by Jenny Lykins
She watched him, as she had always loved to do. That serious look of concentration, his gaze lifting to study his subject, then lowering to put it down in charcoal.
He worked, oblivious to everything around him, and she sank to the small wooden bench circling a nearby tree and gave in to the pleasure, the sheer heart-singing joy, of simply looking at a face she’d thought never to see again.
The quiet drone of bees lulled her, the fragrant scent of tea olive and jasmine carried on the breeze. Deep within the house, Magnolia sang as she worked. With very little effort, Callen could almost imagine the world as it once had been, before the horrors of war shattered their lives like a cannonball splintering through a window.
She blinked and straightened her spine, chiding herself for woolgathering. How long had she sat there, staring at her husband but seeing their past?
Rising from the bench, she strolled over to Tylar, careful not to disturb him. His hand skimmed across the paper a few more times, then he put down the charcoal and looked up at her with a very satisfied smile.
“May I see?” she asked, peering around to get a glimpse of his work.
He handed the sketch to her, leaning back with an even bigger grin.
The shock hit her with the kick of a mule.
He’d known she was watching him, for in the drawing he had perfectly sketched the house, the side garden, even the ill-tempered peacock roaming the grounds, and to the left of the house he’d sketched her on the bench, watching him with a faraway look.
But that did not cause the shock.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice not quite so self-assured as his smile. “It’s been years since I’ve drawn. I mean, I know I’m a little rusty—”
“Wait here.” She shoved the paper back into his hands, lifted her skirts, and raced across the lawn like the tomboy she used to be. No doubt he thought her unbalanced, but she didn’t care as she charged up the back porch steps, into the kitchen, then flew up the servants’ stairs to her room. She ran straight to the cedar chest, flung open the lid, snatched up the ribbon-tied parcel, then ran from the room, all the while a hot thrill tingling her skin.
He’d risen and now walked toward her as she crossed the lawn, concern in his eyes. She managed to slow her steps to something more ladylike, but her breath still came fast and hard when she stopped in front of him.
“What—” he started to say, his brow creased in question.
“Come here.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the bench. “I want to show you something.” She sank to the seat and, with shaking fingers, untied the parcel in her lap. He sat beside her, so close her skirts nearly covered his legs. A warm, delicious, long-forgotten shudder sailed through her blood at the intimate sight, mingling with the fiery excitement of her discovery.
“No, don’t look yet,” she said, hiding the contents when he tried to see. She rifled through the papers until she found the right one. “Here it is,” she said, handing him the sheet of stiff paper, watching his face for his reaction. “Look.” She could hardly keep the giddiness from her voice.
He took the drawing and his gaze lowered from hers to the paper. The color drained from his face when he jerked, cocking his head in question as he studied the drawing. Finally he picked up the sketchpad and held the two side by side.
“What the...” He shook his head. “They’re almost identical.”
“They are identical!” she insisted. “Look! You’ve even drawn Hobson.”
“Hobson?” He looked back at the sketch. “Who the hel...heck is Hobson?”
Part of her hope vanished at the shock in his voice, but she refused to give in to defeat.
“The peacock! You and...Tylar and I named him after the man who sold him to Father.” She watched for any flicker of recognition. “We thought Mr. Hobson’s suit as gaudy as the bird.”
As if on cue, Hobson screeched and fanned his jewel-colored tail, strutting in vain, for no peahens lived at Windsor. How and where Hobson had survived the war, Callen had no idea. He had disappeared when times had grown hard and food scarce, and she’d assumed the crotchety bird had ended up on some farmer’s table or soldier’s roasting spit. Then one day, just months after the war, she’d found him strolling in the garden as if he’d never left.
“Hobson is the peacock,” Tylar said in a monotone, obviously not remembering, his gaze fixed on the two sketches.
“Yes, and look.” She overlapped the sketches to place both images of her on the bench side by side. “The only difference is my gown.” She let out a small sigh for her favorite dress. “That one went for bandages years ago.”
“Your gown,” he repeated, trancelike, still staring at the drawings.
“Yes!” She took the sketchbook, then shuffled through them, finding two other sketches he’d done.
A ripple of excitement racked her with a shiver.
“Tylar, look!” She rustled through the old drawings in her lap, then handed him two of them...identical to the ones he’d drawn of the dairy barn and Magnolia hanging out laundry to dry.
Ty stared, swallowed hard, shook his head.
“There has to be a logical explanation,” he said, more to himself than to Callen.
Logical? Hell. He was in 1867, after walking through a column base of a burned out mansion. Logical? That word had been purged from his vocabulary.
And now here he sat, staring at pictures someone else - with his name - had drawn, so identical he could almost superimpose one atop the other with no visible difference. Given to him by a woman who thought she was his wife. Hell, even their signatures were identical, not an easy feat with his scrawl - but they both signed their sketches in the upper left corner as well.
Logical? No way.
He sorted through the other drawings. One after another, he studied sketches that could have been his work, sketches he’d even planned to draw while sitting beneath the tree. The subject matter, the strokes, the detail. The very style was his, as unique to an artist as his fingerprint. Someone might imitate style, but it could never be perfectly duplicated.
Especially before he’d ever drawn the picture.
“I saved them,” Callen said, her voice penetrating the roar in his ears.
He looked up at her, trying desperately to figure this thing out, while she watched him, as if expecting him to suddenly admit he was her Tylar and he’d suffered some massive head trauma.
This whole thing had grown beyond bizarre.
“I...uh...” He stood, distractedly taking the drawings she offered. “I need some space.” He turned back toward the cottage, his skin prickling, heat rising from the neck of his shirt.
“You need what?” He could hear the panic in her voice, but it seemed so far away. “Tylar, are you not well?”
He waved his hand behind him, dismissing her worry, and focused on getting to the cottage and privacy. Numb with shock and confusion, he finally climbed the steps and slammed the door behind him.
*******
His first reaction was to head for Windsor’s cellar and get the heck out of Dodge. With every new discovery - the name, the dates, the wedding photograph, the drawings - he felt that he must hold a connection with this Tylar McCall. But he wanted to stay, at least for the next two days, and see this thing through. He wanted to delve into this connection and learn more about the man, and he wanted to help Callen find some closure for her husband’s death. As hard as it would be to leave her, he knew the best thing for her was acceptance. And maybe after acceptance she would get on with her life, possibly marry this Evan Hennessey, have a family upon whom she could shower all that love she had to offer.
All that love.
He swallowed hard, setting aside the envy, the razor-sharp jealousy creeping into his soul, just as he set aside the drawings at which he’d spent hours staring. Part of him whispered Stay with her. Get to know her. Go ahead and fall in love. But years of common sense, responsibility, and sacrificing his needs for Dan buried those whispers so d
eep he could barely hear them, and even then he drowned out what nuances that seeped through. Drowned them out so that he wouldn’t even acknowledge that he heard them. He had a brother to raise, a role of father and mother to play, and he had no room in his life for impossible complications. He’d already seen the writing on the wall; raising a teenage brother would provide complications enough.
A knock on the door jarred him from his torn thoughts.
Callen!
How could he turn her away? At this late hour, the visit couldn’t possibly be an innocent social call.
Grasping for excuses, he stood, his muscles, sore from his fight with Stephen, rebelling more by the moment. By tomorrow his thighs would throb with every movement. Damn Stephen Windsor. Maybe Ty should have used a weapon that morning.
When he flung the door wide, he considered that thought even more seriously. His only consolation was that the bruised, swollen face glaring back at him had to be in more pain than Ty’s aching legs.
“McCall.” Stephen shoved his way past Ty and slammed the door behind him. “Or whoever you are.”
Ty stared him down, their mutual enmity almost tangible. “Windsor.” He dropped into the nearest chair, casually sprawling with deliberate, unmistakable body language. “If you’ve come to turn down the bed and put a rose on my pillow, don’t bother.”
Stephen’s breath hissed through his teeth as he clenched his fists. Ty almost grinned at the barely perceptible wince. “You are leaving here,” Stephen started out low, “taking nothing, I repeat, nothing, more than you brought.” With his next words, Stephen’s whole body stiffened even more - a feat in itself. “And you will leave nothing behind...specifically a bastard in my sister’s belly, or a disease to plague her for the rest of her life.”
That son of a bitch!
A red haze of rage nearly blinded Ty, but he wouldn’t have moved from his carefree position, wouldn’t have let his rage show, if his life depended on it.
“You really should have your hearing checked, Windsor,” he said, refraining from calling the bastard the vile name he deserved. “I’ve told both you and Callen that I’m not her husband. And though you may judge me by your own morals, I’m not a man to take advantage of an innocent woman. Or any woman, for that matter.”
Windsor looked as if he might burst a vein. He took a step forward, and though, at the moment, Ty would have liked nothing better than to beat the pompous ass senseless, the fight would be an unfair one. Though from outward appearances Windsor had seemed to fight a good fight earlier that morning, the lack of strength behind his punches had truly surprised Ty. The only excuse he could imagine was that the man hadn’t fully recovered from his wartime endeavors.
Instead, Ty rose slowly, faced the S.O.B. down, then settled his shoulders with a slight, threatening hitch.
“The only things I’ll take that I didn’t bring with me are the memories of a couple of kisses - kisses which I enjoyed very much,” he admitted with a satisfied, challenging stare, “but kisses bestowed by a loving wife to a man she mistook as her husband.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned just the slightest bit closer. Stephen stood his ground, so that their noses nearly touched. “And the only thing I plan to leave behind is, hopefully, a woman who has accepted the death of her husband, with the willingness to go on with her life.”
Again, he ignored that inner voice mourning his words.
Stephen, on the other hand, seemed to be waging an internal battle of his own, until, finally, he shoved Ty out of his face and pointed a finger at him.
“For Callie’s sake, and only for Callie’s sake, I will allow you to stay these two days and undo the damage you have done. Convince her you are not Tylar. And then I expect you to leave and never set foot on Windsor property again.”
Stephen flexed his fists, as though his joints ached, and Ty noticed the same blotchy, scaly patches on Windsor’s palms he’d noticed on his feet that morning when they’d fought.
Callen’s brother pushed past him after his tirade, turned to cast one last hate-filled glare, then flung the door open and slammed it shut behind him.
Ty stared at the door, anger, confusion, helplessness, all eating at him.
“So much for Southern hospitality,” he muttered, shoving fingers through a handful of hair, turning around, only to face the enigma of the sketches littering the table.
Without another thought he opened the door and stepped out into the muggy, Mississippi air. If a late night jog didn’t clear his mind, it should at least burn off this urge to kill.
And then, praying the doors to the big house weren’t locked, he would find a way to check the portal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Callen sat at breakfast Saturday morning, her thoughts pulled in a dozen different directions. Thanks to Stephen and his manipulations, she’d seen almost nothing of Tylar the day before. Her brother had found her presence necessary for nearly every move he made, and, of course, Evan had been there as well, obviously uncomfortable but seemingly at a loss as to what to do. This morning, however, he’d remedied the problem himself by rising before dawn and riding into Natchez on business, which was just as well.
One day remained to spend time with the only man she would ever love, and no one, no one, would prevent her from being with him today. She lifted her gaze to meet Stephen’s bruised and swollen countenance across the table, set her jaw in defiance, and silently dared him to try and keep her away from Tylar today.
“That glare is singularly unappealing,” he said with an air of boredom.
“As is your face,” she retorted, not changing her expression in the least when his mouth tightened. “Whatever plans you have to keep me from Tylar today, you are doomed to disappointment.”
“Oh, really?” He patted his lips with a mended Irish linen napkin, then tossed it on the table. “Then you must excuse me while I go and sulk in private.”
He scraped back his chair and rose slowly, wincing, no doubt the consequences of his barbaric display of manhood two days earlier.
Callen wasted no time in helping Magnolia clear the breakfast dishes and finishing her morning chores, then she rushed out to find Tylar, determined to spend the day with him. She’d not even seen him at meals, since he’d requested to dine at the cottage - or so Stephen had informed her.
She found him propped in the corner of the bench near the reflecting pond, his knee drawn up as an easel, his hand skimming across a page in the sketchbook. Hobson stalked the grounds nearby. Tylar didn’t bat an eye when the cantankerous bird launched into ungainly flight to perch on the arm of the bench and glare at him. When Hobson gave forth with a not-to-be-ignored shriek, Tylar reached down, picked up a bit of bread, then tossed it to the bird without ever looking away from his work. Hobson caught the bread, flapped his way back to the ground, then wandered in front of Tylar with another ungrateful screech when the last crumb was gone. Tylar distractedly tossed another chunk toward the bird.
The sight of her husband, odd clothing and all, warmed the cold, dark shadows that had crept into her heart during the past five years. That same heart ached at the thought of him leaving again, on the morrow, and her eyes suddenly stung, hot and moist. She blinked away any tears before they dared to form.
Quietly, so as not to disturb him, she strolled toward the bench. The greedy bird wandered over to her, deduced she had nothing to give, then gifted her with that shrill squawk for her unforgivable neglect.
“Take it all, for cryin’ out loud,” Tylar yelled, then a shower of bread chunks peppered her from head to toe. “And leave me the heck a— Oh!”
He jumped up and hurried toward her, tripping over the peacock, eliciting another screech.
“I’m sorry!” he laughed. “I thought you were...” He motioned toward the nuisance of a bird. “I mean, he can be a real pest. Here,” he said, his eyes, those marvelous bronze eyes, shining. “You’ve got bread all over you.”
Callen stood very still while Tylar brushed crumbs off her dress, hi
s hands leaving behind trails of heat, like the trails of glowing phosphorous in a midnight ocean.
He laughed, clearly uncomfortable..
“Hold still. I got some in your hair.” He plucked away a few bits and tossed them to Hobson. “I don’t think I could have hit you with more if I had taken aim. Oops!” A last chunk of bread slipped from his fingers and dropped down her sky blue bodice.
Heat flared all the way to the roots of her hair, the piece of bread felt like a prickly gum ball. She thought for a moment Tylar might glance down her bodice to see if he could retrieve it.
She stood there, horror-stricken, wondering how in the world she could politely extricate the piece of bread, when finally her wits returned and she remembered that Tylar, regardless of his denials, was, after all, her husband.
And this was a perfect opportunity.
Her laughter joined his now, though his had died to a forced, embarrassed chuckle. Her gaze met those melting eyes, held them, then she pointedly looked down, dipped her fingers into her cleavage, and slowly removed the piece of bread. When she looked back up, she couldn’t help but smile when his Adam’s apple rose and fell once. She allowed a few silent moments to pass, allowed him to shift his weight, then tossed the bread to the peacock and looked down at the leather-bound sketchbook tucked under his arm.
“May I?”
“Huh?” He blinked, then followed her gaze. “Oh! These. Sure.”
The one he’d been working on took her breath away. He’d done the reflecting pond with its smooth, glassy surface and the small statue of Aphrodite in the center, a casualty of war herself, with one hand missing along with part of the vase she’d held, courtesy of a bored, recovering Yankee and his target practice when the house had been used as a hospital. He’d captured the moss-draped live oaks, a few fluffy clouds, and a soaring bird mirrored on the still water so perfectly she could turn the sketch upside-down and it looked the same. How could he do so much, capture the atmosphere so perfectly, using nothing but shades of gray?
