She thought about hollering that he was hurting her hair, even though he wasn't. Then maybe he would go away and not be her mama's boyfriend.
Her mother hugged her tight. "We need to leave now, punkin."
Rats. She didn't want to go. She just didn't want Bo smiling at her mother anymore.
"I'm sorry." Kirstie thrust out her bottom lip and made it wiggle a little.
"I'm sure you are," she said in that you're-in-trouble-any-way voice, "and we can talk about it more in the truck."
No luck with boo-boo lip. Her daddy would have given her a candy bar if she did boo-boo lip.
Before he died of the shots.
She held her eyes wide without blinking until she worked up a big, fat tear. Not too tough to do, all of a sudden. She felt it trickle down her cheek, cold and wet.
Mama's mad look went away, and she hugged tight again, her heart going thump, thump, thump against Kirstie's side. "Love you, punkin.I just want you to be safe."
"I know."
Mama kept squeezing extra tight until it even hurt a little. She did that a lot since Daddy died. It was hard being good all the time so her mother wouldn't get scared and stuff.
Kirstie tried not to wriggle even though she wanted down. Sometimes she wanted to run outside and keep running while she shouted and got really messy. And then maybe she'd make it all the way back to her house in South Carolina with the swing set and the merry-golds she and Mama planted. Her daddy would still be there and her tummy would stop hurting every day.
Her mother gave Bo a wobbly smile. "Thank you for being here. I wouldn't have wanted to look for her alone."
"No problem at all. I'm just glad everything turned out okay."
He smiled back—at Mama.
Kirstie's stomach rolled with hot dogs and cotton candy and lemonade and those chips.
She clapped a hand to her mouth—
And upchucked all over Captain Bo's shiny boots.
Ah, geez, the joys of motherhood.
Paige hefted her wailing daughter in front of her and raced for the nearest trash can by a looming helicopter. Kirstie seemed finished puking, but experience taught a mom not to count on lucking into a solitary spew.
Her glasses jostled down as she ran. She tried to juggle Kirstie and nudge them back up, but darn, her baby girl was getting heavy. "Hang on. We're almost to the trash barrel."
"Do you think I got the chicken pox?" She glanced back with horror-stricken eyes. "Or maybe I gots that mosquito disease."
Sigh. "You don't have malaria." Paige screeched to a stop in front of the garbage bin, positioning Kirstie over the open top. "How do you feel now?"
"Better." She groaned. "Or maybe not."
Paige leaned farther. Her glasses slipped, fell— plop, ching-. —into a pile of cans and half-eaten hot dogs. Great. "I think you just ate too much."
Paige's hot dog churned in her stomach, as well, from fear more than indigestion. Her hands still shook after seeing Kirstie with that man. Had it been her imagination that he was too careful in keeping his face averted? She couldn't remember anything more than a big man with blond hair—a description that fit much of the male population in this area packed with folks of Swedish and German descent.
So what if he was a guard of some sort? He could have been anyone. Kurt's connections were so scummy her teeth clattered in fear over the possibility that any of it might come near her daughter.
What could they want from her? Kurt had been in debt up to his lying eyeballs. She'd sold off everything for a fresh start in a place that had one of the lowest crime rates in the country, a great big plus for moving home to North Dakota.
Kirstie straightened and sagged back against Paige's chest.
"All done, punkin?"