She went into the kitchen, where the hurricane lamp still threw its meager light. Pictures drawn in crayon wreathed the walls of the area—fond reminders of her most recent class of children. Last year's class. The pictures suggested hope, and Susannah could vividly recall each child's face as she surveyed the individual drawings. They gave her a sense that maybe her life hadn't been completely shattered after all.
Leaning down, Susannah blew out the flame in the lamp, and darkness cloaked the room, making her suddenly edgy. It had been shadowy the night she'd walked from her bus toward the brightly lit central station—she could remember that clearly. She could recall, too, flashbacks of the man who had been killed in front of her. He'd been sharply dressed, with an engaging smile, and he'd approached her as if she were a longtime friend. She'd trusted him—found him attractive, to be honest. She'd smiled and allowed him to take the large carry-on bag that hung from her shoulder. With a shudder, Susannah tried to block the horrifying end to his brief contact with her. Pressing her fingers against her closed eyes, she felt the first signs of one of the massive migraines that seemed to come and go without much warning begin to stalk her.
As she made her way to her bedroom, at the rear of the house—moving around familiar shapes in the dark—Susannah vaguely wondered why Killian's unexpected presence hadn't triggered one of her crippling headaches. He was dangerous, her mind warned her sharply. He'd told her so himself, in the sort of warning growl a cougar might give an approaching hunter. As she pulled back the crisp white sheet and the worn quilt that served as her bedspread, Susannah's heart argued with her practical mind. Killian must have lived through some terrible, traumatic events to project that kind of iciness. As Susannah slid into bed, fluffed her pillow and closed her eyes, she released a long, ragged sigh. Luckily, sleep always cured her headaches, and she was more tired than usual tonight.
Despite her physical weariness, Susannah saw Killian's hard, emotionless face waver before her closed eyes. There wasn't an iota of gentleness anywhere in his features. Yet, as she searched his stormy dark blue eyes, eyes that shouted to everyone to leave him alone, Susannah felt such sadness around him that tears stung her own eyes. Sniffing, she laughed to herself. How easily touched she was! And how much she missed her children. School had started without her, and she was missing a new class of frightened, unsure charges she knew would slowly come out of their protective shells and begin to reach out and touch life.
Unhappily Susannah thought of the doctors' warnings that it would be at least two months before she could possibly go back to teaching. Her world, as she had known it, no longer existed. Where once she'd been trusting of people, now she was not. Darkness had always been her friend—but now it disturbed her. Forcing herself to shut off her rambling thoughts, Susannah concentrated on sleep. Her last images were of Killian, and the sadness that permeated him.
A distinct click awakened Susannah. She froze beneath the sheet and blanket, listening. Her heart rate tripled, and her mouth grew dry. The light of a first- quarter moon spilled in the open window at the head of her old brass bed. The window's screen had been torn loose years ago and never repaired, Susannah knew. Terror coursed through her as she lay still, her muscles aching with fear.
Another click. Carefully, trying not to make a sound, Susannah lifted her head and looked toward the window opposite her bed. A scream jammed in her throat. The profile of a man was silhouetted against the screen. A cry, rooted deep in her lungs, started up through her. Vignettes of the murderer who had nearly taken her life, a man with a narrow face, small eyes and a crooked mouth, smashed into her. If she hadn't been so frightened, Susannah would have rejoiced at finally recalling his face. But now sweat bathed her, and her nightgown grew damp and clung to her as she gripped the sheet, her knuckles whitening.
Breathing raggedly, she watched with widening eyes as the silhouette moved. It wasn't her imagination! The shriek that had lodged in her chest exploded upward. A sound, a mewling cry fraught with desperation, escaped her contorted lips. Run! She had to run!
She had to get to her parents' home, where she'd be safe.
Susannah scrambled out of bed, and her bare feet hit the wooden floorboards hard. Frantically she tore at the bedroom door, which she always locked behind her. Several of her nails broke as she yanked the chain guard off and jerked the door open. Blindly she raced through the living room and the kitchen and charged wildly out the back door. Her bare feet sank into the dew-laden grass as she raced through the meadow. Her breath coming in ragged gulps, she ran with abandon.
The shadows of the trees loomed everywhere about her as she sped onward. As she sobbed for breath, she thought she heard heavy footsteps coming up behind her. Oh, God! No! Not again!
Killian jerked awake as someone crashed into the back door of the farmhouse. At the sound of frantic pounding he leaped out of the bed. Wearing only light blue pajama bottoms, he reached for his Beretta. In one smooth, unbroken motion he slid the weapon out of its holster and opened the door. Swiftly he raced from the first-floor guest room, through the gloomy depths of the house, to the rear door, where the pounding continued unabated.
The curtains blocked his view, but Killian knew in his gut it was Susannah. Unlocking the door, he pulled it open.
Susannah stood there, her face twisted in terror, tears coursing down her taut cheeks and her gray eyes huge with fear. Without thinking, he opened his arms to her.
She fell sobbing into his arms, her nightdress damp with perspiration. Killian held her sagging form against him with one hand; in the other was his pistol, safety off, held in position, ready to fire. Susannah's sobs were a mixture of rasps and cries as she clung to him. Killian's eyes narrowed to slits as he dragged her away from the open door, pressing her up against the wall, out of view of any potential attacker. Rapidly he searched the darkened porch beyond the open door, and the nearby orchard. His heart was racing wildly. He was aware of Susannah's soft, convulsing form trapped between him and the wall as he remained a protective barrier for her, in case the killer was nearby. But only moonlight showed in the quiet orchard and the countryside beyond.
Seconds passed, and Killian still could detect no movement. Susannah's sobs and gasps drowned out any chance of hearing a possible assailant. "Easy, colleen," he whispered raggedly, easing away from her. The feel of her trembling body beneath him was playing havoc with his carefully controlled emotions so much so, he'd called her colleen, an Irish endearment. Fighting his need to absorb the softness of her womanly form against him, Killian forced himself away from her. Shaken, he drew her into the kitchen and nudged the door closed with his foot. "Come on, sit down." He coaxed Susannah over to the table and pulled the chair out for her. She collapsed into it, her face filled with terror as she stared apprehensively at the back door. Killian placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the terrible tension in her.
"It's all right," he told her huskily, standing behind her chair, alert and waiting. The kitchen had only two small windows, just above the counter and sinks, and the table was in a corner, where a shooter wouldn't be able to draw a bead on them. They were safe—for the moment. Killian's mind ranged over the options a gunman would have. He could barge into the kitchen after her, or leave and wait back at her house. Or he could leave altogether and wait for another opportunity to kill Susannah.
Susannah shook her head violently and jabbed her finger repeatedly toward the door. She glanced up at Killian's hard, shadowy features. Her eyes widened even more when she spotted the pistol that he held with such casual ease. He was naked from the waist up, she realized, the moonlight accentuating his deep chest and his taut, leanly muscled body. Gulping, Susannah tore her attention back to the door, waiting to hear those heavy footsteps that had been pursuing her like hounds from hell. Her breathing was still harsh, but Killian's hand on her shoulder made her feel safer.
Killian looked around, his hearing keyed to any strange noises. Surprised that the Andersons hadn't awakened with the amount of n
oise Susannah had made, he glanced down at her. Undiminished panic still showed in her eyes. One hand was pressed against her heaving breast. She looked as if every nerve in her body were raw from whatever she'd just experienced.
Leaning down, he met and held her wide, searching gray eyes. "Susannah, what happened? Was someone after you?"
She nodded her head violently. Her mother always had a pencil and paper on the kitchen table for her. She grabbed them and hastily scrawled a message.
A man! A man tried to get in the window of my bedroom!
Killian's eyes narrowed.
Susannah gasped raggedly as she held his burning, intense gaze.
He patted her shoulder, hoping the gesture would offer her some sense of security. "You stay put, understand? I'm going to try and find him. I'll go back to your house and have a look around."
Susannah gave a low cry, and the meaning of the sound was clear as she gripped Killian's arm and shook her head. No! No, don't go! He's out there! He'll kill you! Oh, please, don't go! He's after me, not you!
Killian understood her silent plea for him to remain with her. But it was impossible under the circumstances. "Shh. . . I'll be all right," he said soothingly. "I want you to stay here. You'll be safer."
Gulping unsteadily, Susannah nodded, unwillingly releasing him.
With a look meant to give her solace, Killian rasped, "I'll be right back. I promise."
Shaking badly in the aftermath of her terrified run, Susannah sat huddled in the chair, feeling suddenly chilled in her damp cotton gown. Killian moved soundlessly, like a cougar, toward the door. But as he opened it and moved out into the night, Susannah felt a new wave of anguish and fear. Killian could be murdered!
* * *
Weaving in and around the fruit trees, the dew-laden grass soaking his bare feet and pajama legs, Killian quickly circled the Anderson house. If the killer was around, he wasn't here. Moving with the soundlessness of a shadow, he avoided the regular path and headed for Susannah's house. As he ran silently through the orchard, a slice of moon and the resulting silvery light allowed him to penetrate the night. Reaching the old homestead, his pistol held upward, Killian advanced toward the rear of the house, every sense screamingly alert. His nostrils flared, he inhaled, trying to get a whiff of any odor other than the sweet orchard fragrances.
Locating Susannah's bedroom at the rear, Killian saw nothing unusual. Remaining near a small grove of lilac bushes that were at least twenty feet tall, he waited. Patience was the name of the game. His original plan to remain at the Anderson house obviously wasn't a good one, he thought grimly as he waited. Frustration ate at him. He'd have to find a way to stay at Susannah's home in order to protect her. The chill of the predawn air surrounded him, but he was impervious to it.
His gaze scouted the surrounding area, his ears tuned in to pick up any sound. Nothing. Killian waited another ten minutes before moving toward the house. The killer could be inside, waiting for Susannah to return. His mouth dry, he compressed his lips into a thin line and quietly stole toward the homestead. His heart set up a sledgehammer pounding in his chest as he eased toward the open back door, the only entrance to the house. Wrapping both hands around the butt of his gun, Killian froze near the door frame. Susannah had left so quickly that the screen door was ajar, as well.
Still, there was no sound that was out of place. But Killian wasn't about to trust the potentially volatile situation. Moving quickly, he dived inside, his pistol aimed. Silence. His eyes mere slits, he remained crouched and tense as he passed through the gloomy kitchen, his head swiveling from side to side, missing nothing, absorbing everything. The living room was next. Nothing.
Finally, after ending the search in Susannah's bedroom, Killian checked the windows. Both were open to allow the fresh early-fall coolness to circulate. One window's screen was in place; the other screen, on the window behind her brass bed, was ripped and in need of repair. Going outside, Killian checked carefully for footprints around either of the bedroom windows, but the grass next to the house was tall and undisturbed. He noticed that as he walked distinct footprints appeared in the heavily dew-laden grass. There were no previous footprints to indicate the presence of an intruder.
Grimly Killian headed back toward the Anderson house, still staying away from the path, still alert, but convinced now that Susannah had experienced a nightmare about her assailant. Relief showered over him at the realization. Still, the incident had put him on notice not to allow the idyllic setting to relax him too much. Dawn was barely crawling onto the horizon, a pale lavender beneath the dark, retreating mantle of the night sky. A rooster was already crowing near the chicken coop as Killian stepped lightly onto the wooden porch.
Susannah met him at the screen door, her eyes huge with silent questions.
"There wasn't anyone," Killian told her as he entered the quiet kitchen. He noticed that Susannah had put a teakettle on the stove and lit the burner beneath it. He saw her eyes go wider with shock at his terse statement. Her gaze traveled to the pistol that was still in his hand, and he realized that it was upsetting her.
"Let me put this away and get decent. I'll be out in a moment. Your folks awake yet?"
Susannah shook her head. Despite her fear, she felt herself respond to the male beauty of Killian's tall, taut body. Black hair covered his chest in abundance, a dark strip trailing down across his flat, hard belly and disappearing beneath the drawstring of the pajamas that hung low on his hips. Susannah gulped, avoiding his narrowed, burning gaze.
In his bedroom, Killian quickly changed into jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt. He pulled on dark blue socks and slipped into a pair of comfortable brown loafers, then ran his fingers through his mussed hair, taming the short strands back into place. Then he strapped on his shoulder holster and slid the pistol into place.
Rubbing his hand across his stubbled jaw, Killian moved back to the kitchen, still amazed that the Andersons had slept through all the commotion. All the more reason, he warned himself, to stay alert for Susannah's sake.
When he entered the kitchen, he saw that she had poured him a cup of tea in a flowery china cup. She was sitting at the table, her hand gripping the notepad and pencil, as if she had been waiting for his return. Killian sat down next to her.
"You had a nightmare," he told her. "That was all."
Susannah rapidly wrote a note on the pad and turned it around for Killian to read.
Impossible! I saw his shadow!
Killian picked up the tea and sipped it, enjoying the clean, minty taste. "There was no trace of footprints around either of your bedroom windows," he explained apologetically. "I searched your house carefully and found nothing. It was a dream, Susannah."
No! Susannah sat back, her arms folded across her breasts, and stared at his darkly etched features while he drank the tea. After a moment, she scribbled on the pad again.
I saw him! I saw the face of the man who nearly killed me!
Killian saw the bleak frustration, and fear in her gray eyes. Without thinking, he placed his hand over hers. "You remember what he looks like?" Before, she'd been unable to identify her assailant.
She nodded.
"Good. The police need an identification." Realizing he was gently cupping her cool hand, Killian pulled his back and quickly picked up his teacup. What the hell was going on? Couldn't he control his own actions? The idea frightened him. Susannah seemed unconsciously to bring out his softer side. But along with that softer side lurked the monstrous danger that could hurt her. He took a sip from the cup and set it down. His words came out clipped—almost angry-
"When you settle down over this, I want you to draw a picture of his face. I can take it to the police— it might give them a lead."
Hurt by his sudden gruffness, Susannah sat there, still taking in Killian's surprising words. A nightmare? How could it have been? It had been so real! Touching her forehead, which was now beginning to ache in earnest, Susannah closed her eyes and tried to get a grip on h
er rampant emotions. Killian's warm, unexpected touch had momentarily soothed her apprehension and settled her pounding heart—but just as quickly he'd withdrawn.
Opening her eyes, she wrote:
I'll draw a picture of him later, when I feel up to it.
Killian nodded, still edgy. One part of him was keyed to Susannah, the other to the door, the windows, and any errant sound. He knew his shoulder holster disturbed her. She kept glancing at him, then at the holster, a question in her eyes. How much could he tell her? How much should he tell her? He sensed her curiosity about him and his reasons for being here.
Feeling utterly trapped, Killian tried to think clearly. Being around Susannah seemed to scramble his emotions. He'd been too long without softness in his life. And, Killian lectured himself, it would have to remain that way. Still, he couldn't let go of the memory of the wonderful sensation of her pressed against him. He should have thrown her to the floor instead of using himself as a human shield to protect her, he thought in disgust. That way he wouldn't have had to touch her, to be reminded of all that he ached to have and never could. But he hadn't been thinking clearly; he'd reacted instinctively.
Grimly he held her gaze. "From now on, Susannah, you need to stay here, in your folks' home, where it's safer."
I will not stay here! I can't! If it was just a dream, then I'll be okay out there. I don't want to stay here.
He studied her in the silence, noting the set of her delicate jaw and the flash of stubbornness in her eyes. With a sigh, he set the cup down on the saucer. "No. You'll stay here. In this house." Susannah shook her head.
You don't understand! I tried to stay here when I got home from the hospital. I had awful dreams! If I stay in my room, I can't sleep. At the other house I feel safer. I don't have as many nightmares. I don't know why. I can't explain it, but I will not come and stay here.
The Rogue Page 5
