P R O L O G U E
She mounted her horse in one easy step. The horse huffed, chewing on the carrot she gave her earlier.
With one slight kick to the brown horse's side, they were suddenly riding along with the wind. The two were equivalent to fearless. The wind seemed to blow right through them, like a swift jab in the throat with a knife.
When she stopped in front of the barn gate, a man relatively close to her age, was standing there; an arm leaning against the fence, his head slightly tilted back.
"Some horse you got there," he said in a raspy, yet oddly delicate voice. "He's a real beauty."
"She," she snapped. "The horse. It's a girl."
He glanced up at her, patting the blond mane on the horse in delicate strokes. His eyes were oceans of chocolate, swirled like dangerous hurricanes. Something about him was . . . devious—yet in a good way. "And you? What's your name?" he inquired.
She didn't move an inch; she stiffened her position, but didn't twitch or even blink. "You don't need to know that. That's none of your business."
Suddenly, a baby no older than a year old waddled over to her, his arms reaching out, signifying that he wanted to be held. In one swift move, he was set in her arms, and she was off the horse.
"He's adorable," the man complimented, a small grin on his face.
She put an actual smile on her face for a change. "Thank –" She stopped mid-sentence as she and the man watched the baby.
He watched the man curiously, and he reached his arms out, a tiny smile on his face.
She stared at the man – his delicate, fragile eyes searching into the baby boy's; brown on brown. Could she trust him? Would he take her son, and leave, in a blink of an eye?
But she felt . . . connected to him; as if . . . she knew him from somewhere. As if he had a special place in her heart, that was held for him and only him.
It was only a matter of time before the baby in her arms reached out for him. The man, eyeing the girl quickly for approval, scooped the tiny boy into his warmth. "What's his name?" he asked gently, keeping his eyes on his boy—a smile growing in the midst of his irises.
She folded her arms across her chest in admiration. Her son never looked at anyone—but his mother, of course—like that. He was a shy baby, one who rarely wanted to be held by anyone but his mommy. "Nicholas. But we call him Nick," she responded. And then she wondered why she told him that. "Why do you want to know?" she asked quickly.
The man turned to face her slowly, an eyebrow arched. "I was just curious," he said. "Is it a . . . problem that I want to know your baby brother's name?"
She felt her cheeks turn pink almost instantly. "He's not my baby brother. He's my son." She clutched her arms around her body tighter.
"Oh," he whispered. After a moment, he added, "You look . . . really young to be having a child."
Suddenly, she grew angry. Why should he just barge into her life and tell him she was too young to have children? She barely knew him. She didn't even know his name, and yet he was judging her. People really bugged her sometimes.
"What's your name?" she snapped.
He suddenly let the boy out of his arms, letting him walk into the house where they lived. He put his hands in his pockets. "Levi Samuels. Nice to meet you."
Her body froze into a complete shock. The name was so familiar – like spreading peanut butter on the pieces of apples for Nick every morning. His voice was familiar, the same velvety texture she remembered.
She gulped down the large, hard rock forming in the center of her throat as she tried hard to fight back tears. It wasn't working; she turned on her heel and started to walk. She walked until she finally heard the crunching of leaves behind him and they were inside the chicken coop, where she had to get the fresh eggs for the morning's breakfast.
"Why did you walk away? Did I do something wrong?" he asked, his voice so curious, so protective. How could he act like this? It was as if what he did the year before meant nothing and was nothing. But to her, it was everything in the world. It was the reason she was living there, the reason she had Nick, the reason she lived a life no one wanted to live.
She grabbed an egg from a nest and placed it into the basket gently, her fingers trembling. "Your name . . . it was just really familiar," she breathed. She turned to face him. As the wind started to blow, she felt the tears on her face drying. Why was she crying? There was nothing left to cry over.
He nodded tightly. "Care to tell me your name?"
She shook her head fiercely. "Why are you here?"
He leaned his arm on the wooden door, moving away as a chicken pecked at his jeans. He ignored it, answering her question: "I'm here to ask you a few . . . questions, if you don't mind."
She didn't answer. She let him continue speaking as she continued to pick more eggs.
"Do you know someone named Lyric Symphony?"
Her body froze. Again. The oxygen left in her body was consumed. She basically stopped breathing in front of this man – this man named Levi Samuels. This man, who took her life away without him realizing. This man, who had no idea what she had gone through. Her chin quivered, but she stopped the tears as fast as she could once she spun around to face him, placing the basket of a dozen eggs on a stool. "I don't know what you're talking about," she snarled, shaking her head as she took her gloves off and walked out of the coop with her basket of eggs.
"Oh, c'mon!" he shouted, running after her to keep up. He observed her, as she dropped the basket of eggs in front of the house door and she walked back into the horses' barn. "Lyric Symphony. She was over national news. Don't you remember, someone tried – and succeeded – to strangle her to death, yet her body was never found? She was supposedly seen last in Grand Prairies, Texas." He smiled. "I believe that's where we are, right now."
She opened the barn door for the horses, who trotted out and into the open field of freshly cut grass. She turned around. "I'm sorry, Mr. Samuels, but I don't recognize that name. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a baby to tend to." She pushed her body past him, and just as she reached the house door, he spoke.
"Just tell me your name, and I'll leave you alone!"
A small sliver of a tear trickled down her face. She wiped it away, glancing behind her shoulder. "Willafred Johnson."