by Gina Wilkins
“Lie still,” she murmured, gently holding him down. “I need to know you’re all right.”
“I’m okay,” he muttered, his tongue thick with sleep and the effects of medication. “Just—my arm.”
She pressed a kiss on his shoulder, just above the thick bandage. And then on the side of his throat. And on his chest, just above his right nipple.
Each kiss was like a tiny electrical charge. Not unpleasant. Tingly
He’d kicked off the thin sheet that had covered him, leaving him clad only in his briefs. Anna explored every exposed inch of him, finding every scratch, every bruise, anointing them with those fleeting, stimulating kisses. He could almost feel the energy stirring within him, as though she was transferring her own vibrancy to him.
She left an all new kind of pain in her wake.
“Anna,” he said from between his teeth. “I want you.
Very lightly, she touched the swollen ridge beneath his briefs. “I know,” she murmured, her tone sad. “I wish—”
He reached for her. Then cursed when the movement made his arm scream in protest.
“Lie still,” she said quickly, touching his arm, encouraging him to rest it on the pillow his aunt had arranged beneath him. “You mustn’t strain your arm.”
He fought the encroaching drugged sleepiness. “Don’t go,” he muttered, struggling to focus, still unsure of whether he was awake or asleep. “Stay with me.”
She laid her fingertips against his lips. “I can’t. I have to go now.”
“No. I-I need-”
“Sleep,” she whispered. “You need sleep.”
“Anna—”
He felt something brush his lips again. He thought perhaps she’d kissed him.
Before he could respond, she was gone.
He groaned and covered his eyes with his good arm.
God help him, he’d fallen in love. With a ghost. Perhaps that was only fitting for a man who had never believed in either.
10
The course of true love never did run smooth.
—William Shakespeare
DEAN WAS in the sitting room the next afternoon, settled into an easy chair with a cup of tea and the newspaper, both of which he tried to juggle with his left hand. He wasn’t doing very well at it.
He couldn’t really concentrate on the newspaper, anyway. All he could think about was Anna.
Had she really come to him during the night, or had he dreamed her? Had she kissed him, touched him, or was it only the medication that had made his fantasies seem so real?
Was he really in love with her, or was this only desire, fueled by a long spell of celibacy? And if he did love her, what the hell was he supposed to do about it?
The telephone rang. He ignored it. It was answered by someone else in the house, but a moment later Casey appeared in the doorway.
“It’s for you, Mr. Gates,” she said, motioning toward the extension on the cherry-wood table at his left side.
“Thank you, Casey.”
She nodded and disappeared.
Folding the newspaper in his lap, Dean lifted the receiver. “Gates.”
“I hear you’ve done battle with a potting bench. And you lost.”
“Yeah, something like that,” Dean answered wryly, recognizing Mark’s voice.
“Seriously, Dean, are you all right? The local grapevine has you all but dead. One gossip-loving matron told me your arm had been amputated, though Cara assured me it wasn’t quite that serious.”
“Not nearly that serious.” Dean had noticed how Mark’s voice softened when he’d said Cara’s name. “You talked to Cara?”
“Briefly,” Mark said, frustration in his tone. “She took only enough time to assure me that you weren’t mortally injured before she sent Casey off to call you to the phone. I wish I knew what that woman has against me.”
“I doubt that it’s you, personally. I don’t think she wants to get too deeply involved with anyone.”
“She just needs time to get used to the idea, that’s all,” Mark said stubbornly. And then he changed the subject before Dean could comment. “Tell me what happened. All I know is that something fell on you and ripped your arm open.”
“I was tearing down the garden shed, when an old metal-framed potting bench fell from a loft above me. Had I not ducked at the last moment, my injuries would probably be worse than they are,” Dean explained, thinking that Anna could well have saved his life with her warning.
“What was a heavy potting bench doing up in the loft?”
“I wish I knew. It wasn’t there a couple of hours earlier. ”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “You’re sure of that?”
“I’m sure of that,” Dean repeated grimly. “I looked that whole shed over before I started working on it. I had noticed the bench outside, behind the building.”
“I saw a man lift it into the loft,” Anna said quietly, appearing suddenly at Dean’s side. “The same man who pushed it onto you.”
Dean straightened abruptly, staring at her. “Who?” he mouthed, frustrated by knowing Mark would hear him if he spoke aloud.
She shrugged. “A man of maybe thirty years old. His clothes were shabby and his hair was too long. Both were dirty. He’d been watching you, and when you went inside to take your phone call, he moved the bench to the loft. He waited there for you to return. After he... attacked you, he climbed out the round window and jumped to the ground. I don’t know where he went after that. I was worried about you.”
Except for that one break, she spoke flatly, mechanically. Her eyes held all the turbulent feelings she’d tried to repress.
“Dean?” Mark prodded after a moment. “What—”
“Someone pushed the bench onto me,” Dean cut in, his own voice hardened by anger. “It was deliberate, Mark.”
“How do you know that?”
“I, er, caught a glimpse of him, up in the loft. Before I could react, I was pinned under the bench and he was gone.”
“But Cara said it was an accident. She didn’t mention a deliberate attack.”
“She doesn’t know. You’re the only one I’ve told.”
“For crying out loud, Dean, why? Why didn’t you call the cops? Chief Peavy would—oh, hell.”
Dean waited for Mark to reach the obvious conclusion.
It didn’t take long.
“The Peavys,” Dean confirmed. “Maybe I’ve gotten too close to the truth for comfort.”
“I’m coming over. We’re going to talk about this.”
“Okay, sure. Come on over. I’ll tell you what little I know. But don’t expect any more proof than I’ve offered you before. I still don’t have it. Not yet.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Still looking at Anna, Dean hung up the phone. “Tell me again,” he ordered her. “From the beginning.”
She repeated what she’d said earlier. She’d seen the man skulking behind bushes, watching Dean work. She’d watched him set up the attack.
“I tried to warn you,” she said, wringing her hands and avoiding his eyes. “I could see he was up to no good, and I wanted to let you know. But I...couldn’t.”
“Why not?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle. He could sense the extent of her distress.
“I don’t know. Maybe I panicked. Maybe I was trying too hard. But I—” Her voice cracked. He could hardly hear her next words. “He almost killed you.”
Dean pushed himself carefully out of the chair. “But he didn’t, Anna. Thanks to you. It was because of your warning that I wasn’t standing directly beneath the bench when it fell.”
Looking away from him, she crossed her arms over her chest, as though she were chilled. Dean wondered if she felt cold. Or pain. Or need.
“I was so afraid for you,” she whispered. “I felt so helpless. And then you were lying there, bleeding, with that big bench on top of you, and I couldn’t even move it. I tried, but my hand passed through it. As though—as tho
ugh I wasn’t even there.”
Dean took a step closer to her. “Anna, it’s okay. You did your best. You managed to warn me, and then somehow you got help. I’m very grateful to you.”
She looked at him then, and her eyes were so tortured that his throat tightened. He had his answer now. She could feel pain. And it was tearing him apart.
“It was like I wasn’t even there,” she repeated in a whisper. “As though I was...dead.”
The word hung heavily between them.
Dean forced her name past a painful lump in his throat. “Anna.”
She covered her face with her hands. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything yet.”
He gave her a moment, then tried again. “Anna.”
Her composure regained, she lowered her hands. “You think you were attacked because you’ve been investigating our deaths.”
It wasn’t a question, but Dean nodded. “That’s a possibility. One of several, of course.”
“I want you to stop. Now. No more questions, no more probing. Run our—your inn. Forget you ever saw me.”
He lifted a hand to her marble-cold cheek. “You don’t really think I can do that, do you?”
She covered his hand with her own. “You have no choice. I don’t want you hurt, Dean. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you because of me.”
He shook his head. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
She looked pointedly at his bandages, at the sling supporting his right arm. “Something already did. And next time, it could be worse.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
She moved away from him, her gestures sharp, exasperated. “How do you know that?”
“I’ll be careful.”
“The way Ian and I were careful?” she said hotly.
“You weren’t expecting anything to happen,” he retorted. “I am. And next time, if there is a next time, I won’t be caught unaware.”
“Dean, please—”
“This isn’t open to discussion, Anna. I promised to clear your name, and your brother’s. And if there’s any way I can do so, I will.”
She looked up at him through her lashes. “You’re so anxious to be rid of me?”
It was like a blow to his chest, knowing his success would mean that she would leave him. “I don’t ever want to be rid of you,” he said huskily.
She searched his face with widened eyes. “Dean—”
“Do you need me to spell it out for you?”
“No,” she whispered, looking away. “It would be better if you didn’t. This... this can’t be.”
“You think I don’t know that? It doesn’t seem to make any difference.”
“I don’t want you hurt.” Her voice was thick. “By me, or by anyone else.”
“You let me worry about myself,” he advised her. “You think about Ian, and that cold, gray waiting area you both hate so much. Think—think about seeing your mother again.”
She seemed to catch her breath; Dean didn’t even want to think about whether she breathed at all.
“I have to go,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
But she’d be back. At least a few more times. Their gazes locked for a long, silent moment. Dean read his own emotions in her eyes.
And then he was alone.
He muttered a curse and scrubbed his left hand wearily over his face.
“Dean?” His aunt appeared in the doorway, watching him with loving, worried eyes. “Are you in pain, dear?”
“Yeah,” he groaned. “It hurts, Aunt Mae. It hurts like hell.”
He wasn’t talking about his arm. Since she didn’t know that, she fussed over him, insisting that he sit down and put his feet up. He refused another painkiller, but accepted a fresh cup of tea, which she hurried to get for him.
Dean leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes, wondering what he had ever done to deserve this.
“I’VE GOT to talk to Bill Watson,” Dean said flatly that afternoon after he’d told Mark all his suspicions about the murders of the Cameron twins and the bootlegger named Buck Felcher. He’d added his theory that Gay-lon Peavy had then killed Stanley Tagert, the only surviving witness to the shoot-out.
Mark had heard him out with an open mind, though he couldn’t quite hide his skepticism. “It all sounds like the plot of a bad gangster movie,” he said when Dean had finished.
“I know,” Dean agreed. “But this really happened.”
“And you think Bill Watson knows something incriminating about the Peavys? Even if he’s coherent enough to tell you?”
“I think he might. Tagert’s grandson made it clear that he thought Watson had something on the Peavys. Why else would they have supported him all those years for doing so very little in return?”
“Do you know where Watson is?”
“No. But I’ll find him.”
“I’m going with you when you talk to him.”
In response to Dean’s lifted eyebrow, Mark nodded toward the bandages. “You’re in no shape to drive yourself for a while. And if there is any danger in your pursuit of this crazy quest, you need someone around who’s on your side.”
Dean smiled, touched. “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it.”
“Just one thing. If Watson denies any knowledge of this, will you drop it?”
“I don’t know that I have any other choice,” Dean said grimly. “He’s my last resort. As far as I can tell, I have no other way of proving my suspicions unless he knows something.”
“And after we talk to him, you’ll tell me what put this bee in your bonnet in the first place?”
Dean agreed.
He’d have to think of something to placate the too-perceptive journalist. He wasn’t sure their friendship would survive the ghost story Dean would have to tell if he couldn’t come up with a more plausible tale.
Two DAYS LATER, on February 13, Dean was in the passenger seat of Mark’s sports car, headed for a nursing home in Little Rock.
Dean hadn’t seen Anna since she’d left him in the sitting room. He suspected that this time she was deliberately staying away from him. He saw the wisdom in her actions, but, God, he missed her.
How would he stand it when she was gone forever?
“You’re very quiet today,” Mark commented, glancing at Dean from behind the wheel. “Arm bothering you?”
Dean drew his gaze away from the side window, through which he’d been staring at nothing. “No,” he said. “Just thinking.”
“Nothing else has happened since your accident, has it?”
“No. A few people stopped by to make sure I was okay, which I thought was very nice, but no word from the Peavys, if that’s what you’re asking. If they did hire someone to warn me off, they probably assume their message was received.”
Mark changed the subject. “I hear Cara’s enrolling Casey in school next week.”
“Did Cara tell you?”
“No. I ran into the school principal at the café. She told me.”
“Ah, yes, the Destiny grapevine.”
Mark sighed. “Cara doesn’t tell me anything. Every time she sees me, she all but runs in the opposite direction. You know, if she keeps this up, I’m liable to get my feelings hurt.”
Dean smiled. “Give her time, Mark.”
Mark shook his head. “You probably think I’m nuts, but—well, hell, this has never happened to me before. I mean, I took one look at her and, pow! It’s weird, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since, even though she’s done everything but wear a sign that tells me she’s not interested. Anything like that ever happen to you?”
Dean thought of Anna. The way she haunted his thoughts. The way his chest tightened every time he was close to her—along with other vital parts of his anatomy. The constant need to see her, hear her. Touch her. Even though he knew it couldn’t be.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Something like that.”
Mark glanced sideways
again. “Your ex-wife?”
“No.”
“Someone since?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything come of it?”
Dean exhaled. “We have... irreconcilable differences.”
“I’m not trying to pry, you understand. Just thought maybe you’d have some words of advice to offer. I mean, not only have I never been married before, I’ve never even been in love before. It just hasn’t happened for me. Damn it, I don’t even know if this is—”
Mark broke off, his cheeks suspiciously flushed. “Hell,” he muttered. “I sound like a schoolkid.”
Dean chuckled faintly. “You sound like a bewildered male. And trust me, pal, I know the feeling.”
He couldn’t help thinking how ironic it was that Mark thought Cara was unattainable. At least she was alive.
But dark humor didn’t help. Telling himself how pointless it was didn’t help. Nothing helped.
Dean was in love with Anna—whoever, whatever, whenever she was. And it wasn’t something he was ever going to get over.
BILL WATSON was eighty-five years old, gravely ill and confined to a bed for the past three years. His mind, they were told, was as sharp as it had ever been, his disposition as sour.
“So the Peavys lied about his mental condition, too,” Mark muttered. “Looks like they have something to hide, after all.”
“And that Bill Watson knows something,” Dean agreed.
“Frankly, I’m surprised he agreed to see you,” the male nurse told Dean and Mark as he escorted them to Watson’s room. “He doesn’t usually want company.”
After locating Watson by calling nearly every nursing home in central Arkansas, Dean had sent word that he and Mark were interested in the history of the Cameron Inn, and anything Watson could tell them about his time there. Watson had responded almost immediately with an agreement to talk to them, on the condition that they make it soon. They had wasted no time coming to see him.
“How sick is he?” Dean asked the nurse as they reached Watson’s door.
The man’s expression spoke volumes. “Another six weeks. Maybe,” he said pessimistically. “I don’t know how he’s held on this long, to be honest.”
