I blinked a couple of times, and with the faint light shining from the bathroom, I could see it was Bec’s daughter studying me with an odd expression on her face. “What is it, kid?”
“You’re in Momma’s bed.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Why are you in Momma’s bed?”
“That’s a question for your momma.”
“Oh.” She thought for a minute, then asked, “Does she know you’re in there with her?”
“Yeah, kid. She knows I’m here.” I softly chuckled as I whispered, “I’m Thatch ... a friend of hers.”
“Oh.”
“There something ya need?”
“I had a bad dream.”
“Oh, I see.” I turned to Bec, and she was fast asleep just as I feared. I looked back over to the kid and asked, “You want a cup of warm milk or something?”
“Warm milk?”
“It’ll get rid of the bad dreams and help ya sleep.”
“Okay.”
Being careful not to wake Rebecca, I eased the covers back and grabbed my shirt from the floor. Once I’d pulled it on, I reached for the kid’s hand and led her down to the kitchen, then lifted her onto one of the kitchen counter stools. “You got a name?”
“I’m Cat.”
“Good to meet ya, Cat.”
She never took her eyes off me as I searched for a small pot for the milk. After I’d found one, I grabbed the milk from the fridge, then poured some into the pan and placed it on the stove.
As soon as I turned back to face the kid, her brows furrowed, and she asked, “Are you a good guy or a bad guy?”
“Guess that depends on who you ask, but as far as you and your mom are concerned, I’m a good guy.”
“You’ve got a big beard.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“And you got lots of tattoos.”
“Yeah, I got those, too.”
Cat was a cute kid—six or seven with curly dark hair like her mother and freckles dappled across her nose. She looked even more adorable when she wrinkled her nose and said, “They make you look scary.”
“The beard or the tattoos?”
“The tattoos.”
“Not if you know what they mean.” I pointed to the Ruthless Sinners’ symbol on my bicep. “This one’s for my club, and this one here with the Eagle is for my time in the Army.”
“Oh.” She listened as I went on about a few more of my tattoos, then said, “You’re kinda like a colorin’ book.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” I stepped over to the stove and poured her milk into a cup. As I placed it in front of her, I asked, “You want to tell me about this bad dream of yours?”
I wasn’t surprised when Cat shook her head no. Like her mother, she wanted to keep her bad thoughts to herself, and I was cool with that. I watched as she lifted the cup of milk to her mouth and took a sip. As soon as the warm liquid touched her tongue, she grimaced and groaned, “I don’t like warm milk.”
“I’ve never been a big fan of it myself.” I dumped the milk in the sink, cleaned out the cup, filled it with water, and carried it over to her. After she took a sip, I asked, “That better?”
She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
“Good.” I motioned my head over to the stairs. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
I lifted her up from the stool and lowered her to the floor, and then we headed upstairs to her mother’s room. Reaching the edge of the bed, I waited as she crawled in next to Bec, then pulled the covers over her. Once Cat was settled, I gathered the rest of my clothes and started for the door. I was just about to walk out of the bedroom when I heard, “Night, Thatch.”
“Night, kid.”
Without another word, I slipped off to the living room and put on my jeans and boots. After waiting a few minutes to make sure she fell back to sleep, I quickly checked the doors and windows to ensure they were locked. Satisfied the house was secured, I grabbed my cut and headed out to my bike.
As I started home, I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with the Rosewood girls. I’d made a promise to myself and Rebecca that I wouldn’t get involved in her private life, but I had a feeling I was about to break that promise.
2
REBECCA
Nothing like waking up in the wee hours of the morning to find my child’s elbow wedged in the base of my throat and her cold feet tucked under my back, especially when I had no idea she was even in the bed with me. I was sleeping so soundly, something that didn’t happen often, and I simply didn’t notice when Cat slipped into my room.
Knowing she must’ve had another one of her bad dreams, I couldn’t help but feel guilty that I hadn’t been there for her when she needed me. In hopes of making it up to her, I decided I would make pancakes for breakfast—it might lift both our spirits for the day.
I carefully moved Cat’s elbow from my throat before rolling her over on her side, taking a moment to make sure I hadn’t woken her. I eased back the covers, slipped out of bed, and rushed to the bathroom to freshen up a bit. After brushing my teeth, throwing on some sweats, and pulling my hair into a ponytail, I tiptoed into the kitchen and got busy making our breakfast.
I’d just gotten out the pancake mix and eggs when Cat appeared in the doorway with a pouty look on her face. “I had a bad dream last night.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” I walked over and lifted her into my arms, hugging her tightly while carrying her to the counter. “What kind of bad dream?”
She gave me a half-hearted shrug, then mumbled, “I can’t remember.”
I knew that wasn’t true. She always remembered her bad dreams, mainly because they were always the same—just like mine, they were always about that night. Cat and I had been through countless hours of therapy, but they had done little to erase the memories of what happened that night.
“Would you like to go see Ms. Katie again?”
Cat was just over two years old when her father was sent to prison. I’d hoped that she was too young to remember what had happened, but I learned early on, that wasn’t the case.
A year later, she started having night terrors and became very clingy with me. She didn’t want to leave my side and would have meltdowns about going to daycare. Things went south from there, so I took Cat to a family counselor, and after two years of getting nowhere, they suggested I take her to see Katie.
Katie was an art therapist who was absolutely wonderful with her. She and Cat would spend an hour a week talking and drawing, and I could see a real difference. She seemed happier, more open, and the nightmares became less and less frequent.
But lately, things hadn’t been going so well, and I had no idea why. “Maybe try talking to her about these dreams you’ve been having?”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head, then quickly changed the subject by asking, “Do you like warm milk?”
“Warm milk?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m not really a fan. Why?”
“Thatch made me some, but I didn’t like it.”
“Thatch made you some?” I repeated, sounding more surprised than I intended. “When did he do that?”