Autumn Skies: 3 (A Bluebell Inn Romance)

by Denise Hunter

  “Your mom was killed?” She didn’t want to press him. He almost seemed as if he wasn’t here at all. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was back there, back then, revisiting his worst nightmare.

  “We were camping.” His tone was devoid of all emotion. “Spent a few days every summer doing that, me and my mom. Dad wasn’t much for the outdoors, but my mom . . . She loved it out here. We set up camp at sunset as usual. I gathered wood and helped her build a campfire. We ate beans and cornbread, and later we roasted marshmallows.”

  Grace braced herself for what was coming next, her mind spinning with who and how and why, feeling that if she knew the answers she could somehow change the outcome.

  “We talked a lot that night by the fire. I wish I could remember what we talked about. Wish I’d known that was the last time I’d get the chance.”

  Grace grasped his arm, holding on to him tightly.

  “We settled into our sleeping bags as usual. I don’t even remember falling asleep. But the next thing I knew I woke up, and my mom was screaming. I saw a big shadow in the tent. I was so scared, I scurried into the corner. My mom was telling me to run, but I—I couldn’t move. I was frozen.

  “The man was trying to take my mom—she was fighting him. But he had a gun. I heard the click when he cocked the hammer. He threatened to shoot me if she didn’t go with him . . . so she did. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. Wouldn’t have done any good anyway, I guess. Once he had her outside I could hear him dragging her deeper into the forest.” His words wobbled with emotion. “And then I couldn’t hear anything at all.”

  Something in his story pricked some distant memory in Grace, but the urge to comfort him superseded it.

  She gathered him close, pressed her face into the curve between his neck and shoulder. “Oh, Wyatt. How awful.”

  “I just . . . sat there, Grace. In the tent. Safe in my little corner while that monster killed my mom.”

  She leaned back to look at him, her throat aching. “You were just a little boy, Wyatt.”

  Pain resided in the tightness of his face, in the road map of blood vessels in his eyes. “She needed my help and I did nothing.”

  The words came reluctantly. As if it had taken everything in him to say them aloud. Had he ever said them to anyone before?

  Oh, the poor baby. Grace took his face in her hands. “Wyatt, your mom loved you, and she wanted you safe. You did exactly what she wanted you to do.”

  “I was a coward.”

  She gave his head a shake. “No. You were smart. How would your mother have felt if you’d died trying to save her? And you surely would have—he was an adult male with a gun. There’s nothing you could’ve done that would’ve saved your mom.”

  Her words didn’t seem to give him the solace she longed for him to have. “I understand guilt, Wyatt, and this kind of guilt is useless. It sucks the life out of you and gives nothing back. You need to let go of it. Ask God to take it away from you. It serves no good purpose, and He doesn’t want you carrying this burden.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “I know.” They were all the words she needed to hear herself, but she had been so inept at implementing them. “I know it’s not. But we both need to work on believing it, because it’s the truth.”

  “I sat there for so long in the dark. At first light I left the tent and called for my mom, but no one answered. I thought maybe he’d kidnapped her. I went for help. I went back to the creek—to those boulders, and I followed the creek all the way back to town. I don’t even remember that walk back.”

  He stared off into the woods. “They found the spot later that day—someone knew where those boulders were. They found my mom. He’d strangled her.”

  A vise tightened around her heart. “I’m so sorry, Wyatt.”

  “They caught him, at least, put him behind bars where he belonged. I later learned he’d been up this way and just happened to see our campfire. A crime of opportunity. He’d had an abusive mother and developed a real hatred for women. When his mom passed away he flipped out. He was quoted as saying, ‘I was going to kill the first female I saw, didn’t matter who.’”

  The quote sent chills down Grace’s spine. She’d heard those words before. They were cemented in her memory because they were said by the man who’d nearly abducted her.

  That meant Wyatt’s mother was Janet Jennings—the governor’s wife. The woman who’d been killed instead of Grace.

  Her hands dropped to her sides, and she stepped away from Wyatt. She needed to think. Needed some distance. He was watching her closely, so she turned before he could read every thought in her mind. She took a few steps, pretended to observe the area while she tried to make sense of it all.

  “Grace?”

  His family had owned the inn—the governor’s summer home. Wyatt had never mentioned that, but it had to be true. His last name bore it out. Gordon Kimball had tried to abduct Grace on her way home from school that day. And when he’d failed, he hid in the woods where he’d stumbled upon another victim—a woman with a boy too young to protect her.

  Grace’s gut churned with the revelation. If she hadn’t managed to evade the man, Janet Jennings’s life would’ve been spared. Wyatt would’ve been spared all these years of grief and guilt.

  Culpability rose inside, swamping her. She knew it was unreasonable. She didn’t have to know Mrs. Jennings to believe she wouldn’t have wanted a seven-year-old girl to suffer at that monster’s hands. This wasn’t Grace’s fault any more than it was Wyatt’s, but still . . .

  The weight of it was crushing. The self-loathing she hadn’t fully felt since she was a girl flared up like a fuel-induced fire.

  “Grace, what is it?” Wyatt was close behind her now.

  She couldn’t breathe. Someone had sucked all the oxygen from the forest.

  He turned her around to face him, but she couldn’t look him in the eye.

  He tipped her chin up until she met his eyes, and she knew he’d see all the emotions roiling inside. She was helpless to hide them.

  “Tell me.”

  She would. She had to. This awful event connected them, and he deserved to know the truth. The whole truth.

  “You’re Governor Jennings’s son.” She started there because she prayed she was somehow mistaken about all this.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I just didn’t want to get into all this . . .”

  No easy out. Okay. She had to tell him then. Grace braced herself for his reaction. He might hate her. He probably had a right to. At the very least he would resent her, wouldn’t he? How could he not?

  “Wyatt . . .” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and gathered her courage. “I’m the girl who got away.”

  * * *

  Wyatt stared at her as the words sank in. He wasn’t thinking very clearly right now. Or she wasn’t making any sense.

  “The girl who got away?”

  She continued to look at him, as if hoping he might figure it out on his own. When he didn’t she said, “Earlier in the day . . . Gordon Kimball tried to abduct a little girl. Did you know that?”

  His thoughts spun. It had been a part of the articles he’d skimmed over. Some lucky girl had gotten away. His mother hadn’t.

  His hand dropped from her chin. “It was you? You’re the girl?”

  Silence filled the space between them, expanding, thickening, making the air hard to breathe.

  “I—I was walking home from school, and he was following me in a van. I ran away. When I got home, my parents reported it, but the man disappeared into the mountains and they lost track of him. It was the thing I told you about the night we played that first conversation game—the guilt I was carrying.”

  Somewhere from the recesses of his memory her words surfaced. “Someone died and I didn’t, and deep down I feel like it should’ve been me.” He’d recognized it as survivor’s guilt. He just hadn’t known his mother was part of the equation.

  This couldn’t be
happening. He couldn’t think. It was too much. He turned and paced a few steps away, sightless. He was grateful Grace had escaped the monster. Of course he was. But if she hadn’t . . .

  No, he couldn’t think like that. He would never wish any harm on Grace. He loved her. But he’d loved his mom too.

  “I’m so sorry, Wyatt.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” The words sounded like lip service, but he knew they were right. “I just—I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”

  “Of course you are. I—I don’t blame you.”

  He hated how tentative she sounded. But he couldn’t deal with her emotions right now when his own were crashing into him like a tidal wave.

  “I—I think maybe I should wait for you back by the creek,” she said. “Give you a minute alone?”

  He needed space to process this. Didn’t want to say something he’d regret later or hurt her unintentionally.

  He nodded. “All right.”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  He heard her quiet footfalls receding until the sounds of nature were all that was left. How was he supposed to deal with this new insight? How was he supposed to digest that his mom had been taken instead of Grace? How was he ever supposed to heal?

  He’d come here for answers but had only gotten more questions.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Thirty minutes later when Wyatt returned to the creek, he didn’t look any better. His eyes were still bloodshot, his face slightly flushed, his shoulders set. But otherwise, the poker face was back.

  He offered a bland smile, which seemed to require great effort. “We should probably find that road to cut back on. It’s getting late.”

  She didn’t know what she’d expected. Absolution was too much to ask for. Rejection or blame maybe? But somehow this hard-fought effort at civility was even worse.

  Grace was happy to lead the way because it allowed her to hide her tears. She was also grateful for the rippling creek, which disguised her sniffles.

  The hike back to town was eerily quiet and gave her plenty of time to think. She wished she knew what was going on in Wyatt’s head, but she was afraid to ask. All she knew was that she felt less worthy with each step.

  So this was it, she thought as they finally reached the rutted road and started the winding way downhill. He’d done what he’d come to accomplish. Well, no, not really. He’d come to heal an old wound, and Grace had managed to rip off the scab.

  Now he had more to digest. More to heal from. And she wasn’t doing so swell on that front either. Her eyes filled with tears, her vision going blurry again. It was a wonder she hadn’t tripped over something yet and fallen flat on her face.

  Wyatt had come here to find the spot where his mother had passed, though, and found it he had. Maybe it hadn’t had the intended effect, but there was no reason for him to stay in Bluebell now, was there?

  She’d wondered what would happen when they reached the end of his stay. Where could they possibly go from here? The answer was obvious now. Nowhere.

  God, why did You bring him into my life only to take him away again? Why is this happening? I wanted to help him, and instead I’ve only found another way to hurt him. A tear leaked out, finding a familiar path to trickle down.

  Stop it, Grace. He doesn’t need your self-pity.

  She blinked back the tears crowding her eyes. The creek and its camouflaging sounds were long behind them. Wyatt was dealing with enough without having to worry about her feelings too.

  She covertly dried her tears. She needed to hold it together. Needed to look normal by the time they got to the car. Once she reached the safety of her room she could unleash the flood of tears.

  He was so quiet behind her. She couldn’t even hear his footfalls. But she knew he was back there. She could feel his presence.

  A few cars passed them on the road as they neared the parking lot, and Grace gave them halfhearted waves. When they reached the car, Wyatt slipped into the driver’s seat. She sneaked a peek at his face, but his expression gave nothing away. His silence, on the other hand, said plenty.

  Being crammed into the small car made the drive back seem to take even longer than the hike back. The sun was dropping behind the mountains, and a chill was setting in—from her bones outward. She wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what. Didn’t know where he was in his processing or what she could possibly say to make it better.

  There’s nothing you can say. You’re alive and his mother isn’t.

  The tension in the car swelled with each mile. Grace’s throat felt achy and raw, her emotions ready to burst through the makeshift dam she’d built to hold them back.

  When she sighted the inn she felt only relief. He pulled into a slot at the curb, and before he could turn off the ignition she reached for the door handle.

  “Wait.”

  She paused, her hand clenched around the handle, her breaths coming too fast.

  “I need to say something, Grace.”

  She braced for his anger. For blame and rejection. And she just needed to absorb it all. Suck it up. He needed to get this off his chest, and maybe then he’d feel better. Maybe then he’d find closure.

  “Grace, look at me.”

  She turned toward him and raised her eyes but couldn’t seem to lift them past the ribbed collar of his T-shirt.

  He touched her chin, tipping it up until her eyes met his. She couldn’t read his expression. But what else was new?

  “I’m sorry. I’m not handling this well.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology, Wyatt.”

  “Yes, I do.” He pulled her into his arms, resting his head on top of hers.

  She held herself stiffly, unwilling to accept his affection. It was unwarranted. Undeserved. Her breath felt stuffed into her lungs, and her heart knocked against her rib cage.

  “I’m so thankful you got away,” he whispered. “That should’ve been the first thing I said.”

  But if I hadn’t, your mom would’ve lived, she wanted to say. But the pressure was building up in her throat, and she pressed her lips together to keep it from escaping.

  “It’s not your fault,” he whispered into her hair.

  She blinked back tears. A squeak escaped.

  “It’s not your fault, Grace.”

  She couldn’t hold back the floodgates anymore. They cracked open and a sob escaped. And once it was out, another followed. Tears flowed like a river down her face and into the soft cotton folds of his shirt. Her body shuddered under the weight of her burden.

  “Oh, honey.” He tightened his hold on her. “Let it all out.”

  “But you’re the one—”

  “Shhhh. Let go of the guilt. If you do, I will too. There’s only one person responsible for our pain—and it’s neither one of us.”

  “But . . . what if I hadn’t gotten away?”

  “Don’t play the what-if game, Grace. You’ll lose every time.”

  She pulled herself together. Drew away far enough that she could meet his gaze. See if he really believed what he was saying.

  He thumbed away her tears, and she could’ve melted into the warmth of his eyes.

  “Remember what you said to me earlier?” he asked. “That I was just a child? You were right. And so were you, Grace. We have to remember God’s sovereignty in all this. He allowed this to happen—your escape and my mom’s death. I don’t know why. Even our meeting like this . . . But maybe this is what was necessary for healing to take place. For both of us.”

  A reflective look came over his face. “It’s weird, this feeling I have inside right now. I’ve been praying for peace for a long time, and I think He’s finally giving it to me. Or maybe I’m only now in a receiving frame of mind. But since we started walking it’s been slowly swelling, getting bigger by the minute. And I want that for you too, Grace.”

  How could he be thinking about her right now? “But . . . if I hadn’t gotten away from him—”

  He placed h
is finger over her lips. “Stop. I can’t even bear to think about that. Don’t you know how much I’ve come to care for you?”

  “But your mom . . .”

  “In a perfect world, none of that would’ve happened. But it’s not a perfect world, and we need to accept what happened. We need to trust that God has a plan for each of us. We both need to let go of this.”

  Another tear trickled down her cheek. “I don’t know how.”

  “I don’t either, honey. But we’ll figure it out one day at a time, okay? We have to. I can’t live with this anymore, and I don’t want you to either.” He framed her face, his eyes piercing hers. “You’re deserving of good things, Grace.”

  She wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe it so badly. And if Wyatt, of all people, thought so . . . maybe, just maybe, it was true.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  From the car Wyatt watched Grace mount the porch steps. They’d talked until the sun set. Until Grace calmed down. Then when the conversation tapered off and he sensed she needed time alone, he sent her inside with a soft kiss.

  He wished he’d handled himself better on the mountain. He hadn’t realized she’d been beating herself up all the way down the hill. He hated that she thought he’d resent her for surviving. Didn’t she know he loved her? Maybe he hadn’t verbalized it, but he thought he’d shown her.

  During their talk they hadn’t even touched on their relationship. There were too many other things to resolve. But there’d be time to talk that through tomorrow after they’d processed today’s revelation.

  For now, he needed to call the one person who understood what he’d been through. His dad had been in his corner every step of the way. He’d allowed Wyatt to grieve as a young boy even though he must’ve been falling apart himself.

  And though Wyatt had never admitted to having ongoing issues related to his mother’s death, his dad was no fool. Wyatt knew he worried about his son, but his mother’s death was a subject that neither brought up these days for fear of hurting the other. Wyatt felt compelled to talk to him about it now, however.