mik would do next. She could flee the danger he represented. But what about Quinn? His life rested in her hands.

Near the sixth tree, Mik let the boy go. And came faster. There wasn’t much time now, and Rae stood transfixed. Between fear and anger, her pulse beating out of rhythm.

Griffin’s words ricocheted through her.

I’ll kill him.

In a two-fisted hold, she aimed the gun at Mik’s chest. At the center, where his cold heart was beating. Mik was a feral animal. Rabid and deadly. She didn’t need Griffin to take him down.

She’d do the job.

Beneath Hester’s twinkling lights, Quinn’s head lifted from the snow. Vomit heaved from his lips. His father was still advancing, nearing Rae, when the boy’s frightened gaze found hers.

Rae’s mind suddenly cooled. Went placid like the river-water gray of Griffin’s eyes.

With the skill of a born marksman, she moved her aim a fraction higher. Slightly to the left. Away from the center of Mik’s chest.

Guns are killing machines. Even the desire to bring injury can result in death. A person can bleed out from a gunshot wound quickly. For a fleeting second, Rae lifted her gaze heavenward. Mama, help me. Rae knew there were no guarantees.

Moving fast, Mik raised his fists.

She pulled the trigger.

The bullet found his flesh, threw him backward. His arms flailed out. Snow exploded around him as he fell onto his back.

“Rae!”

Her father limped out the mudroom door. Had he called the police? Rae perked her ears, desperate to detect the shrill call of sirens—and heard nothing.

She didn’t know if Mik still posed a danger. “Dad, stay back,” she roared.

Her command froze Connor in place.

Racing to Mik’s side, she cried out with relief. He wasn’t moving. Dread lowered her to her knees. Beneath his shoulder, the pool of blood was growing.

Tearing off her coat, Rae staunched the bleeding. Quinn was sitting up now, his eyes wild with terror.

She darted a quick glance. “Quinn, I need you to be brave.” She colored her voice with affection, hoping to steady him.

He began trembling uncontrollably. On a whimper, he swiped at the blood on his face.

“Quinn! Look at me. It’s okay, baby. I’m here. You’re safe. Where’s your phone?”

His eyes found the pool of blood inking the snow. With understanding, he searched his pockets. Rae’s hands were sticky with blood. Mik’s eyes were closed; his lips were bluish.

Quinn held up his phone.

“Dial 911. Now.” Turning, she located her father, still awaiting her signal to approach.

“Dad, can you help Quinn to the house? Can you walk?”

He nodded.

As they limped away together, she pressed harder on Mik’s shoulder. He groaned. She’d hit him somewhere in the upper chest, near the shoulder.

“Mik, wake up! Damn it—do it now!”

His eyelids fluttered.

Police and paramedics converged on the farm. Mik was taken to the county’s Mercy Hospital in grave condition. The ambulance sped away from the property, the sirens screaming into the night.

The sheriff was in the kitchen with Connor, listening to the account. An officer took notes. Thankfully her father had suffered only minor injuries, allowing Rae to concentrate her efforts on calming down Quinn.

His eyes bruised and his lips swelling, he’d begun shaking again.

On the couch, Rae slowly rocked him. He was curled up at her side, his bloodied face tucked into the crook of her arm. For a boy nearly her height, he seemed much smaller.

An officer with salt-and-pepper hair approached. He seemed hesitant to disturb them.

“He should go to Mercy’s ER,” the officer told her. “The sheriff called in for a second ambulance.” His pitying gaze skipped across Quinn’s huddled form and back to her. “Would you rather I drive you in?”

“There’s no need. But thanks.” She watched headlights arc across the yard. “We have a ride.”

She heard someone crash through the door. With relief, her gaze caught Griffin’s.

The sun was rising on a chilly Saturday morning by the time the ER docs finished checking Quinn. During a facial X-ray and tests, Rae stuck by his side. The cuts and bruises on his face were many, but he’d suffered no permanent damage.

Griffin had thoughtfully tossed a blanket into the back seat of his car. They left the ER a slow-moving, exhausted trio. Griffin helped the silent youth into the back seat, then tucked the blanket around him. Quinn murmured his thanks.

Griffin steered onto the two-lane highway. “I’m sleeping on your couch,” he announced.

Rae’s eyes began to close. She forced them open. “I’m sleeping until noon.”

Behind her, the blanket rippled. Clasping the edge, Quinn pulled the fluffy material over his head.

From beneath, his muffled voice: “Can I sleep all day?”

“Sleep until Sunday, if you’d like.” Rae stifled a yawn. “Totally your call.”

“Great. I’m sleeping until Sunday.”

The idea was tempting. “Maybe I will too.” Rae let her eyes drift shut.

Griffin chuckled. “Not happening.” Bringing the car to a halt at a stoplight, he glanced behind. “Hey, sport. You’re not the only one who knows how to cook. How does roasted chicken and garlic mashed potatoes sound? I’m cooking when I wake up. The grocery delivery’s already set up for this afternoon. The bird and the spuds will be on the table by six o’clock.”

The blanket shifted. “I guess I’ll wake up then.”