by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
Once Clemmie had returned to her bedroom, she closed the door, leaving the light off. Moonlight seeped through the thin curtains while she remained in shadow. Remembering little Loretta, she grabbed her scarf from a dresser drawer, tying it around her eyes.
Darkness swallowed her, entombing her within a strange, empty well of silence that affected all her senses. She put her hands out, carefully edged forward on the rug then stopped.
Trying to remember the room’s layout, she turned toward the window, where the scantest amount of moonlight could be seen through the scarf folds. Thea had told her Joel could differentiate between degrees of shadow, so he did see some variation of light, just not a lot. Slowly Clemmie edged that way.
The toe of her pump snagged on something—the fringe end of the rug?—and she lost her balance. Her palms slapped against hardwood, saving her face from taking the brunt of the fall. Her heart beating fast and erratic, she resisted the impulse to tear away the scarf so she could see. Instead she gathered her wits, letting her breathing calm down.
An anxious sort of vulnerability descended on her as she got to her stinging hands and throbbing knees, struggling to stand. Once upright she slipped out of her pumps and inched forward again, her hands reaching out in front of her. Her fingers met with the bedpost, and she curled them around the carved wood like an anchor, relieved to find something familiar, to gain an idea of where she stood.
The wood beneath her stockings was cool and smooth, and she resisted the impulse to slide her feet along the floor. Any confidence that returned swiftly disintegrated when something sharp pricked the sole of her foot.
“Ow!” she cried out, bending down and raising her foot to grab it. The motion unsteadied her again, and she landed with a thump on her rear.
The sound of the door swinging open preceded the flash of illumination beyond the scarf as the wall sconce flashed on.
“Clemmie?” Hannah asked in surprise. “Are you okay? I heard you yell out….” A dull clink followed as Hannah set what Clemmie guessed was her tea on the bedside table. Her footsteps drew close. “What on earth are you doing? Playing blindman’s bluff solo?”
Clemmie pulled the scarf away, her expression grave as she looked up at her friend. “We have to help him, Hannah.”
“Him?” Hannah knelt down. “You mean Joel?” Her gaze lowered. “What happened to your foot?”
Clemmie inspected her sole, pulling out a tiny splinter. She ran her palm along that area of the floor, finding it rough. Of all the places on the smooth planks, she’d found the one area that was eroding. Hannah noticed it, too.
“I’ll tell Uncle about that. This place is old. Sorry you got hurt.”
“I’m all right. It’s Joel I’m worried about.” Clemmie had battled with fear, uncertainty, and vulnerability for mere minutes; Joel dealt with this every second of his life. Knowing that, she could begin to understand him a little better. At the Refuge, he’d been the leader and all the boys had idealized him, looking up to him. To have all control ripped from him must have been devastating.
Hannah’s eyes were sympathetic. “When you first told me about finding him and wanting to help, I told you I was in favor of the idea and would do what I could. I meant that. I don’t know, maybe God really is behind this and I’m not the only one who wanted you to visit Connecticut. I think He wanted you here, too. For Joel’s sake.”
“Then you don’t think I’m wrong to conceal my identity in order to help him?”
“I didn’t say that. But Clemmie—and don’t get sore.” Hannah hesitated. “If you have to keep asking and always trying to get affirmation from others, maybe it’s you who doesn’t believe it’s the right thing to do. And maybe you don’t need to be told the answer by anyone else after all.”
Clemmie didn’t want to hear or acknowledge such sound advice. She wished she could phone her mother and seek her counsel, but she didn’t want to breach any slim and grudging trust Joel had given by telling others his location; that was his responsibility. Or maybe—God help her, and she prayed for His guidance each night—maybe the true reason she chose not to ring home was the worry over what her mother might say about Clemmie’s ruse. She hoped she wasn’t making a royal mess of things.
Joel settled back in his chair and closed his eyes. It didn’t matter if he did or didn’t close them, as far as blocking out the world went, but it did help him relax. Marielle’s voice also relaxed him when she wasn’t scolding him. To be fair, she only snapped back when he initiated the arguments, which this past week had been sporadic, to his surprise and hers.
He hadn’t thought he could feel comfortable around anyone again, but something about Marielle reminded him of the only home he’d known. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t refused her staying the extra hours after her family expressed concern over her walking home near dark every evening and told her to wait for someone to come and collect her. She hadn’t wanted to get in the way of supper and other family doings once Herbert arrived home from work, so she’d stayed at Joel’s shed of a home, even sharing his meals. He had demanded solitude for mealtimes in the past, so to have a dinner guest was disconcerting at first, but he’d grown accustomed to her company. To pass the time, she read to herself or to him from her book, as she did now.
Joel’s mind, however, had strayed far from the wanderings of Pilgrim. Not for the first time he wondered about his storyteller.
“You’re not listening.” She heaved a sigh. “Have you had enough for today?”
“Tell me,” he mused aloud, “what do you look like?”
She gasped, and he could imagine her shock. He’d never posed any personal question to her, though she’d shown no hesitation to grill him.
“Does it matter?” She hedged in giving a straight answer, which puzzled him.
“Maybe not, but fair is fair. You can see me. Why shouldn’t I at least be allowed to draw a picture of you in my mind?”
“I guess I see your point.”
He grinned at her reluctance. “I never would have thought you were shy.”
“I’m not. I just don’t like talking about myself.”
“Humor me this once.”
“Oh very well.” The leather binding creaked as she closed the book. Her skirt rustled as she fidgeted in her chair. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with hair and eye color,” he suggested drolly.
“My hair is a sort of light brownish, sort of reddish. My eyes are a greenish sort of grayish.”
“Sounds colorful,” he drawled at her unenthusiastic admission. “Any freckles?”
“What?” Her question came sharp. “Why do you ask?”
“The few redheads I’ve known have them.” He wondered if she was as sensitive about her freckles as those girls were.
“Can we talk about something else, please?”
“You really don’t like talking about yourself, do you?” He might not be able to see her, but he could sense her apprehension.
“I’m not that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He deliberated. “I’d place you at about five foot five. Am I close?”
She gasped again, and he assumed his guess was correct.
“How could you possibly know? I mean, w–we’ve never … touched. Or—or anything.” Her voice came soft, nervous.
“When you stand in front of me, I not only hear your voice, I feel the level of it. It comes to just below my collarbone.”
“Oh.”
At her quiet reply he added, “I told you before, my other senses have kicked in and sharpened since the accident that got me this way. I sense a lot of things about you.”
“Speaking of sharpened, you could really use a haircut,” she squeaked out quickly.
“And a shave.”
“Changing the subject?”
“Stating a fact. Unless your plan was to imitate a Viking? Or maybe a bum? That’s quite a beard you’ve grown. It’s the only thing saving you from others mistaking you for a girl,
with how long your hair has gotten.”
Instead of riling him, it made him laugh. “Why should I care how I look? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Maybe you should. It’s not healthy to stay cooped up in this shed or to limit your excursions to your sliver of a porch.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Nice try. But this conversation isn’t about me. I just realized that in the four weeks since you’ve invaded my privacy, I’ve learned very little about you.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, I like the great outdoors. Speaking of, did you know the county fair is starting up next weekend? The weekend before the bazaar my friend is working at.”
“If that was a ploy to get my mind off track, it didn’t work. Where are you from, Marielle? Where do you go after you leave here?”
“Is it so important?”
Five minutes ago he might not have cared. But with her evasive responses, Joel realized just how badly he wanted to know. “Yes.”
He waited, as rigid and determined as she was silent. She let out a surrendering breath.
“Okay, fine. I’ll make a deal with you. Let me trim your hair and give you a shave, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“You have got to be joking.”
“No, I’m quite serious.”
Surprised she would be so adamant about his grooming, he narrowed his eyes in sudden distrust. “And you’ve done such a thing before? Used a straight razor?”
“Worried?” Her words held an undercurrent of amusement. “Don’t be. You’re perfectly safe. You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve shaved. And I’ve cut hair before, too.”
“Are you married? Widowed? Divorced?”
“No answers to any more personal questions unless and until you agree to my terms.”
He let out a rasping breath of a laugh. “Fine.” He didn’t care one way or the other how he looked. Neither Thea nor Herbert ever offered to groom him, and he never asked. He bathed regularly so he wouldn’t “stink to high heaven,” as Darcy used to say, and that was about the sum total of his grooming habits.
Why would he so suddenly think of Darcy and Lyons’ Refuge?
“Swell!” He heard his guest hurry to the door and open it. “I’ll just get the things I need. I’ll be back in two shakes.”
Before he could change his mind or stop her, he heard her footsteps whisk outside and hit the porch.
Joel wryly wondered what he’d gotten himself into.
Chapter 8
Procuring Herbert’s razor and other implements wasn’t a problem. But evading Thea’s string of questions about Clemmie’s intentions took up the entire five minutes she waited in the kitchen for Herbert to retrieve his shaving tools. Thea put her hand to Clemmie’s arm before she could whisk back outside.
“Tell him.”
“I will. Soon. Just not yet.”
“I don’t like this, Clemmie. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
She ignored her conscience agreeing with Thea’s assessment and hurried back to Joel, to find him in a brooding mood. No longer dryly amused, he seemed quiet, suspicious. He allowed her to tie a tablecloth around his neck and waited while she whipped up shaving foam. But before she could bring the coated bristles to his face, he grabbed her wrist. She gasped in surprise.
“First things first. How do I know that you know what you’re doing?”
“I—I was taught. My uncle doesn’t have a steady hand, and my aunt sprained her wrist once,” she explained, speaking of Brent and Darcy. “She shaved him before, and when I said I would help, she walked me through the motions. Due to his profession, he needs to keep a clean-cut appearance and felt whiskers made him look too scruffy for an important meeting.”
“You lived with your aunt and uncle?”
“They live with us.”
He nodded, as if taking it all in. “So you’ve done this once before.”
“Actually, five times.”
“There are no barbers left in town for your uncle to run to?”
“I suppose. I—I don’t know. Or why he chose not to go to one of them. Look, I do know what I’m doing.”
“But you’ve never shaved a full beard before, am I right?”
“Well, no …”
“So maybe you should cut it first.”
She smiled wide. “That’s an excellent idea! Must be why Herbert included the shears.”
At her enlightened enthusiasm, he pushed her wrist away. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea….”
“No. You’re stuck with me now, Joel Litton.” Determined again, she pushed against his chest when he moved forward to rise then picked up the shears. “No sudden moves, or I won’t be held responsible.” She made cutting noises, pumping the handles to stress her point. He grew as still as a block of wood.
Amused to suddenly have the lion as docile as a kitten, she snipped at the light brown curls covering his jaw, careful not to graze his skin. She didn’t even sense him breathing and was surprised she herself didn’t tremble. This was the closest she’d been to Joel since their days at the Refuge. But she’d learned from her mother to keep focused on a task, despite any distractions, and see it through to the end. She imagined that’s what helped her concentrate on playing barber and not think too much about being so close to him, actually touching him….
Focus, Clemmie, focus!
Once the beard was manageable, she lathered up his jaw.
“When do you fulfill your end of the bargain?” He softly spit out lather that had gotten in his mouth when he opened it to speak.
“Do you really want me to concentrate on answering personal questions when I’ve got a razor at your throat?”
“Good point. I’ll wait. But before you start, I’ve got one question, and it won’t wait.”
“Okay,” she said uneasily.
“Why is this so important to you? Why do you even care?”
“Maybe I just want to see what you look like beneath that lion’s mane you’ve been hiding behind.”
He snorted a laugh. “Not the answer I expected.”
“But it’ll do?” she asked hopefully.
His eyes were intense, like clear blue crystals. They seemed to see through her, and she reminded herself yet again that he was blind and couldn’t pick up on the anxiety in her eyes or how she nervously bit her lip, afraid he would discover all her secrets.
“For now.” He settled back, leaning the nape of his neck against the chair rim. “So if you’re going to do this thing, let’s get it over with.”
“Your wish is my command, good sir.” Slowly, so slowly, she made her first swipe with the razor.
He was the epitome of cooperation, remaining so still she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. She didn’t rush through the task, fearful of leaving even the tiniest nick, and felt thankful he hadn’t asked if she’d ever cut Brent.
At last she slid the razor along his jaw one final time, set it down near the bowl of warm water, wiped his face with a dry towel, and observed the entirety of her handiwork. She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her lips—she’d forgotten just how handsome he was. With his hair still touching his shoulders, he looked more like a warrior angel than ever before, every feature of his face appearing as if it were sculpted by the finest artisan.
“What is it?” he asked tersely. “What’s the matter?”
“N–nothing.”
His winged brows drew together. “You don’t sound like it’s nothing. What have you done to me?”
“I told you, nothing. You’re fine. Not a scratch on you. I—I just realized I forgot a hot towel. I—I was supposed to put that on your face first, I think, though I did wet it.” Her heart pounding from nerves, she took a hasty step in retreat, but he reached out and grabbed her arm, hauling her forward as though she might run for the door. The abruptness of his move unbalanced her and caused her to topple to his lap.
Shocked motionless, neither of them spoke or moved for endless seconds. She didn’t
breathe. And he didn’t let her go. His other strong arm moved around her middle, trapping her in a rigid embrace.
“You’re not going anywhere until you answer some questions.”
His voice rumbled against the palm she’d pressed to his chest when she fell. She snatched it away. “I—I …” She worked to keep her voice low and even. “What is it you want to know?”
He tilted his head, his blank eyes on her. “Why are you so nervous if you didn’t do anything wrong?”
Her lips parted in disbelief. He really needed to ask? Did he feel nothing of the same surge of emotions from holding her against him? She’d never been this close to a man who wasn’t a relative and felt the blood rush to her head, warming her entire body.
“If I had made a mistake and slipped, don’t you think you would be feeling the pain by now?”
He seemed to consider. “Okay, I’ll give you that.” But he didn’t let her go. She fidgeted a little to remind him of her predicament. Her action had the opposite effect as his arm tightened around her.
“I told you. You’re not going anywhere till I get answers.”
Her heart pounded harder, if that were possible. “Answers to what?”
“For starters, where do you live?”
She gave an almost hysterical breath of laughter. Did he not trust her enough to keep her end of the bargain, feeling he had to hold her prisoner to answer such questions?
“A few miles from here.”
“And about what I asked before. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Widowed? Divorced?”
“No and no.”
She felt the tension drain from him slightly. His hold on her relaxed, but still he didn’t release her.
“How old are you, anyway?”
“It’s not polite to ask a lady her age.”
He snorted. “Since when did I come across as being polite? Well?” he insisted when she didn’t speak. “It’s hardly fair since I can’t see you to make my own guess.”
“Nearing eighteen.”
