Page 44 of Knox

Kelsey sat on one of the swings, dragging her feet along the ground.

And Tate’s heart went out to her. He knew what it felt like to be alone, the night pressing in, no one to turn to. Maybe that’s what propelled him forward, out of the shadows, to stroll up to her.

“Only took you five nights,” she said without looking up at him.

Oh. Maybe that’s why she so freely roamed the premises—because she knew he was her shadow. He said nothing and sat on the swing next to her.

She leaned back and pushed off, back. When it reached the apex, she leaned back on the metal chains, her legs out, and began to pump in an easy playground rhythm.

A springtime night breeze rolled across the prairie, stirring up the smells of earth and cattle, and it reminded him very much of a sultry, starry night in Montana.

“I know you think I’m going to lose it onstage,” she said as she gained speed.

“I do,” he said softly, hating—but needing her to hear—the truth. “You think you’re fine now, but next time you’re on stage, with all those people watching—”

“You’re wrong. The stage is the one place where I’m safe,” she said. “Nothing touches me there.”

He said nothing, pushed off next to her.

“Okay, until yeah, my stage blew up, so there’s that.”

He let a tiny smile find his mouth. Started to pump, catching up.

The night deepened around them as they climbed toward the sky. The moon came out to watch.

“Kelsey, what did you mean when you said you weren’t goingto let him win?” Tate didn’t look at her, hoping to make it easier.

For a long time, he didn’t think she’d answer.

Finally, “When I was fourteen, I was attacked in New York City, in Central Park. I was with my parents, who were both murdered, and I was beaten and left for dead.”

He stopped pumping, dragging his feet on the ground, almost halting himself cold.

What—?

His throat filled, bile in his chest. Her cool, almost reporter voice had left him bereft.

Well done, Tate. Make her bring that up.

She kept pumping, as if refusing to be halted by his shock. Then again, she’d lived with that reality for…what, twelve years?

No wonder the woman had PTSD.

“I’m so sorry, Kelsey.”

She dragged her feet on the ground, kicking up dirt. “Life is tragic and random. At best, we all have to learn to survive it.”

“And you did.”

She stopped and now stared at him. “I was found by a jogger and his dog, nearly frozen, nearly bled out, and I spent almost two months in the hospital. When I got out, I went to live with my mother’s cousin in Wisconsin. Dixie’s dad.”

She held the chains of the swing, her whitened hands the only evidence of stress, her voice easy, conversational.

“No one in my school knew what happened. It might have made the news, but I think the papers tried to protect my name. I determined to put it behind me. A couple years later, Glo showed up. She has her own tale of tragedy, and we sort of bonded. Dixie’s family played bluegrass, and I liked to sing. And Glo was ready to do anything that would annoy her mother, so we started the Yankee Belles.”

So much in that explanation to unpack, but Tate focused on the one thing that mattered. “Kelsey, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you have a little PTSD. You need a break.”

She looked at him. Sighed. Shook her head. “You have to get it, Tate. The band is all I have. I went to college for a couple years, and it was a disaster. Singing—the stage—makes me feel like I’m, if not normal, then in control.”