No River Too Wide. Emilie Richards

was finishing the Cheerios on my daughter’s high-chair tray.”

      “Is she old enough to feed herself?” he asked without missing a beat.

      “She thinks she is. I shovel in whatever I’ve prepared between her finger food.”

      “I’m the oldest of six. I was the only kid who went to Covenant Academy with rice cereal and mashed bananas on his shirt.”

      “Your job was feeding the babies?”

      “Until I got my driver’s license. Then I was in charge of pickup and delivery. My sister still talks about the time I took her to ballet class with a crate of chickens and a goat in the back of our minivan. My mother was trading livestock with another farmer across town.”

      “You come from a farm family?”

      “We have two acres, and Mom used every inch while we were growing up, but now a lot of the garden area is devoted to wildflowers. She got rid of the goats last month. I think the bees will go next.”

      “Six kids?” She tried to imagine it.

      “Devoted Catholics, although they sent us to Covenant Academy instead of Catholic schools because they liked the curriculum better.”

      “I think I’m more a Buddhist than anything, although I don’t really go to church,” she said, waiting for him to scrunch up his face and remember a prior commitment.

      “I’m just trying to live a good life,” Nate said with a grin. “I leave all the theology to people who are more worried than I am.”

      He hadn’t flinched over her single-parent status. He hadn’t flinched over her religion or lack of one. “The veggie pizza here is a standout,” she said. “Did Taylor mention I’m a vegetarian?”

      “I don’t remember. I’m one of those guys who’ll eat anything. Buffalo burgers? Brussels sprouts?” He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t care which.

      She put down the menu, which hadn’t changed since her days on staff. “It’s possible you’re too good to be true.”

      “I hitchhiked to San Francisco when I was sixteen to attend a Star Trek convention. I have an autographed poster of Captain Jean Luc Piccard in a safe-deposit box.”

      “That’s the worst you’ve got?”

      “Geekier than that? I played tuba in the academy band, mostly because I was the only one who could lift it out of the case. I went into the army because they promised me the Mideast. Then they sent me to Honolulu. I spent the whole time upgrading cabinets in officers’ housing at Schofield Barracks.” He grinned, an infectious, friendly grin. “Bad enough for you?”

      She smiled, too. How could she not like Nate Winchester? Still, she had to counter.

      She leaned forward. “I’m the product of a family who gives the word dysfunctional new meaning. I got pregnant despite using birth control and refused to marry the father when I realized he wanted to use our baby to impress the partners in his accounting firm. Now I work on a farm. Digging in the dirt and cleaning out the barn makes me happy in a way nothing else ever did. I want to be a lawyer, but I haven’t even started college and won’t until Lottie’s a little older.”

      “Just so I know?”

      She nodded. “Just so you know.”

      “How about a glass of wine? And I’m good with the veggie pizza if you want to split one.”

      “White wine for me, and you won’t have much choice on the brand—they’re probably still working on their wine cellar. Oh, and I don’t like Brussels sprouts.”

      “Duly noted.”

      She didn’t like Brussels sprouts, but she did like Nate. How could she not? As he gave their order, though, she was also aware that while she liked him just fine, sitting here with him was like sitting with a new girlfriend she’d met at the gym or the produce section of Fresh Market. He was good-looking, funny, intelligent and kind.

      And she didn’t feel even one faint spark igniting between them.

       Chapter 9

      From the audio journal of a forty-five-year-old woman, taped for the files of Moving On, an underground highway for abused women.

      The first time the Abuser slapped me I was stunned. Three weeks after we were married in a simple ceremony, he came home to find that I had rearranged the kitchen of our new house to better suit my needs. Since I did all the cooking, I never considered that when he unpacked our new utensils and dishes he had meant for them to stay in the cabinets he had chosen. Foolishly I had even expected him to be pleased I was settling in and making our house a home.

      He was sorry afterward, of course, tired from a long day at work in a job he despised because he hated taking orders from people who weren’t as smart as he was. Sorry enough that as he moved the kitchen contents back where he had first put them, he said he would have to remember to be more patient, that he knew I was learning to be a wife. But since he lived in the house, too, I should remember that all our decisions were to be made together.

      Of course, as time passed I realized that there was no “together.” The Abuser decided everything, and when he did consult me, often his intention was to find out what I wanted so he could do the opposite.

      Not always, though. Sometimes he surprised me with things he knew I yearned for—frequently enough, in fact, that I continued to believe he loved me and there was hope for our marriage. Sometimes, too, if I asked sweetly enough he would let me have my way, as long as I understood it was a privilege he had granted because he was a model husband.

      Some things, of course, were permanently off-limits. He claimed we couldn’t afford a second car so I could do errands on my own, and on the rare occasions I had the family car to myself, I was suspicious that he checked the mileage to be sure I hadn’t gone places I hadn’t told him about. He preferred that my old friends not visit when he wasn’t at home. Wasn’t daytime set aside to clean and cook? He had his job; I had mine.

      Of course, evenings and weekends were our time together and not to be shared.

      The second time he hit me I had just returned from a spontaneous shopping trip with a college friend. When he demanded to know why I had ignored his wishes, I reassured him, pointing out that the night’s pot roast was simmering in the slow cooker and freshly ironed shirts were hanging in his closet.

      So much time has passed I wonder now if I realized that afternoon that the trap was closing. That apologies were meant to keep me in line just as much as striking me was. That I could still find a way to be free of him with a little cunning and the help of the friends who hadn’t yet forgotten me.

      I really don’t know. I do know I was determined to make our marriage a success. And wasn’t the violence rare and the Abuser sorry? Didn’t that make all the difference?

      * * *

      Jan had known she would have to shop for clothes since she was washing the few things she’d brought every other day. When she was making plans to escape and gathering necessities, she had even told herself shopping once she “moved on” would be fun. She could choose colors Rex had discouraged and styles that might actually look good instead of her usual drab, loose clothing that guaranteed she would fade into the background.

      Of course, fading into the background might be a good thing until she knew for sure where her husband had gone. But in an odd sort of way, brightening her wardrobe might actually help her hide, since if anyone besides Rex was searching for her, they would be looking for a frumpy woman with no fashion sense and no courage.

      Which, she was afraid, was sadly accurate.

      “I can drop you off in town, but we’ll need to leave shortly,” Taylor said, glancing at the kitchen clock as she put away their lunch things. “My dad’s