Seeking Shelter by Angel Smits

was with her parents, and she could still feel her mother’s death grip on her arm. Angry words flew above her head, back and forth between her parents. Looking back now, Amy wondered if she’d had marks on her arm from her mom’s ever tightening fingers. A mother herself, Amy understood her better.
    She’d have had the same tight hold on Katie.
    Amy didn’t remember how she’d gotten separated from her parents that day. But she remembered crying, tears streaming down her three-year-old cheeks. Faces—there were dozens of faces, far above her.... “Daddy!” she’d screamed. Then whimpered, “Mommy?” She’d fallen, dropping the purse her mom had given her. She remembered that little toy purse being run over by someone else’s mom pushing a stroller. Why was that mother there, and not hers?
    Hours seemed to go by before she’d been swept up in her dad’s arms, hugged too tightly against his big burly chest....
    Those baby sobs echoed over time, filling the space at the bottom of the stairs. She was no longer holding the doorknob, but was huddled on the bottom step.
    She looked back up the narrow stairway. Jace was gone. Thank goodness he hadn’t followed her.
    She was alone. Which was a good thing, she rationalized. She was an adult, a parent herself, not a three-year-old lost in the mall anymore. So why was she disappointed? Why, after all this time, did she ache to have her father back again?
    Because he’d heard her in that store. He hadn’t stopped looking until he’d found her that day. She didn’t remember ever feeling that safe since.
    So, how could he have left them? Why?
    What had made her father finally give up?
    * * *
    T HE NEXT DAY , Jace was still in town.
    Amy had seen him walking across the square a couple of times, probably checking on the repair part for his motorcycle. He hadn’t said a thing to her, but already three customers had come to the store to fill her in. He was new, and new always generated gossip.
    Too bad they hadn’t come in to spend money.
    Standing in the front door of her store, watching two tumbleweeds race each other down Main Street, she fought to clear her mind.
    She closed her eyes, letting the heat of the day wash over her. She’d lived nearly all her life here in the desert. She was used to the heat. But sometimes she wondered what it would be like to live someplace else, someplace with more than one and a half seasons.
    She heard the roar of a motorcycle engine and expected to see a vehicle appear on the street. Then the sound faded. A second later, she heard it again.
    She looked down the block to Rick’s gas station. The north garage door was open, and she could see Jace hunkered down beside his monstrous motorcycle. Rick appeared beside him and handed him something. That must be the engine she kept hearing as he worked on it.
    She figured they were talking, but she was too far away to hear anything. She watched, feeling only slightly like a voyeur.
    What did she care? Once it was fixed, he’d be gone.
    As would the knowledge he had of her father. She swallowed that realization with a gulp and went back inside. This was too much. Too confusing.
    She’d just closed the door when the phone rang. She answered automatically, with words she’d said a million times. “General Store. Can I help you?”
    “Is this—” The man cleared his throat. “Is this Amy Grey?”
    “Uh, yes. How can I help you?”
    He was quiet for so long she thought maybe they’d lost the connection. “My name is Stephen Haase.” His voice changed. It was stronger, deeper. “I’m with the firm of Bailey, Whitberg and Haase in Los Angeles. I was wondering if you’ve been contacted by a man named Jace Holmes.”
    Amy pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it for a long second. “Why do you ask?”
    She didn’t like strangers any better over the phone than in person. This felt weird.
    “I’m calling because I’m not comfortable with Mr. Holmes’s