A Kindled Winter

by Rachel L. Demeter

  Thinking of Charlie seduced David into a dark and contemplative state of mind. Exhaling a rigid breath, he surveyed the decorated shelves and countless strewn toys.

  Plastic dinosaurs. Derailed train sets. Stuffed animals and the whole Fantastic Five crew. Neurotically he raked a hand though his hairline while an image of Charlie captured his consciousness. His gapped smile, heartfelt laughter, twin dimples, and thick auburn curls …

  David paced the room five times before wandering to one of the hand carved shelves. Summoning his courage, he slammed both palms onto the surface. His insides twisted into a thousand knots while he met eyes with Charlie’s framed school portrait. Only seven years old with his entire life in front of him …

  David’s gaze reluctantly found its way back to his uninvited, unwanted guest—and his heart contracted at the sight of the red and blue Spider-Man comforter … something Charlie had loved so dearly. In spite of himself, he trudged forward and ran a palm over the tattered design. He barely felt it through the welts and scar tissue.

  How can it be? How can I not feel something that’d been intimately linked to my son?

  The violent torrent of memories threatened to conquer him. Then the woman sighed, stirred in her sleep, and muttered some incoherent nonsense. Shoving away the sentimental thoughts, David retracted his hand and compressed his fingers several times.

  She’d appeared on his doorstep from seemingly nowhere, like a figment of the imagination. Stunningly beautiful, sopping wet, half-frozen, with a line of blood running from her forehead. At first, he’d been convinced that he’d finally gone mad.

  But no. She was all too real—and her nearness sent his pulse racing. He could smell the enticing citrus aroma of her perfume, could feel the warmth of her body radiating, could hear the shallow breaths passing through her pale lips. Those red curls appeared lush and sensuous … like freshly spun silk. David fought the desire to rub his cheek against them and see if they were as soft as they looked.

  Good God, no.

  For the time being, she was his patient. Nothing more, nothing less.

  He eased onto the edge of the mattress and seated himself a foot away. Then he reached forward and seized one of her dangling wrists. Once more she stirred within sleep and muttered nonsense. He stabilized her wrist between two fingers, battled to feel the whisper of her pulse, and inwardly calculated the rhythm. The scar tissue and elevated ridges, which blanketed his hands, dulled each beat, making it almost impossible to discern.

  Some of the color was returning to her cheeks, he noticed with a nod of approval. Then he closed his eyes and shut out the world around him—focusing all attention on the undulating juncture of her wrist. The experience was bizarrely erotic. Her skin felt softer than silk, though it remained chilled from her adventure outside.

  He counted as the beat of her heart traversed through his fingertips. 120. 121. 119. 120. Very high—but expected, given the circumstances. Methodical and machinelike, he set down her wrist, fetched a blood pressure cup, then wrapped it around her pale arm. 40/0—just as he thought. And oh, she was delicate; he could snap her wrist in half like a twig.

  Exhaling a stiff breath, he concluded the examination by piling several blankets over her body. He secured them around her midsection and rubbed both palms down her sides in an attempt to generate heat. The wind howled beyond the walls, ghostly and ominous, vibrating the ancient panels. A resounding chill boomed inside David’s heart—though it had nothing to do with the bitter cold.

  Minutes later, he lingered beneath the archway and watched the woman sleep. The gentle movements of her rising and falling chest held a strange calming effect over him. Seconds grew into minutes, a minute blossomed into a full hour—and all the while he observed her … completely spellbound.

  She was a dangerous, unwanted presence—and he needed her gone from his life. Shaking himself from the inward trance, he called to Brody and thundered from Charlie’s room. And in a flash of realization, David Drake knew that everything was about to change.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Anguished moans swell St. Mary’s cement courtyard. They echo off the stone walls—the thousand voices of a thousand tormented souls. The wrought iron fence, which encircles the perimeter, trembles in the wind, rattling like bones. Chills ripple up and down my spine, and I find it impossible to so much as breathe.

  “Aubrey, your sister’s here to see you …” Mom’s voice is shallow and riddled with acute pain. She fights to appear strong and composed, but the tears shatter her words into a million pieces. Her delicate, pale hands tremble against my shoulder as she urges me forward. She looks drained and soulless—like she’s aged twenty years this past week. Dark circles rim her eyes, her skin is chalk-white, and cavernous lines burden her brow. I lock onto her tear-filled gaze—and an entire unspoken conversation passes between us.

  Then my heart grinds to a dead halt as Aubrey lulls toward us. A nurse flanks either side of my sister’s body, preventing her from crumbling at the seams.

  I hardly recognize her. Her lips are overgrown with blisters and she is all skin and bones. Only her flaming hair appears alive.

  We no longer resemble twins.

  Oh, God, what has happened to my other half? My heart cries out in despair. My sister is wasting away—trapped inside the cold, conflicted prison of her mind … and it feels as though an integral part of myself has also perished.

  This is the end. Mom and I can’t save her … we can’t release her. She is unreachable—and all three of us are entombed within the same hopeless prison.

  Relentless despair spreads through my mind and body like an infection. Surely this is nothing more than a nightmare. Surely any moment I’ll wake to the beautiful sound of Aubrey’s humming. But then I lock onto my sister’s glassy eyes, and I know I have not slept …

  •

  Jeseca jolted awake with a sob in her throat. Fighting to catch her breath, she squinted against the table light’s glare and massaged both temples, nursing what promised to be a god-awful migraine.

  Holy crap.

  She felt worse than a train wreck. Her heart pounded, every inch of her body was hot and clammy, and sweat poured from her hairline.

  Where was she?

  Throwing the jumble of blankets aside, she jerked into an upright position and contemplated her foreign surroundings.

  A rather goofy looking dog was seated a foot away from the bed. It stared at her with wide, chocolate eyes that were offset by jet black patches. Jeseca frantically shifted her gaze to the side. An end table was positioned several feet from the mattress; various medical supplies were scattered across its surface—including a blood pressure cuff, a massive bottle of extra strength Tylenol, and a damp rag. And next to everything sat her black-rimmed eye glasses.

  Jeseca reached forward with a painful sound and fetched them from the end table. The room gradually came into focus—yet her mind remained blurred and nonsensical.

  She felt woozy and disoriented … as if all thoughts were buried beneath a thick filmy haze. Her brain pulsated against her skull with blunt force. It took several more minutes to remember where she was and how she came to be there.

  The flash flood.

  The Victorian cottage.

  The man’s dark form surging toward her.

  Those deep, fiercely intelligent blue depths …

  Anchoring her thoughts, Jeseca gazed downward—and realized that she was dressed in men’s boxers and an oversized T-shirt. Another wave of panic rippled through her. He’d saved her—and had also undressed her! Blushing profusely, she slid off the mattress and staggered onto her aching feet.

  He helped me. I must remain calm. He’s probably a decent guy … not some psycho at all.

  Yeah. Sure.

  “Well, hello, handsome,” she greeted the dog, needing to shatter the silence. The animal rose from his haunches and gave a talkative bark. Jeseca held out her knuckles for him to smell before rewarding his downy face with a pat. Laughter filled
her belly in spite of the circumstances; the elaborate shape of his head reminded her of a plush cotton ball. He twirled in place and manically spun. With each movement, the collar tinkled like a sleigh bell, drawing her eyes to the dangling ornament. “So what’s your name, pretty boy?” She latched onto the oval pendant and read the engraved letters aloud: “Brody.”

  His entire body came alive at the sound of his name; his tailless butt wagged from side to side, smacking into Jeseca’s legs with every sway. Then he turned his body, presented her with his huge bottom, and glanced at her with wide eyes. Fears momentarily forgotten, laughter swelled Jeseca’s tummy as she leaned forward and urged the creature to bathe her cheeks with kisses. She recited Brody’s name several more times, delighting in the shimmy of his backside. “Well, where’s your owner, huh?” An image of the strange man surfaced in her mind again. Wide shoulders. Rich, russet locks. Muscular thighs encased in well-worn jeans …

  Shoving away the imagery, Jeseca ran her palm over Brody’s coat while she examined the room. Shafts of moonlight slanted through the curtains and illuminated the small space. Her bare feet whispered against the oak floorboards while she hesitantly scuttled forward.

  It was a child’s bedroom. The shelves were jam-packed with a variety of action figures, plastic dinosaurs, and derailed train cars. Along one of the walls, nifty cubby holes towered all the way to the ceiling—and each one overflowed with various odds and ends. Jeseca tracked a finger over the hand carved crevices; the wall of cubbyholes shifted when she peeled her palm away, swaying forward to reveal clever hidden compartments. Brimming with secrets and magic, it was any child’s dream room. Grinning, Jeseca rearranged the wall and continued her investigation.

  A large stuffed teddy bear stared down at her from his perch—and those black, plastic eyes seemed to track wherever she moved. In fact, all the toys seemed to observe her movements … like sentinels guarding a sacred territory. A harsh gust of wind roared beyond the cottage and vibrated the walls. Jeseca hugged her body with both arms as red flags shot into place.

  I’m not supposed to be here.

  Scattered amongst the toys were several framed pictures: a young child’s school portrait, Brody and the child, a handsome couple and the little boy huddled around a twinkling Christmas tree …

  Jeseca reached out and tracked an index finger across one of the frames. They were crafted from a rich rosewood and engraved with elegant detail. The name Charlie spanned the top of one of the frames in elegant block lettering. Propped up next to it was a handmade booklet—the kind a second-grader might bring home to Mom and Dad. The pages were slightly curled at the corners and bound together with a faded ribbon. Two stick figures were positioned in the center with interlinked hands. Just below Daddy & Me was written in clumsy, childish crayon—and underneath that: From: Charlie To: Daddy on Christmas 2010.

  Jeseca removed it from the shelf, her hands trembling, and flipped the cover open. A few pages in was a poem entitled My Superhero Dad. She adjusted her glasses and read the infantile lettering. She absorbed each word while an aching sorrow infected her heart:

  My daddy is super in every single way.

  He is my hero each and every day.

  He has many special powers and always makes me laugh.

  And when I’m on his shoulders, there’s nothing I can’t grab.

  When something goes wrong, he makes it better with a song.

  He’s loving and kind and always knows what’s on my mind.

  He fixes broken hearts and is super-duper smart.

  And even when I’m all grown up, I know I’ll still be glad.

  Because God gave me my very own superhero dad!

  The light-headed sensation came rushing back. Jeseca had an ominous feeling that she was trespassing … that she was invading a very private, very dark corner of someone’s world.

  Yes. I have invaded something sacred, something intimately private and delicate.

  Tears glazed her eyes as she read the poem several more times. Each word pierced her chest with a startling force—and she found it grow increasingly harder to breathe. Near to fainting, she struggled to regain her composure and counted backwards from five. The exercise sedated her nerves and helped anchor her tumultuous thoughts.

  I need to figure out where in the world I am. And who exactly that strange man was.

  Mind whirling, she laid down the booklet and rotated toward the partially open door. Strains of light trickled into the room like beckoning fingers. She smoothed down her hair and inched through the long, winding hallway. A brutal sense of claustrophobia overcame her … as if the walls were curving inward and intended to smother her. She felt their weight fast approaching … felt them caving, inclosing, growing nearer, steadily crawling closer, closer …

  No. I’m losing my mind.

  Jeseca’s pulse kicked into high gear, and the nauseous sensation came rushing back. All around her, harsh slashes of rain beat against the hovering walls and ceiling like the fists of angry children. Brody followed after her and clung to her heels at every step. She was more than a bit grateful for the companionship and body warmth.

  The rhythmic boom, boom, boom of a washer and dryer echoed the home in an eerie requiem. She shuddered and tightened both arms around her midsection; it sounded dark and grim, very much like a funereal march …

  Dim lights illuminated the long, twisting hallway. She slipped through, cold and disoriented, examining the beautiful artwork and framed family portraits at every step. Charcoal sketches, watercolors, oil paintings of the mountains at sunset—and each one seemed to whisper a story.

  Muffled footfall ensnared her attention. She inched toward the sounds until she stood outside a half-opened door.

  Jeseca held her breath and peeked inside the dark room. Only a single table light shone; its illumination spilled across the rich mahogany furniture, shedding a faint golden ring.

  A man stood before the towering dresser, his long, lean back facing Jeseca. A full-length mirror covered the wall, reflecting his solemn and gravely handsome face. Jeseca leaned against the doorjamb as she drank in those rugged features.

  The full impact of his masculine beauty slammed into her like a train. A chiseled jaw boasting day-old stubble. Full lips, tinted a naturally deep red. Donning well-worn jeans and disheveled hair that grazed his collar, the man’s appearance screamed untamed sexiness. The breadth of his shoulders was impossibly wide—and the white long-sleeved T-shirt clung to his chest. Chords of muscles bunched and constricted beneath the material while he rifled through a drawer. Each movement was meticulous, deliberate, and executed with a startling grace.

  Jeseca stood beneath the archway, dead frozen in her tracks, and observed in silent awe. Rich brown hair curled just above the T-shirt’s crisp neckline. And such beautiful hair it was. Thick, unruly, and kissed with opulent highlights. She clamped her fingers together as she was overcome with the need to rake them through those dense waves … to feel their weight between her clammy palms …

  Brody pushed past her and waltzed inside his master’s closet. The stranger—her rescuer, her fogged brain acknowledged—mumbled a greeting to his companion, grabbed hold of the T-shirt’s base, and slid it over his muscular torso.

  What Jeseca saw next summoned a choked sob from her lips.

  Below the fabric, an intricate web of burns warped his skin.

  She briefly caught sight of a tattoo; a large black spider was inked on the inside of his upper arm. Her eyes jerked up again, running over his exposed skin in a wild flurry. His torso, arms, back—they were all covered in severe welts. Raised red and white ridges spread across his flesh, resembling twisted mountain ranges. The skin appeared puckered, charred beyond repair.

  Healed second and third-degree burns.

  The sight was painful—even to look at. Jeseca slapped her palm against her mouth and smothered another cry. Regardless, the man jackknifed toward her with narrowed eyes and an alarmed expression.

  She could h
ear his breathing from where she stood. The erratic sound filled the entire room and drowned her thoughts. All the while, the washer and dryer continued its grim funeral march.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Then their gazes slammed together. For several weightless moments, those blue eyes held her spellbound. An entire conversation seemed to explode between them—and the laments hummed inside Jeseca’s chest.

  The dryer’s thud circulated through her body and echoed her thrashing heartbeat.

  She ached. She burned. And she desperately needed to escape that penetrating stare.

  “I … God, I’m—I’m so sorry.”

  And without another word, she edged away from the door and vanished into the dark hallway.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Damn it to hell.

  David tossed a fresh T-shirt over his head and erupted from his bedroom. Brody followed him down the endless hallway, his nails clinking against the wooden panels.

  His footsteps ate up the oak floorboards at record time—and each one echoed his racing heart. Below the T-shirt, the scars burned like a thousand brands—as if they were days old, rather than years. A violent wave of humiliation and grief crashed down.

  She had seen him. Really seen him.

  He muttered a curse, and heaved open Charlie’s bedroom door. The woman was leaning against the edge of the mattress with both arms crossed over her chest.

  Tension-filled silence circulated between them. Only the rhythmic melody of the rain, the thudding dryer, and Brody’s whines breached the quiet. David clenched his fingers several times in an attempt to sedate his nerves. No relief came. Just more despair and tension.

  Good God, she was beautiful. Delicate features, creamy skin, and eyes that could drive a man out of his mind. And he was already halfway out of his mind.

  A powerful current of awareness swarmed through his limbs. He ran an unsteady hand across his hairline and fought to drive it away. Damn. He needed to piece himself together.