by Gina Wilkins
Casey smiled archly. “I know he’s been asking. I think you should go. Mark’s cool. Cute, too. All the girls at school think so.”
“They do, do they?”
“Yeah. Betty Anne Mayberry wants him to go out with her mom, ‘cause her mom’s divorced, but I told Betty Anne that Mark likes you.”
“Casey!”
“Well, he does,” Casey insisted.
“Well talk about this later,” she muttered.
“Don’t stop talking about it on our account,” Mae said brightly. “Bailey and I think you should go out with him, too, don’t we, Bailey?”
Bailey laughed. “Now you’re going to have Cara mad at all of us, Aunt Mae. Leave the poor woman alone. She’ll make up her own mind.”
“Thank you, Bailey,” Cara said, sounding relieved.
“No problem. I’m convinced that you’re smart enough to see that Mark’s a fabulous guy who would happily cut off his arm if you asked him to. You don’t need us to tell you that you’d be crazy not to give a guy like that a chance.”
Cara covered her face with her hands. “Oh, thanks a lot.”
Bailey grinned.
A massive pickup truck suddenly appeared out of nowhere, speeding down the narrow country road directly in Bailey’s path. Almost blinded by the high beams of the oncoming vehicle’s headlights, Bailey swerved to the right and slammed her hand down on her horn, expecting the other driver to move quickly back to his own side of the road.
She was horrified when the truck swerved in the same direction she did, heading straight for Dean’s car.
“He’s going to hit us!” she screamed, dragging at the steering wheel with both hands, desperately searching the dark road for a safe refuge. “I can’t—”
The truck broadsided them with a screech of tires and grinding crash of metal. Jarred by the impact, Bailey struggled for control, but the outcome was inevitable. Dean’s compact car left the road and plunged down a wooded embankment, and there was nothing its occupants could do but brace themselves and pray.
CHAOS REIGNED at the usually quiet country roadside. Blue lights blazed from Destiny’s two police vehicles, red lights spun on the ambulance and amber lights flashed atop the wrecker that was slowly dragging Dean’s battered car up the furrowed embankment.
There seemed to be uniforms everywhere. Bailey held a hand to her bleeding forehead and tried to make sense of the confusion.
Mercifully, no one had been seriously hurt in the crash. The car had come to rest in a ditch, one fender crumpled against a tree, the windshield and one side window shattered by branches, but there was no real damage to the inside of the vehicle. Everyone had been belted in, so the injuries were relatively minor.
Mae was shaken, but recovering with the help of an oxygen mask and the solicitous care of paramedics. Casey’s arm had slammed against her door, and would require X rays. Cara was bruised and dazed, her eyes huge in her colorless face as she hovered over her frightened child.
Mark stood very close to Cara’s side, his arm locked protectively around her waist. Mark had reached the car only moments after the impact.
Someone touched Bailey’s arm as she was watching her aunt being helped into the ambulance. “Ma’am? We’re taking everyone to be checked out at the hospital now. Let me help you into the ambulance.”
“I’m fine,” Bailey said, her voice tremulous. “Really.” But she could feel the warmth of her own blood on her face, the throbbing of her shoulder where she’d slammed against the driver’s door before being jerked back by her seat belt. Her left ankle felt hot and swollen; she hoped it was only sprained.
Despite her brave words, she was grateful for the support of the paramedic as she walked toward the ambulance in which Mae, Cara and Casey already sat.
“I’ll follow you to the hospital,” Mark said. “Chief Peavy’s going to meet me there for a description of the truck that broadsided you. I hope they catch the son of a bitch soon. I want to personally smash the guy’s face in.”
Bailey bit her lip as she climbed into the ambulance, remembering that moment when she had swerved and the truck had so swiftly followed. Though she found it hard to believe, she couldn’t shake the disturbing feeling that the crash had been no accident.
7
March 1, 1903
Ian ran away from home yesterday. He was missing for almost five hours before a neighbor found him. I was terrified that something had happened to him.
He simply can’t accept that I am going to marry Gaylon. Ian keeps saying that he knows it’s a mistake, that he is afraid that something terrible will happen if I marry him. I can’t convince him that he is letting his imagination and his fear of change influence him. I don’t believe he really intended to be gone for long—he would never have left Mary Anna—but he wanted to upset me. I suppose he thought I would now understand how deeply opposed to this marriage he is, and perhaps change my mind about going through with it.
I do understand. I still have my own doubts about the wisdom of my decision, but I can’t let myself be influenced by a willful child’s tantrums Perhaps I have spoiled him. Maybe the others are right. Ian needs a father. I can no longer handle him alone. He is so stubborn, so convinced that he knows what is best for all of us, as young as he is. He has taken his role as the man of the household very seriously. He doesn’t want to give it up. I wish he could understand that I want him to be a child while he still can. He will have to grow up all too quickly.
Mary Anna is the only one who can truly reach him. She was very angry with him for frightening us. She made him promise both me and her that he would never do such a thing again. He finally told me that if I am determined to marry Gaylon, he will try to accept it. He looked so unhappy that it broke my heart, but I’m sure everything will be fine now.
At least, I hope it will.
BAILEY MADE SURE her aunt was comfortably tucked in for the night before giving in to her own exhaustion that evening. Mae had recovered from the ordeal with amazing fortitude, and she resisted Bailey’s efforts to hover over her.
“You go to bed and get some rest,” Mae said flatly. “You were hurt worse than I was. In fact, I wish you’d stay in the inn tonight so we could keep a close eye on you “
Bailey shook her head, then regretted it when her battered temples pounded in protest. “I’m fine, Aunt Mae. I’ll be more comfortable in the bed I’ve been sleeping in for the past two weeks. If you’re sure you won’t need me during the night, I’ll go on out to the cottage.”
“I won’t need you,” Mae said. “Elva insisted on spending the night when she heard what happened, and I’m sure she’ll be in here half a dozen times checking on me. Cara will keep a close eye on Casey, but Elva will probably look in on them, too. You’ll probably get more rest in the cottage. But you will call if you need anything, won’t you?”
“I’ll be fine. My ankle’s only twisted and the cut on my head didn’t even need stitches. No concussion, no broken bones, nothing at all for you to worry about tonight.”
“It’s a wonder no one was more seriously injured by that crazy drunk,” Mae said with a sigh as she settled into the pillows.
Bailey nodded grimly, trying to hide her lingering misgivings about the so-called accident.
The police had failed to find the truck or its driver, though they were still looking. Everyone seemed to accept that the driver had been intoxicated, the crash merely a drunken miscalculation of speed and distance.
Bailey was having trouble accepting that explanation. She couldn’t stop picturing those overbright lights heading steadily, certainly, in her direction.
She bent rather stiffly to kiss her aunt’s pale cheek. “Good night, Aunt Mae. Sleep well.”
“I’ll certainly try. But it will be a while before I can forget the sound of that truck hitting us” Mae admitted.
Bailey shuddered. “Me, too.”
Mark was waiting for Bailey outside Mae’s bedroom. “I’ll walk you to the cottage,” he said.
“Cara’s putting Casey to bed.”
“How’s Casey doing?” Bailey asked, secretly grateful for Mark’s supportive hand at her elbow.
“She’s looking better. She made me promise I would sign her cast tomorrow.”
“And Cara?”
Mark looked grim. “She hasn’t said two words since the accident. She looks as if a strong wind could blow her right over. She wasn’t hurt, physically, but she was badly frightened. And she won’t let me close enough to help her.”
Bailey thought of the way Cara had clung to Mark immediately after the accident. “Give her time, Mark,” she advised. “She’s still in shock. We all are, to an extent.”
“Tell me about it. When I saw that truck hit you, and watched your car go off the road—”
His voice broke. It wasn’t necessary for him to complete the sentence.
They walked out of the inn and down the path to the cottage in silence. They were almost to the door, when Mark spoke again. “Right after the accident, Cara said something that bothered me. It was almost as if she believed the crash was intentional.”
Bailey stiffened. “Why would she think that?” she asked, hearing the odd note in her own voice.
“It was just something she said. Something like ‘I knew this would happen.’ Maybe she thinks this is connected in some way to whatever she’s been here hiding from.”
“You think Cara believes the driver of the truck was after her?”
“Yeah, from what she said, I think the possibility might have crossed her mind. Damn, I wish I had some idea of what happened to her.”
“Whatever it is, she must be terrified.”
“I don’t know what to do, Bailey.” He made the statement reluctantly, as though he wasn’t accustomed to admitting defeat. “I don’t know how to help her.”
“Just be there for her. Let her know that you want to listen when she’s ready to talk.”
“Surely she knows that by now. I think I’ve made my feelings clear enough.”
“Maybe she needs to keep hearing it until she’s able to believe it. Don’t give up on her, Mark.”
“I won’t,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t.”
He took her key from her hand and unlocked the cottage door. “Do you need help with anything?” he asked.
Standing in the open doorway, she gingerly shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. Thank you for walking with me.”
“Sure. I think I’ll go back to the inn for a while. Maybe Elva will give me a cup of coffee. And maybe Cara will feel like talking after Casey’s asleep.”
“Maybe she will,” Bailey said, though she didn’t expect Cara to leave her child’s side all night.
She stood in the open doorway until Mark had loped out of sight, with a final wave over his shoulder. She started to close the door, but froze when something moved at the very edge of her vision. Her fingers tightened convulsively on the doorknob, and she turned quickly, prepared to slam the door closed.
Bran stepped out of the shadows beside her porch. “Do you mind if I come in?” he asked quietly.
She sagged against the doorframe. “Someday you’re going to give me a heart attack, skulking around like that,” she muttered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt you and your friend.”
Bailey was too weary and too troubled to dance around the truth tonight. “You mean you didn’t want Mark to see you. Fine, Bran. If you want to keep playing your shadow games, go ahead. I won’t reveal your secret identity.”
He frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I,” she admitted, pressing a hand to her pounding head. “I don’t think I’d be very good company tonight, Bran. Maybe you’d better come back anoth—”
He moved forward so swiftly she blinked. “What happened to you?” he demanded, apparently just noticing the bandage on her forehead, as well as the sizable purplish lump it didn’t quite conceal. “Are you all right?”
She sighed and stepped back from the door, letting him enter the cottage. She knew he wouldn’t be leaving now until he’d heard everything. She closed the door and locked it, then limped toward the couch. “I was in a car accident.”
Bran’s hand moved toward her, as if he wanted to assist her, but he didn’t touch her. “What happened? How badly are you injured?”
“A drunk driver in a half-ton pickup slammed into the side of the car I was driving and knocked me off the road. Aunt Mae and Cara and Casey were in the car with me. If we hadn’t been belted in, or if the car had flipped, we’d have all been seriously injured. As it was, we were all bruised and battered, and Casey fractured her wrist, but she’ll be fine.”
“Your aunt is all right?”
Bailey was touched that he seemed so concerned about Mae. “She’s okay. She’s resting. Elva—the cook—is going to look in on her tonight.”
“Who’s going to look in on you?”
She leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes. “No one. I’m fine, Bran.”
“You were limping.”
“I twisted my ankle. Nothing serious, I promise.”
“I’ll stay with you tonight—for as long as I can.”
“That isn’t necessary, but thank you.”
“I’m staying,” he insisted.
She swallowed a groan of defeat. “Fine.”
“Do you have anything to take for the pain?”
“I’ve already taken it. It’s not too bad, just a pounding headache.”
“You should be in bed.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, regretting the way she’d snapped at him. He looked so genuinely concerned for her, so anxious about her welfare.
She couldn’t help softening. “I’m working up the strength to walk to the bedroom,” she said with an attempt at a smile.
He didn’t smile in return. “I wish there was something I could do to help you.”
She made a weak effort to tease. “Okay, carry me.”
His fists clenched at his sides. What might have been anguish crossed his face, so fleetingly she decided she must have imagined it.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, no inflection at all in his voice.
Rather embarrassed, she gave a flat laugh and pushed herself off the couch. “Forget it. The medicine must be kicking in. I’m starting to feel light-headed.”
“I’ll wait in here while you dress. Call out when you’re in bed, or—or if you need anything. Er, leave the door ajar so I can hear you if you call.”
She nodded and limped toward the bedroom. She left the bedroom door open, as he’d ordered, and closed herself into the attached bathroom to change.
How did he do this to her? she wondered as she washed then tugged a soft T-shirt over her head. Here she was, battered and bruised, and yet she found herself hurting for him. Something about that look in his eyes had broken her heart.
She might be hurting physically, but Bran’s pain was much deeper, much sharper. He was obviously suffering from something, and, as foolish as it might be, she cared enough about him to want to help him.
It seemed she hadn’t learned from her mistakes, after all.
BRAN WAS WAITING by the bed when Bailey came out of the bathroom. She hadn’t turned on the overhead light, so the glow from the lamp on the nightstand was the only illumination in the room. Bran’s dark face was thrown into shadow, but she felt his eyes on her as she padded across the floor and climbed self-consciously into bed.
Ruefully, she thought that she certainly had no reason to be uneasy about being alone with Bran this way. Though he’d had ample opportunity, he’d never even touched her. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid doing so, in fact.
She wished she understood why.
Did he suspect that she was beginning to crave his touch with an intensity that shook her? When she was settled, Bran sat carefully on the side of the bed. “Are you in much pain?”
“No.”
He smiled very faintly. “You’re lying.”
She smiled in return, “You’re right.”
“I wish there was something I could do to help you,” he said again, his smile gone.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You must have been terrified during the accident.”
“I was furious,” she said grimly. “The bastard that hit us was either drunk or—”
“Or?”
“Or deranged,” she said quietly.
Bran tensed. “You think he did this on purpose?”
It sounded no more likely when Bran said it than it had sounded in her mind. “Probably not. I mean, why would he? But, well, it just seemed so deliberate. The police are looking for him for answers, but so far there’s no trace.”
Bran sat very still, his expression so hard that Bailey shivered. An almost palpable air of menace hovered around him. Mark had been angry, but not like this. Mark’s anger was hot and fierce, normal under the circumstances.
Bran’s temper was cold and dangerous.
“I’d like to spend some time with that driver when they find him,” he said, his voice deadly soft.
Bailey tried to defuse his mood with a light tone. “Get in line. Mark’s already expressed the desire to smash the jerk’s face in.”
Bran wasn’t notably placated.
Bailey exhaled slowly. “What a day,” she murmured.
“Get some rest. I’ll let myself out in a while.”
“Don’t forget to lock the doors,” she reminded him, smiling as she remembered the two times she’d left her door unlocked, allowing him to slip in and startle her.
Either he didn’t catch the allusion, or he was too disturbed by what had happened to her to share her amusement. He only nodded. “I won’t.”
She nestled into the pillows. Bran stood. Bailey mused sleepily that he was lighter on his feet than any man she’d ever known. She rarely heard him move; she hadn’t even felt the bed shift when he’d gotten up.
“G’night, Bran,” she murmured, closing her eyes and allowing the pain medication to do its job.
“Good night, Bailey.”
