Waiting for April

by Jaime Loren

  He’d screamed, though, when I’d wrapped my legs around him, risen up, and closed my teeth around his ear. When blood spilled down the side of his face as I’d yanked my head back, taking a good portion of flesh with me.

  When I’d spat his ear back in his face.

  He’d clutched his head, forgetting all about his dropped breeches as he’d scrambled off me, his so-called friends laughing at his failure. But my relief was short-lived. The soldier giving orders stepped forward and pulled me from the grip of his colleagues, spat on the injured soldier and chastised him for not asking permission to violate me, and then threw me back to the ground.

  I’d landed on my knees, my cheeks bloodied with my almost-rapist’s blood as well as my own. I looked up, pleading, crying that Scott had done nothing.

  The Confederate soldiers pulled him to his knees, then, and yanked his head back by his hair. They ordered him to watch as a rifled musket was pressed against my chest, against my heart.

  His last words had been pleas for them to kill him.

  Mine had been to kill only me, and spare him …

  Chapter 19

  (Scott)

  Another nightmare.

  Judging by the things she was saying, it was a hot summer’s day in 1862. My heart tore in two. It was a new form of torture, watching her relive her deaths. I slowly knelt down beside her, my throat tight with sadness as I took her hand in mine, her fingers closing around me in an instant.

  I was about to wake her when she jolted in her sleep. My stomach turned as more tears slid across her temple. I wanted so badly to kiss them away.

  Her body was still. Her pulse was racing. Breaths, shallow.

  Her words echoed in my ear …

  “You’re supposed to wake up before you die in your dreams, aren’t you?” she’d asked. “Like when you fall? You’re supposed to wake up, but I never do—not until morning comes. I die, and there’s nothing but darkness for what feels like eternity, and … it terrifies me.”

  And that’s where she was, now. In the darkness. Terrified. I swallowed hard and leaned in, her grip still tight on my hand. “It’s over, April. You can sleep now.” Then, quieter, “I love you.”

  She exhaled, her grasp relaxing. The artery in her neck no longer throbbed frantically. Unable to help myself, I brushed away her tears. My heart swelled when she leaned into my hand, if only for a moment.

  Within seconds, her face had smoothed. There was no more terror. No more tears. Her breathing was slow and steady. I kissed the back of her hand and laid it on her stomach.

  “Good night,” I whispered, turning off her remaining bedside lamp. I was almost out the door when I heard her sleepy voice.

  “Scott?”

  My heart sped. I hoped she wasn’t mad I’d taken the liberty to touch her face. Kiss her hand. “Yes?”

  “Did they get away with it?” she asked. “The Confederates.”

  My gut tightened.

  Memories flooded in …

  My swelling disappearing the instant her soul had been snatched from her body. My bones healing. My grief and horror and rage and heartbreak erupting together in a catastrophic burst.

  The looks on the faces of the soldiers when they realized I was no longer incapacitated.

  The way the closest soldier’s neck had snapped in my hands.

  The yelling.

  Theirs.

  The wrath.

  Mine.

  The stumbling as they’d scrambled for their horses. Reached for their guns. Fired them. Their horror when they discovered their shots were futile.

  The gurgling as I’d sunk my axe into the next soldier’s chest.

  The fear in the eyes of the poor excuse for a man who’d tried to steal April’s virtue. I’d taken a little more time with him. Used my bare hands. But the end result had been the same.

  By mid-afternoon there had been nine bodies lying on my property.

  Ten, if I’d included April’s.

  I’d covered her with a blanket and held her until the evening, weeping. Cleaned her face. Kissed her cheeks, her lips. Said goodbye.

  Again.

  I’d buried her the next morning.

  Then I’d packed my belongings and left the soldiers to rot, never to return …

  I cleared my throat. “No, they didn’t get away with it.”

  She exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath. I imagined she’d figured they’d been tried and found guilty, that the government had delivered justice. But then, as I was about to turn and leave, I heard a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

  And I knew.

  April Anne Fletcher could handle a lot more than I’d ever given her credit for.

  Chapter 20

  (April)

  Scott sat opposite me at the breakfast table, seemingly rested after another night with no sleep. I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact he never slept.

  He poured Henry some coffee and offered me some, but I declined.

  “Did you get back to sleep okay, Grandpa?” Scott squeezed his eyes closed. “Henry?” he asked, shooting me a melancholy smile.

  Henry smiled at me, too. “I did, thank you.”

  Scott placed another slice of apple on Henry’s plate. “I’ll have to insist you sleep in the living room tonight. I don’t like the thought of you going up and down those stairs.”

  “Going up and down those stairs is probably the only thing keeping me alive.” Henry winked at me.

  Scott shook his head. “It’s doing your hip no good.”

  “You’ve got more important things to worry about right now.”

  “It’d be no trouble to assemble a bed—”

  “Scott, it’s just one more night. I’ll be off again tomorrow.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “You’re not staying?”

  “No, my dear. I believe I’ve done all I can out here.”

  Scott glanced at me, then at Henry. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Besides, I’ll have to organize a driver. I’m not letting you drive all that way.”

  My heart sank. Was that a dig at me? I lowered my head. “I’m sorry I made you come all this way, Henry.”

  Scott placed his fork down. “No, April, that’s not—”

  “I’m not,” Henry said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “I’m glad I came. I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about Scott before. It’s almost poetic that I got the chance to talk about him with you.”

  I couldn’t meet Scott’s eyes. An uncomfortable silence enveloped us. It was a drastic change from the warm, safe feeling I’d had in Scott’s presence yesterday as we’d walked along the shore. I hadn’t even felt this uncomfortable when I’d sat on his crotch last night—a memory that made my stomach flip-flop whenever it crept in.

  It then dawned on me that I felt ashamed. I’d let Scott down by calling on Henry when I knew Henry wasn’t well. I was afraid Scott was disappointed in me, which meant I cared about what he thought of me … which could only mean I still respected him.

  He’d tried to exchange his life for mine, and when that had failed, he’d made those soldiers pay. He wasn’t an evil person. I didn’t consider him a killer, even though it was clear he’d taken lives. In fact, the thought of him trying to sacrifice himself for me … it terrified me.

  I needed him.

  I still liked him. The more time I spent with him, the more I saw the man who’d always held the door open for me. The man who’d carried me across large puddles. He’d never sworn in my presence, and had always urged me to follow my heart. He’d always given me the last chocolate, the last cookie, the last piece of candy. He’d read to me when I was sick, and had held my hair back on a couple of occasions when I’d had too much to drink, just as he’d done yesterday when I’d lost my mind and hurled into the lake.

  Henry had been right. Scott Parker was the best person I knew.

  “What would you like to do today?” Scott asked.

  I lifted my head, my heart beating tha
t little bit faster when he looked at me. “I’d like to see the horses again, if that’s okay.”

  He nodded. “We can do that.”

  I gave him a quick smile and turned my attention back to my plate.

  *****

  The day was supposed to be sunny, but the morning air still had a frosty bite to it. It didn’t take Scott long to saddle the horses and bring them out. He stood behind me as I tried to mount Nutmeg. She shied and sidestepped quickly, throwing me off balance. Scott caught me, wrapping both arms around my waist before I hit the ground. An instant rush of longing swept through me. I had to concentrate on not pushing myself back harder against him, which was ridiculous considering how only a couple of days ago I’d had trouble even touching him.

  Maybe it was a case of muscle memory—I’d been in his arms a lot in the past. And I felt safe, so that was probably why I didn’t want to move.

  Yes. That was why.

  He righted me, his warm breath caressing my neck. “Are you all right?”

  Unable to find my voice, I nodded and found my feet instead. He let me go while he collected Nutmeg’s reins. I pulled my sweater back into place and tried to pay no attention to the fact my bones had melted.

  Nutmeg’s eyes widened. She threw her head back and squealed, yanking Scott’s arm, then reared and slammed her front hooves into the ground. Scott swooped me behind him with his free hand. “Get in the truck,” he ordered. The authority in his voice left me little room to argue. Besides, getting kicked by a horse wasn’t on my list of things to do before I died. I stumbled backward to the truck and slipped inside as Nutmeg reared again. Shadow kicked out, aiming at Nutmeg, but he struck Scott in the leg instead.

  “Scott!” I screamed, opening my door.

  “Stay there!”

  “But—” Oh. Of course. He can’t be harmed. Yet, my stomach rolled with dread at the thought of something bad happening to him.

  I covered my mouth and watched as Scott brought the two horses together with a soft voice and a tight hold. He opened the gate and pushed Shadow into the paddock, but held Nutmeg back as she threw her head in the air again. Once Shadow was locked inside, Scott mounted Nutmeg in one bound and yanked her reins to the right, pulling her into a tight circle. I wound my window down as he kicked her hard in the ribs and pulled her the other way.

  His muscles were locked hard, bulging in all the right places. I guess he’d been working out when he was … normal—before my death in the ’20s. “Working out” probably wasn’t even a term back then.

  Nutmeg’s reins were wound around his hands as short as they could go. Scott’s voice was commanding and even, but Nutmeg had other ideas. My fingernails dug into the leather seat when I realized she could have caused my next death today if she’d waited another two minutes to misbehave. No doubt Scott was thinking the exact same thing.

  He loosened Nutmeg’s reins and let out a loud “He-ya!” as he kicked her hard in the gut, and in a matter of seconds she was thundering toward the lake with Scott pushing her harder and harder with each stride.

  I slid out of the truck when they’d disappeared from sight. Birds landed in nearby trees, forcing pine cones to the ground near my feet. I jumped.

  Death by pine cone.

  I climbed back into the truck, closed the door, and wound up the window.

  At least ten excruciatingly long minutes passed before the sound of Nutmeg’s hooves returned. I scanned the road behind us, then to the left of the truck. She and Scott appeared on the dirt track coming from the lake. Nutmeg’s breast and shoulders were lathered in a foamy sweat. Scott slowed her to a walk and dismounted, giving her a pat on the neck, then opened the gate to the paddock. Shadow was pleased to see her again, whinnying and trotting back and forth as Scott pulled off her bridle. When he’d unsaddled each horse and put their tack away, he came over to the truck and climbed in without a word.

  We sat for a while, neither of us looking at one another. He stared at the barn and tapped his finger on the truck door.

  I chewed my lip and rolled my head toward him. “I take it the horses aren’t immortal, then?”

  He smiled. “No. But they’re descendants of our original horses.” He turned to me. “This Nutmeg is pretty much exactly the same as the first Nutmeg, though. Her personality is a bit like yours.”

  “Oh?” I sat up straighter. “How so?”

  Scott leaned forward and turned the engine. “She’s stubborn as all hell.”

  I shifted in my seat to look out the window, hoping he hadn’t seen my mouth curl up.

  He had a great sense of humor, but I’d never admit it to him. That had always been a part of my defense against him. A way of showing him his charms didn’t work on me, even though I was laughing on the inside or turning my head so I could keep my grin under wraps.

  When the heat started blaring in my direction, I glanced over my shoulder and ran my eyes over his bare arm as he adjusted the air. My sight wandered over his broad chest, and my heart thumped against my ribs, a deep warmth spreading from my belly to my thighs. He was wearing a t-shirt, but showed no sign of gooseflesh.

  “Was I right the other night? You can’t feel the cold?” I asked, hoping to distract myself from impure thoughts.

  “I know when it’s cold, but it doesn’t affect me.”

  I shuffled around to face him. “You felt the SUV and the lamp hit you, but they didn’t hurt? So outside influences can’t affect you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you feel … pleasure?” My voice softened as my sentence came to an end. I wasn’t sure if he’d gathered what I’d meant by “pleasure,” and I wasn’t exactly sure why I was asking, considering I was supposed to be steering myself clear of such thoughts.

  His eyes burned with intensity. “I definitely feel pleasure.”

  My cheeks burned furiously. I lowered my head. Oh, crap. He hasn’t lost the ability to make me weak at the knees with a single look. “How does that work, then? How can you feel pleasure when you can’t feel pain?”

  “Your body—”

  I shot him a glance.

  He paused for a moment and closed his eyes. “Anyone’s body,” he corrected before looking at me again, “naturally feels pleasure, April. Just a thought can give the body pleasure. But while there is evidence to suggest that the anterior cingulate cortex is responsible for articulating the emotional components for both physical and social pain—”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You are such a nerd.”

  A sexy nerd.

  His mouth twitched. “Sorry. The short answer is: I don’t know. I don’t feel pain. Not physically, anyway. But I do feel pleasure.”

  I cleared my throat. “So when I slap you, it hurts your feelings more than it does your skin.”

  He nodded. “Correct.”

  “But when I touch you …” I began without thinking and froze.

  His eyes smoldered. “When you touch me?”

  Another piercing look from him had me mentally ripping his clothes off. Shit!

  “April?”

  I swallowed. “If … when we …”

  “Make love?”

  “For example,” I whispered.

  “Yes, I feel pleasure when you touch me. I feel pleasure when I touch you. But we haven’t made love in a very long time.” He looked away.

  I drank in the sight of him while his head was turned. Scott Parker had slept with me, and only me. He was mine, and it was becoming harder and harder to deny that I was his—completely. “When was the last time we … did … that?”

  Jesus, April! What is wrong with you? Oh God, stop staring at his crotch! Wait … am I allowed to stare at his crotch?

  He glanced at me. I cast my sight to the roof of the truck. Nicely played.

  “1729,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  That was incredibly sad. And incredibly romantic. My body vibrated with longing. With every minute that passed, I was wishing we’
d let Henry return home.

  The day warmed up, and by mid-afternoon I was forced to wear a skirt and three-quarter top to stay cool. I’d drawn the curtains and was pulling on said top when Scott knocked on the door. It creaked open.

  “Shit!” I tugged at my top to pull it down.

  “God, I am so sorry,” he said, covering his eyes and turning away as if the sight of me had scorched him.

  “I’m dressed now.” I figured he’d already seen everything I had to offer, anyway. Seen. Touched. Licked. My heart flipped.

  Still, he didn’t look. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go for a walk. Or a swim, or … something. Henry’s asleep downstairs, so it would be nice to get out and enjoy the sun.” He parted his fingers over his eyes, which made me smile, then dropped his hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know the door wasn’t shut properly and—but I didn’t see anything, I swear.”

  “It’s okay.” Part of me wouldn’t have minded if he did. After everything we’d discussed this morning, he was one romantic gesture away from being touched. Licked. Ravaged.

  He pointed to the windows. “You don’t have to draw the curtains. It’s one-way glass.”

  “I know, it’s just … I don’t know. It’s like I can feel someone watching me. Maybe it’s the return of the diabolical beaver.” I laughed it off.

  Scott didn’t. “I can’t apologize enough for what happened last night. I overreacted.”

  I forced a smile and shook my head, lifting my hand to his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”

  We stood there for a moment longer, staring at each other, before I realized I was rubbing my thumb back and forth across his bicep.

  Clearing my throat, I opened the curtains. “I’d love to go for a swim.”

  He walked over to the window and placed his palm flat against it. “I shouldn’t have put floor-to-ceiling windows in.”

  “Wait—didn’t you buy this cabin?”