Instantly, Laura looked to her right. The twin bed Morgan had slept in was a tangle of sheets and blankets. He was gone. Panic set in momentarily, and Laura threw off her covers, lowering her bare feet to the cool pine floor. Then, more gradually, she acknowledged the fragrance of breakfast cooking and realized Morgan must be up and making breakfast.
Her panic and anxiety dissolved as she sat running her fingers through her hair and laughing at her groggy state. Exhaustion still lapped at her, but for some reason, she felt better. Happier. Mornings weren’t usually her strong point, so she stayed on the edge of the bed, allowing herself the luxury of waking up slowly. In the old days, she would have been out of bed by six, fixing Morgan’s breakfast before he left for work. Then Jason would stumble out of his room around seven, his blue security blanket—“blankey”—in tow. He’d rub his little freckled face, his gray eyes sleepily trained on his father, who’d be at the kitchen table eating a healthy breakfast.
So many wonderful memories…. Laura sighed, closed her eyes and allowed them to surface within her. Jason loved to climb into his father’s lap, blankey and all, and beg for a piece of bacon from Morgan. There they’d sit, Jason happily ensconced in Morgan’s embrace, eating breakfast with Daddy. It was a precious time between father and son, and Laura had loved being privy to their bonding….
Somewhere in her groggy state, Laura vaguely recalled Morgan kissing her. He always kissed her after breakfast, and then Jason would lean forward and place his own wet kiss on her cheek. It was a breakfast ritual of sorts, Laura supposed. Morgan’s kiss was always warm and tender—how she looked forward to it! She lightly touched her lower lip. The kiss…had she dreamed it? She frowned, trying to remember. Where did dreams end and reality begin? Had she dreamed of Morgan tunneling his fingers through her hair last night and then awakening her with a kiss? Or was it a wish-fulfillment figment of her overactive imagination?
Unsure, Laura again grazed her lower lip with her fingertips, thinking. Was she going crazy? In one part of her drowsy mind, she was sure Morgan had kissed her last night! But he wouldn’t do that. With a frustrated sound, she decided the whole memory was nothing more than trying to make her agonizing need of him a reality—to return to the intimacy of before the kidnappings.
Easing off the bed, Laura felt depression settling once again around her shoulders. Maybe she was slowly going crazy, falling off some unknown precipice deep within herself, and just didn’t realize it yet. Pulling open a dresser drawer, she listlessly chose some pink lingerie for the day, and added a peach-colored mohair sweater and dark blue slacks. No, it was her, she decided sadly as she picked up her sensible brown shoes and headed to the bathroom. Her and her overriding need for Morgan to remember his love for her and the two children that was pushing her toward that invisible precipice. Laura wondered bleakly if she could hold on long enough to help Morgan remember his past. She wasn’t sure. Not at all.
Chapter 7
Laura was so exhausted by her night’s tossing and turning that it was impossible to erect any barriers against Morgan after her hot shower. She walked hesitantly to the kitchen to get some coffee and was surprised to see him looking well-rested, sitting at the round oak table, a mug of coffee in his hand. He wore a yellow-blue-and-purple plaid flannel shirt with his jeans—a definite departure from the old Morgan’s preference for conservative colors.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice still low with sleepiness.
Morgan watched Laura head for the the coffeemaker. “We survived the night. I think that’s important,” he said gruffly in greeting. Despite his good intentions, his body tightened with painful awareness of Laura. Her hip-length sweater gently outlined her breasts, slim torso and slightly rounded abdomen, and the slacks, though tapered, revealed her fine, long legs.
Laura poured a cup of coffee, struggling to hide her shaking hands from Morgan. The roughness of his voice grated on her exposed nerves. She noticed a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon sitting in the microwave.
“Is that for me?” she asked, pointing to it.
“Yeah. I can’t guarantee they’ll be any good, but you need someone around to put some meat on those bones. I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”
A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she heated the breakfast. “This is something new,” she murmured, leaning against the counter, the cup of coffee in her hands as she looked across the kitchen at him. “You never made me breakfast before. Maybe there’s a positive side to the amnesia I overlooked.” It was a poor joke, but she saw him rally—for her sake, she was sure—his lips curving slightly in response.
Her gaze settled on his mouth. Instantly, a flash of a memory sizzled through her. Had Morgan kissed her last night? How badly she wanted to ask, yet she didn’t dare. Still, the tingling warmth settling in her belly suggested he had. Either that, or her nighttime dream world was becoming disturbingly real during the day. Fortunately, this was a good dream rather than a nightmare, and for that she was grateful.
“Come and sit down,” Morgan invited as he slowly stood and pulled out a chair next to his. “You’re the one who lost a lot of sleep last night….”
Laura frowned and moved toward him. “I was hoping we’d have separate bedrooms,” she murmured, her voice strained.
“Why?” he demanded as she sat. “So I wouldn’t know about your nightmares?”
Laura held herself stiffly, conscious of Morgan’s bulk and warmth directly behind her chair. His large hands still rested on the chair back, his fingers barely grazing her shoulders. A part of her cried out for his direct touch. If only he could feel her suffering—her need for contact! Shakily, she set the mug of coffee down on the table before she spilled it.
“Dr. Parsons said it was part of the process,” she whispered, her mouth going dry.
“Hmph,” Morgan said, going to the microwave. He pulled out her breakfast plate and set it down in front of her. “Here, eat it. All of it. I’m making you two pieces of toast to go with it, and I want to see them go down the hatch, too.”
Laura smiled tentatively as she looked at the plate, burdened with what must be at least four scrambled eggs. “Morgan,” she protested, “there’s enough food here for three men!”
He popped two slices of bread into the toaster. “So?” Turning, he saw the bewilderment written across her pale features. In that moment, he realized just how fragile Laura was. Old feelings and awareness moved strongly through him, and though he still couldn’t call them memories, he knew the alarm he was experiencing was genuine. Even Laura’s hair, barely tamed into some semblance of order, needed a good brushing. She wasn’t taking the kind of care of herself she could be, he knew from some far recess deep within him.
“Well—” Laura waved her hands helplessly, looking at the fare “—it’s so much!”
“Eat what you can,” he said less gruffly, “and then we’ll talk.”
Talk about what? Laura wondered dully as she forced herself to pick up the fork and swallow some of the eggs. She could barely taste them, though she realized Morgan had gone to some trouble to sprinkle in bits of fresh parsley and chopped red pepper to make them more appealing and palatable. It was a thoughtful gesture on his part.
Just then, Morgan leaned forward and two pieces of thickly buttered toast appeared on her plate. “Eat these, too,” he ordered, as he poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down opposite her.
A thread of happiness wound its way into Laura’s depression as she force-fed herself at the kitchen table with Morgan looking on, his features unrelenting. A ray of sunlight filtered through the red-and-white checked curtains at the window. Chickadees chirped outside, and the creek was gurgling merrily, the sounds soothing to her frayed composure.
“While you’re eating,” Morgan continued in a more conversational tone, watching her closely, “I had a couple of fragmented dreams last night I wanted to share with you.”
Laura stopped eating. “Have you had dreams before
?”
“Not like these.” Morgan gestured at the plate. “Keep eating or I don’t talk.”
She smiled a little. “This is blackmail, Morgan.”
“Call it what you want. My heart’s in the right place.”
Hope rose briefly in her as she saw his clear gray eyes sparkle teasingly. Just the lowering of his voice was like a balm to her taut emotional state, healing her. She continued to eat, not wanting him to clam up. “Tell me about your dreams?” she asked.
He turned the cup slowly in his hands. “Since waking from the coma, I’ve gotten fragments of things—snatches of a voice saying something, a pair of eyes or a swatch of color of someone’s hair.” His brows fell. “Last night, after I got you settled from your nightmare, I went back to sleep. It was then I had these dreams. I should say, dream fragments.”
Laura stared at him. Her fork halted halfway to her mouth. “I had a nightmare?” She had absolutely no memory of it. A deep caring burned in Morgan’s eyes—caring for her—and she felt its healing power sink deep into her wounded spirit.
“Yeah,” he muttered, “you had a nightmare, all right. We’ll talk about it after you’re done eating.”
Laura shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about it at all.”
“You don’t have that choice.”
Laura’s stomach churned. Her mouth went dry. “Why don’t you tell me about your dreams?” she whispered, eager to hear about something better than her own rotten nightmares, which had haunted her since the kidnapping.
Opening his hands, Morgan said, “I remember a lot of cardboard boxes in a living room. They were draped with sheets. I saw three kids playing in them.”
Laura straightened, her eyes widening. “Yes!”
He gave her a wary look. “Yes?”
Excitedly, Laura said, “When you, Aly and Noah were kids, you used to build cardboard ‘cities’ out of boxes in the living room.” Her voice broke with joy. “Oh, Morgan, that’s a wonderful memory to have return! What else did you see?”
He shrugged, feeling her delight, seeing her once-wan cheeks turn bright pink and her blue eyes light up with hope. He grinned a little, elated that the fleeting image was a genuine memory from his past.
“So you didn’t recognize the kids as you and your brother and sister?”
“No…it was like a movie, and I was watching it.”
“Did you hear them speak?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Unthinkingly, Laura reached over and gripped his arm. “Oh, Morgan, it’s still wonderful! It’s proof that at least part of your memory is intact.” She felt his muscles respond instantly to her touch and saw an undefinable emotion pass through Morgan’s eyes, leaving her shaken and needy in its wake. Hesitantly, Laura forced herself to release him. Trying to still her burgeoning happiness, she whispered, “What else did you dream?”
“I saw you,” he said.
“Me?” Laura sat very still, afraid to breathe. “When?”
“I know you told me you were at an airport—that we met there when a car struck you,” Morgan said. “But last night I saw you there and you were wearing a pink raincoat.” He studied her intently. “Were you?”
A shattering bolt of joy flowed through her. “Yes, I was wearing a pink raincoat that day.” Laura set her fork down and pressed her hands to her mouth, afraid she was going to cry in front of him. She knew how Morgan hated to see her weep. Tears burned in her eyes and she blinked them away.
Morgan saw moisture glimmer in Laura’s eyes for just a moment. He saw the utter joy written on her face, now radiant with hope. He felt her hope, too. Deep in his heart, he knew why these fragmented memories had surfaced. It was because of kissing her last night. Somehow, that kiss had unlocked the vault of his past. “I saw one other thing,” he said gruffly, his voice emotional. “I was in a battle…bodies were lying all around me.” His hands tightened around the mug. “I was on a hill above a jungle.”
Sobering, Laura dropped her hands in her lap. “I’m sure it was the hill where your company was overrun,” she whispered, aware of the pain in his voice and face. “In some ways, I wished certain memories from your past would never resurface, Morgan. They were so terrible…and I’m not sure how you came to grips with the guilt you carried from them. I don’t think I could have.” Reaching out, she placed her hand over his. Tightening her fingers, she said, “Still, those memories are real, and they are a part of your past. I can hardly wait to tell Dr. Parsons.”
Morgan curved his fingers around her cool, damp ones in return. Laura had eaten barely a quarter of the food on her plate. “Hold on,” he ordered, “let’s just wait and see what else happens before we go running to Dr. Parsons.”
Somberly, Laura nodded. Morgan’s hand was warm and felt so good to her. She was thrilled he was returning her heartfelt touch. “Okay, we’ll wait.”
“Right now,” he said, removing the plate from in front of her, “we need to talk about you…about your nightmare.”
Stiffening, Laura pulled her hand out of his. “I don’t remember it, Morgan.”
Morgan saw the light and hope in her eyes die instantly like a candle being snuffed out. Laura was retreating from him. He frowned. Nervously, she clasped her hands in her lap beneath the table, and he saw her eyes go wary, like a wild animal in a cage. Real terror lapped at the edges of her dark blue gaze.
Grimly, he said, “Near dawn, I woke up from hearing you crying out. At first I thought it was one of my fragmented dreams, because I’d heard your voice in them before. This time,” he said heavily, holding her frightened gaze, “it was real.”
Laura couldn’t stand the suffocating feeling stalking her. She’d had it enough times to realize it was the precursor to an anxiety attack. Abruptly, she stood up, nearly tipping over her chair. Turning, she grabbed it before it could fall on the linoleum floor. She had to do something. Anything! Picking up her plate of uneaten food, she walked to the kitchen sink, her motions robotlike.
Morgan’s mouth tightened. He saw pure fear in the depths of Laura’s eyes as she walked across to the kitchen. “You don’t remember your nightmare?” he asked gently.
“N-no,” Laura said, as she placed the plate in the sink. Turning, she came back to the table and picked up the flatware and coffee mug. Though she didn’t look at Morgan, she could feel his gaze burning into her. It was a relief to turn back to the sink.
“You were trembling, Laura,” Morgan began in a low voice that vibrated with concern. “When I went over to check on you, I touched the shoulder of your gown, and it was wet with sweat.”
Hanging her head, the mug poised in her hands over the sink, Laura felt renewed anxiety course through her. “Some nights,” she managed to say, “I wake up and find my gown damp.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a choking sound. “It’s nothing to be worried about….”
Morgan shook his head. “You were whimpering and moving your head from side to side, as if someone had you pinned, a hand around your throat.” He saw her go absolutely still, her lips parting as if in a silent cry. Then a tremor ran through her, as if she’d been physically struck, and the heavy coffee mug slipped from her fingers, shattering into pieces in the sink.
Instantly, Morgan was on his feet, moving swiftly toward her. She was staring in horror at the broken cup, her hands pressed to her lips as she looked down at it. More and more with her, Morgan was discovering he was operating on an instinctive gut level. Settling his hands gently on her rigid shoulders, he felt her tension vibrate through him. He gripped her more tightly, attempting to steady her.
“Laura,” he rasped, trying to pull her gently against him. He felt her stiffen, the trembling becoming more pronounced. “Don’t fight me,” he said, maintaining enough pressure on her shoulders to ask her to let go and trust him—again. Somehow, he knew that Laura always hid her worries from him. Well, this was the wrong time for her to do that. Something so terrifying consumed her that he knew she needed help—his help.
/> Opening his hands, he spread them flat across her shoulders and, with a light but gentle pressure, continued to ease her back against him. He stifled a groan of pleasure as she surrendered slightly, letting her back, hips and thighs brush against him. “Laura, talk to me—please,” he whispered against her ear as her hair tickled his nose and cheek.
Laura quivered in Morgan’s grip. How strong he was. Closing her eyes, she felt her terror—all the evil memories—start erupting. He cared. Morgan cared. The same Morgan she loved with quiet desperation was here with her now. The pressure of his hands changed, and she felt herself being turned to face him. Her hands came up automatically to rest against his barrel-like chest. As her palms flattened against his flannel shirt, Laura felt the heavy, slow pounding of his magnificent heart beneath.
His breathing was a solid and steady counterpoint against her quick, ragged breaths.
“Lean on me,” he entreated roughly.
Tears burned in her tightly shut eyes as she allowed herself the gift of resting against him. His hands moved in slow circles across her tense shoulders, and with each movement, Laura felt a little more of the tension bleed away.
“That’s it,” he coaxed thickly, “trust me, Laura. Just trust me. I may not remember a whole hell of a lot, but I do remember feeling some things with you….”
Hope flared sharply within her, and Laura allowed herself to lean a little more heavily against Morgan. His body was a reassuring presence, shoring up her fragmented state. She felt one of his hands slide around her waist to bring her fully against him. The invisible tie between them was back. She could feel it as surely as she felt each breath he took. How brave he was to step beyond his own wall of pain and suffering to reach out to her. This was the Morgan she knew, the man with the well of endless courage.
Morgan's Marriage Page 9
