His face had been in the shadows then, but now I could see he had a square jaw darkened with stubble and lips quirked up at the side. Even those strong features paled against the bright intensity of his eyes, both tragic and terrifying. So brown and deep that I could fall into them. The scary part was the way he stared—insolently. Possessively, as if he had a right to look at me, straight in my eyes and down my neckline to peruse my body.

I suddenly felt uncomfortable in this dress, as if it exposed too much. I wished I hadn’t changed clothes. More disturbing, I wished I had listened to my mother. I looked back down at my pancakes, but my stomach felt stretched full, clenched tight around the sticky mass I’d already eaten.

I wanted to get up and leave, but the waitress wasn’t here and I had to pay the bill. More than that, it would be silly to run away just because a man looked at me. That was exactly what my mom would do.

Back when we still left the house, someone would just glance at her sideways in the grocery store. Then we’d flee to the car where she’d do breathing exercises before she could drive us home. I was trying to escape that. I had escaped that. I wouldn’t go back now just because a man with pretty eyes checked me out.

Still, it was unnerving. When I peeked at him from beneath my lashes, I met his steady gaze. He’d seated himself so he had a direct line of vision to me. Shouldn’t he be more circumspect? But then, I wouldn’t know what was normal. I was clueless when it came to public interaction. So I bowed my head and poked at the soggy pancakes.

Once the waitress gave me the bill, I’d leave. Simple enough. Easy, for someone who wasn’t paranoid or crazy. And I wasn’t—that was my mother, not me. I could do this.

When the waitress came out, she went straight to his table. I drew little circles in the brown syrup just to keep my eyes off them. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but I assumed he was ordering his meal.

Finally, the waitress approached my table, wearing a more reserved expression than she had before. Almost cautious. I didn’t fully understand it, but I felt a flutter of nerves in my full stomach.

She paused as if thinking of the right words. Or maybe wishing she didn’t have to say them. “The man over there has paid for your meal. He’d like to join you.”

I blinked, not really understanding. The gentleness of her voice unnerved me. More than guilt—pity.

“I’m sorry.” I fumbled with the words. “I’ve already eaten. I’m done.”

“You have food left on your plate. Doesn’t matter how much you want to eat anyway.” She paused and then carefully strung each word along the sentence. “He requests the pleasure of your company.”

My heart sped up, the first stirrings of fear.

I supposed I should feel flattered, and I did in a way. He was a handsome man, and he’d noticed me. Of course, I was the only woman around besides the waitress, so it wasn’t a huge accomplishment. But I wasn’t prepared for fielding this kind of request. Was this a common thing, to pay for another woman’s meal?

It was a given that I should say no. Whatever he wanted from me, I couldn’t give him, so it was only a question of letting him down nicely.

“Please tell him thank you for the offer. I appreciate it, I do. But you see, I really am finished with my meal and pretty tired, so I’m afraid it won’t be possible for him to join me. Or to pay for my meal. In fact, I’d like the check, please.”

Her lips firmed. Little lines appeared between her brows, and with a sinking feeling I recognized something else: fear.

“Look, I know you aren’t from around here, but that there is Hunter Bryant.” When I didn’t react to the name, her frown deepened. “Here’s a little advice from one woman to another. There are some men you just don’t say no to. Didn’t your mama ever warn you about men like that?”

Anxiety swelled in my chest. My mother had warned me, so many times, but I hadn’t wanted to believe.

No, I refused to believe.

The world wasn’t a scary place where a woman had to be afraid. Instead I embraced my annoyance. This was awkward, and I didn’t know how to get out of it without insulting him—or her, for not understanding a basic request or doing her job. She had conveyed the question and been given an answer.

I enunciated each word as if she had a hard time understanding, and for all I knew, maybe she did. She certainly wasn’t listening to me. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be dining with him. I’m finished. Please give me the check, and I’ll pay for my own food.”

She frowned. “You’re a mouthy little thing.”

I scooted back a little. I didn’t want to be mouthy. I hadn’t really meant to offend. But it seemed inevitable. Each small misstep was a blow to my thin confidence. I’d been prepared for the big problems. Finding housing, dealing with money. Driving across the country. Eventually having a boyfriend and figuring out if I could have sex like a normal woman after what had happened. I hadn’t counted on my complete lack of social graces. Like a thousand tiny cuts, they were tearing me apart before I’d even gotten to my destination.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, and I meant it. Whatever was the right thing to do or say in this moment, I didn’t know it.

But I couldn’t agree to eating dinner with him, to letting him pay for my meal, and then owing him…what? What was the proper etiquette when a man bought dinner? A goodnight kiss, more? I didn’t know that either. But I did know he made me uncomfortable. If I could put my foot in my mouth around this waitress, it would be so much worse around him. Even several booths over, his dark gaze tied my tongue in knots.

“I can’t,” I whispered, trying to convey to her the urgency of my situation. The impossibility of it.

“Have it your way.” A strange light entered her eyes, like one of remembrance. “Maybe you have the right idea anyway. It always ends the same way. Might as well hold onto control as long as you can.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine.

I fumbled with my coin purse. “I don’t need the bill. Here, this should cover it.”

The twenty dollar bill I left was more than the total should have been, even with a tip, and I couldn’t really spare any money but neither could I stay there another minute, pinned by his gaze and terrified by the ancient pain in hers.

Pointedly avoiding looking at him, I slipped out the door and scurried along the broken concrete until I reached my room. I shut the door, twisting the heavy deadbolt to lock it.

Chapter Three

The first person to see and describe Niagara Falls in depth was a French priest who accompanied an expedition in 1678.

My skin still prickled as I huddled in my motel room—something about him had been off. The way the man had looked at me, unflinching, unnerving, had tripped off all sorts of animal instincts inside me that I couldn’t precisely interpret except to know to avoid him.

I latched the little hook on the door for good measure. Glancing sideways at the heavy drapes, I sent silent thanks for the metal burglar bars on the window.

In the diner, where even the waitress had seemed intimidated, I’d felt vulnerable. But now I was well and truly encased in the motel room, where I would stay until morning. It felt a little like failure, falling back on my old ways, but I considered it only a temporary retreat. Things would be different in Little Rock and even that was only until I’d saved enough money to continue north.

A shower was the next order of business, so I headed across the shadowed room and bumped directly into the round dinette table.

“Ouch,” I muttered.

Had that been directly aligned with the door before? I wasn’t even sure where the light switches were. It had been daylight when I’d first been in the room, with the sunlight streaming through the window…through the open drapes. Now they were closed. I had seen that clear enough even in the darkness, the vertical lines where the barred window had once been visible.