Finally a Hero. Pamela Tracy

jelly and Pop-Tarts. Nothing in the car worth selling. Believe me, I looked. And then there’s the gas for driving him here.”

      He knew exactly what his mother was telling him and took a deep breath. She wanted to be reimbursed. But what money could she honestly expect from a man who’d been out of jail for only a few hours? He was living on faith, but had no clue how faith could help Matilda, his mother or Timmy. Part of him wanted to pray; part of him wanted to run out of the restaurant. Instead, hating himself for what he couldn’t provide, he said, “You’ve come to the wrong man. Right now, I can barely help myself.”

      “Not sure you’ll have a choice.”

      If not for the generosity of Mike Hamm, he wouldn’t even have the clothes on his back. The prison chaplain had provided him with the pants and shirt, not wanting him to leave prison in state-provided denim blues.

      “I don’t have anything to give,” he told his mother.

      She didn’t respond. Instead, resignation on her face, she glanced out the restaurant window, looking like she wished she was miles away. He knew she wasn’t wishing to be any place in particular—just anywhere but where she was.

      The boy watched, not uttering a word, ignoring Jesse’s attempts to ask him about age, school status and favorite things to do. The yellow crayon broke, and now Timmy colored with a dark blue crayon.

      “Got a job lined up?” his mother finally asked after checking her watch for a third time.

      “Yes.”

      Susan gave a shrug and took the last bite of her meal. “That’s more than I can manage. Soon, though, things will be better. I’ve met a guy, a nice guy, and we’re heading for New Mexico. Maybe this time it will last.”

      Jesse had never figured out what the “it” his mother talked about was. When he was young, he’d thought it meant love. As a teenager, he’d thought it meant monetary support. Now, as an ex-con, he figured it meant companionship and money.

      His mother didn’t really understand the concept of love, so that couldn’t be it.

      “He’s not crazy about the kid, I’ll tell you that,” Susan continued. As if cued, her cell phone sounded a rendition of “Free Bird.” She picked it up and looked at the number. “Oh, it’s him.” She answered with a “Hey,” then stood and said to Jesse, “Let me take this where I can hear.”

      She headed to the front of the restaurant and stopped at the door. Before exiting, she said, “He’ll be excited that you and I met up.”

      Somehow Jesse doubted it. In all his years, not one of Susan’s boyfriends had been excited about meeting Jesse. And certainly, meeting Jesse—fresh out of prison—with Timmy as collateral damage was more than any significant other could take.

      Jesse turned his attention back to his meal. The food was better than anything he’d had in the past few years and he intended to enjoy it while he could—and enjoy the momentary silence before his mother returned.

      * * *

      Working at the ranch, being in charge of guest relations, Eva’d seen dysfunctional families up close and personal. As a matter of fact, she’d called the police a time or two, and once drove a woman all the way to California when her husband decided to end their marriage in the middle of their vacation.

      Not fun.

      She wasn’t sure how the woman who’d just sashayed from the restaurant was connected to Timmy’s father. He’d never spoken to her by name. She dressed young, but her face bore the lines of hard living. She’d introduced the boy as “your son” and not “our son.”

      The man, on the other hand, didn’t look as rough—in part because he clearly had God in his life. Again, Eva felt a nudge of guilt. Last Sunday morning’s sermon had been about being judgmental. Sitting beside her father on the pew, Eva knew this was a trait she struggled with. At the front desk of the ranch, she often decided on personalities of people before they’d finished check-in.

      She judged which parents were too easy on their offspring. She judged which family would prove to be good tippers and which would leave their rooms an absolute mess. She was often right—but she’d been wrong a time or two.

      Maybe she’d misjudged the man across the restaurant.

      Eva glanced out the window and watched as the woman passed the bench by the front door, quickly lit up a cigarette, and then headed alongside the building.

      The phone call must be really private for her to go out back where the Dumpsters were located. Except...she’d already put away her phone.

      Stop it, Eva told herself. This is ridiculous. Go back to your book. She reread the last paragraph, but she’d forgotten the storyline.

      Outside, the woman walked up to a man on a motorcycle.

      Feeling slightly ridiculous, Eva glared at the doors to the kitchen. The bill...Eva really needed her bill. She was worried, actually worried about the two males left behind. And she didn’t even know them! If the restaurant hadn’t been so empty and the family—at least the woman—so noisy, Eva wouldn’t be so curious.

      At least curiosity wasn’t a sin.

      Not in moderation.

      The rev of the motorcycle engine sounded right outside. Eva sighed and gave up pretending that she wasn’t watching. Peering through the window, Eva watched as the woman took one last puff from a cigarette before throwing it to the ground. She seemed agitated.

      She also seemed to know the man on the motorcycle. Well enough that she climbed on the seat and wrapped her arms around his leather jacket. And then, off they went.

      Eva hoped she hadn’t just witnessed someone getting dumped, especially not a someone who’d just heard the words “Meet your son.”

      None of my business, Eva reminded herself.

      But she knew the woman hadn’t said goodbye. And she knew what it was like to wait for someone who had no intention of returning.

      She glanced back at the two guys left in the restaurant. The little boy, Timmy, picked at his food, eating with his fingers, and making a mess of his face. The man pushed an extra napkin in his direction, but Timmy ignored it, coloring more vigorously in between bites of food. Then his crayon rolled toward the edge of the table, and when he moved to grab it, he knocked over his water glass. Water covered the page he’d been coloring. Timmy froze.

      Eva knew that response. The kid expected some kind of punishment.

      “It’s okay,” the man said, gently. “We’ve got plenty of napkins.”

      Just then, Jane showed up with more. Timmy was an unyielding mannequin. He looked like he was barely breathing. The man literally had to scoot the boy’s chair out of the way so Jane could clean the table.

      Eva looked out the window again. The motorcycle and its two riders were long gone.

      Jane brought Timmy a new coloring sheet. “You want dessert?” she asked.

      “No, my mother stepped outside to take a call,” the man said. “As soon as she returns, we’ll pay the bill and take off.”

      So the woman was his mother. But if he waited for her to come back, they’d be waiting a long time. Eva waved Jane over.

      “You need to tell him,” Eva whispered, “that his mother just took off on a motorcycle with some guy.”

      Jane took a step back. “You’re kidding. I don’t want to tell him.”

      “We can’t leave them waiting.”

      “You tell him,” Jane said, and before Eva could stop her, she’d motioned for him to join them.

      Eva watched as he glanced at his mother’s keys, at Timmy and then at the front door before joining them.

      Eva