by Becky Wade
She sat at her desk and tried to work on her Bible study. Failed. Tried to post to social media. Couldn’t. Tried to do the busywork at the bottom of her to-do list. No luck.
She opened her Bible. However, her mind kept starting sentences with the printed words and finishing them with What did my father do?
Around four in the afternoon, she realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She wasn’t hungry but made herself a salad because Dr. Quinley had repeatedly emphasized the importance of prioritizing her physical health. Especially when one of her triggers had been pulled.
After eating, she stood on her porch, relishing the chill bite of the November wind against her face. She was in dire need of a distraction. Ideally, a calming distraction. She peered toward Sam’s farmhouse.
She’d stopped by The Kitchen on her way to Nanny’s earlier. They’d hung out in his office for thirty minutes, laughing, talking, kissing. He was scheduled to attend a half-day mini-conference and dinner for local business owners this evening. Thus, he wouldn’t be at home. That fact didn’t stop her from climbing into her car and driving by his house.
The absence of his truck and the lifeless windows rendered her more bereft than they should have. Technically, he wasn’t her boyfriend. Even if he had been, he wasn’t available to help her at present. His world did not revolve around her. And she could not become co-dependent on him.
Which was fine! She didn’t need his help because she was perfectly capable of handling this herself. Her family issue wasn’t his problem. He didn’t need to know that her sky was falling.
Temptation whispered to her, reminding her how calm and in control Oxy would make her feel. She steered toward town, her desire for Oxy clawing at her like hunger pangs.
A prescription for Oxy still awaited her at the Riverside Pharmacy. She had only to notify them that she wanted it filled. No one else had to know. In less than an hour, she could pop a few pills and let peacefulness lap over her. With Oxy’s help, she wouldn’t have to feel so panicky.
She drove to Buttercup Boutique and tried on clothes. It helped slightly to surround herself with outgoing people. She left with a bulging bag of new clothes she wasn’t at all convinced that she either wanted or needed.
When she drove past the pharmacy, she didn’t even allow herself to peek at its storefront. “Not today, Satan.”
Sam’s truck passed her cottage at 12:02 a.m. She marked the time because, though she was lying in bed with the lights out, she could not have been more awake. The night didn’t surround her with soft sweetness. It surrounded her with sinister peril.
Perhaps she should go to his place now, to see him. He’d invited her, quite seriously, to confide in him.
Only, he’d be tired.
And she didn’t need his help!
Not tonight, anyway. This could wait until tomorrow.
12:27. She prayed, lungs tight because she didn’t want her parents to be mixed up in anything dishonorable and because she couldn’t trust them not to have been mixed up in something dishonorable.
12:50. Sam would be asleep at this point, so she’d missed her window to visit him.
12:55. Which was for the best because she didn’t need his help.
12:58. She’d feel so much better inside his house. Just that. She wouldn’t wake him, she’d simply relocate and attempt a secret sleepover on his laundry room floor.
She changed out of her pajamas and into yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Too scared to walk all the way to his farmhouse alone at this hour, she drove most of the distance before parking far enough away so he wouldn’t hear her engine. A single exterior light provided dim illumination as she tiptoed into the laundry room.
She checked the door that led to the rest of the house. Open. God bless him. Ever since the grocery store kiss, in a display of trust, he’d only been locking his back door, not the door from the laundry room to his hallway.
She folded the comforter she’d brought over on itself a few times, laid her pillow on top, then slipped her robe on backward and rested into the nest she’d made.
Just as she’d suspected it would, the fact that she was no longer so alone began to hush her anxiety. Sam was strong and principled and more than a little unattainable, and he was sleeping just one floor above.
Hopefully, their relationship would progress, and she wouldn’t always be relegated to the metaphorical laundry room of it, with him one floor above. But for tonight, this setup was more than satisfactory—
The door to the hallway opened. Sam filled the portal, silhouetted by gentle light from behind him. His hair was askew, his feet bare. He’d donned a rumpled T-shirt over pajama pants.
“Did I wake you?” she asked. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not.” He reached down with both hands. She grabbed on. He pulled her to her feet, then wrapped her against him in a hug. “I missed you,” he whispered against her hair.
She loved him.
Perish. The. Thought.
They hadn’t even talked about making their relationship exclusive. He was solitary and extraordinarily protective of his heart. He might never be able to love anyone the way that he’d loved Kayden.
Regardless, she loved him and couldn’t stop herself from loving him, even if it spelled her complete and utter doom.
Lifting her off the floor, he carried her toward the kitchen. He turned on more lights with his elbow as he passed sets of switches. “Were you having a late-night laundry emergency?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That required blankets and pillows?”
“Yes.”
“You just wanted to see me,” he accused teasingly.
“I was having a very dire laundry emergency,” she insisted.
“Then how come the washing machine wasn’t going?”
“An excellent question.” She tightened her grip around his neck. “To be honest, I was planning to camp out in your laundry room tonight because I couldn’t fall asleep at my place. However, I intended to be as silent as a Navy SEAL so that I wouldn’t wake you.”
“You were very quiet. Luckily for me, I can sense you even when I can’t hear you.” He seated her on his kitchen countertop.
She coasted a fingertip down the side of his rugged face. The better she knew him, the more and more appealing he’d become. In his eyes, narrowed against the brightness, she saw his intelligence. In his forehead, she saw the creases that Kayden’s death had chiseled. In his olive skin, she saw the hours he spent working outside. In his blunt jaw, she saw his humility and his centeredness on the things that mattered.
A hundred painters could never do him justice.
“If I sense that you’re in my house, there’s no way I can sleep,” he told her.
“I’ll leave,” she offered, hoping he wouldn’t take her up on it.
“Not a chance.”
“You have that big order to fill for the school fundraiser tomorrow,” she reminded him. Ben and several of the other teachers at Misty River High School had helped the senior class organize a dinner and silent auction to raise money for an educational trip to Washington, DC. Sam had agreed to donate dessert for their event. “I don’t want you to be tired in the morning on my account.”
“I don’t care if I’m tired tomorrow. I only care about you.”
Joy plucked at the corners of her lips.
His hands gripped the front edge of the counter on either side of her. “I like your robe.”
She looked down at herself sheepishly. “And my lack of makeup? And my sleep ponytail?”
“Yes and yes. You look beautiful.”
“So do you.”
“How come you couldn’t fall asleep at your place?” he asked.
“Because I had a really awful thought about my dad today.”
He considered her. “Did you have anything to eat for dinner?”
“A Diet Coke.”
His grimace communicated extreme pain. He opened his refrigerator.
“I don
’t need you to make me anything,” she hurried to say. “I’m not hungry. If I get hungry, I have all kinds of healthy things to eat back at my cottage—”
“Who said I was making anything for you? I’m hungry.”
But, of course, he was going to make food for her.
While she told him about Nanny’s comment about her dad’s tidiness and the photos of Judson’s childhood bedroom, he whipped up some paleo pancake batter with cinnamon and walnuts, then poured a circle of it into a sizzling skillet.
Sam asked a few questions. Mostly, though, he listened.
He handed her two pancakes stacked on a plate. They tasted the way she imagined the food served in heaven (accompanied by harp music) tasted. A sense of security melted into her as surely as the pat of butter melted into her topmost pancake.
Sam chewed a bite of pancake. “What’re you going to do?”
“Discuss it with Natasha tomorrow. Then settle on a plan of action.” She set down her fork and took a long drink of ice water. “It’s crazy, though, right? To see a connection between my dad’s action figures and Russell’s body? It sounds crazy when I say it out loud.”
“Do you think it’s crazy?”
“I wish I did.” She took her time swallowing her mouthful of pancake. “Something about it, though . . . about Russell’s body arranged just that way . . . It seems like something my dad would do. He really is very tidy. Automatically so. It’s kind of his calling card.”
“It’s too early to jump to the conclusion that your dad had anything to do with Russell’s death.”
“Agreed.”
“Talking to your sister seems to me like the right play.”
She polished off her final bite, tasting the balance of cinnamon and nuts. “I think I’ll be able to sleep now.”
“Good. Want me to take you back to the guesthouse?”
“Are you referring to the cottage?”
His dimples warmed her cold corners. “I’m referring to my guesthouse.”
She suddenly felt utterly exhausted. “I’ll accept your offer to escort me there.”
“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He picked up one of her hands and kissed her palm. “But I will.”
Ben
Two days have passed since the earthquake.
Only three of us have watches, so I took mine off and laid it on the floor so that the two without watches can check the time whenever they want. I try not to check it. Every time I do, I’m upset by how slowly time’s passing.
I knotted my shirt into a circle and made a sling for the water pipe. I tilted the pipe up and hung the sling on a jagged piece of wall so that the water stays down in the pipe. The earthquake must have broken the pipe somewhere, because no new water is flowing from it. We have to dip the pipe a little lower each time to get water to pour into our mouths, so we’re trying to conserve.
“Let’s pray,” I suggest when we reach forty-eight hours after the earthquake.
Sebastian makes a rude noise and Luke looks away.
“Let’s do,” Genevieve says.
“Who’s going to do it?” I ask. I hate to pray out loud.
“Me,” Genevieve answers. I’m kind of surprised, because she’s the youngest one here.
She bows her head and prays the prettiest and most powerful prayer I’ve ever heard in my life. She’s saying all the things I want to say, the way I want to say them, and tears fill my eyes.
God, is all I can think. God.
Please rescue us.
Chapter Twenty
It had become Sebastian Grant’s habit to fly his private plane from Atlanta, where he worked, to Misty River any time he had three days off in a row.
He’d achieved his pilot’s license five years ago and purchased his twin engine plane a year ago. He liked the challenge, adventure, beauty, and quiet of flying. The forty-five-minute trip from Atlanta’s Fulton County Airport never felt like inconvenient travel time. It felt like a hobby he enjoyed.
The drive from the airstrip outside Clayton to his house in the mountains north of Misty River—less enjoyable. Especially on this particular Friday morning because fog lay thick at ground level. Grimly, he steered his Range Rover along winding two-lane roads.
Now that no hospital administrators, physicians, nurses, or patients needed him for anything, weariness was beginning to weigh his body down. Like many doctors, he could function on a small amount of sleep. He could also fall asleep at will and wake up fully when necessary.
Leaning forward slightly in the driver’s seat, he rolled his shoulders, then angled his head to the right and left. When he reached his house, he’d sleep for two or three hours. After that, he’d work out, shower, then take Ben’s parents to the dinner and silent auction for the high school’s seniors. He’d marked this Friday off his schedule so that he could attend the event.
He wasn’t married. He had no children. No biological parents or biological siblings. His career consumed most of his focus, time, and passion. Only one thing, apart from it, meant anything to him: the Colemans.
A long curve melded into a straightaway. The music on the Siriusly Sinatra station was so relaxing that it was putting him to sleep, so he punched the button for the classic rock station. Just as he refocused on the road, a beat-up sports car swerved out of the mist into his lane.
Sebastian wrenched his wheel to the right. Horn blaring, the car veered past, inches away, and continued down the road in the opposite direction.
Sebastian tried to correct by jerking the wheel back to the left, but speed and momentum thrust him into a skid. His Range Rover shot off the road’s shoulder. He flattened the brake, and the car screeched. Then earth fell away into a drainage ditch. The front end of his car impacted the bottom of the ditch, crushing metal. Sebastian’s body rammed forward.
Pain flashed, blinding, in his skull.
Then his consciousness yanked away.
Sir?”
Sebastian heard the feminine voice as if he were at the bottom of a hole. Chuck Berry’s “Downbound Train” played.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, sounding worried and faintly out of breath. “Are you all right?”
Her voice was smooth and sweet like honey. He didn’t want the woman with the voice like honey to be worried. Also, he didn’t want to wake up, because his head ached with dull, fierce pain.
“Sir,” she said. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
“He fell on his knees,” Chuck Berry sang, “on the bar room floor and prayed a prayer like never before.”
Sebastian slit his eyes open. Pinpricks punctured his vision. He was inside his car, his seat belt cutting against his chest diagonally. What had happened?
Wincing, he lifted his chin. Cracks scarred his windshield. Beyond the hood, he could see nothing but dirt and torn grass. A pair of sapling trees wedged against his driver’s side door.
He’d been in a car crash.
How long ago? Why?
He didn’t know. He’d flown to the airstrip. He . . . he remembered getting into his car and pulling out onto the road in the fog. That’s all.
He’d lost time.
Experimentally, he moved his fingers and toes. Everything was working fine except for the splitting pain in his head.
The one with the beautiful voice clicked off the radio. “Downbound Train” disappeared, leaving only a faint ringing in his ears.
“I’m relieved that you came to,” she said.
The tone of her words softened the agony inside his skull.
Slowly, he turned his chin in her direction. He’d lost his tolerance for light and the pinpricks wouldn’t go away. He squeezed his eyes shut against the disorienting sensation, then opened them and concentrated hard so that he could focus on her.
She . . . had the face of an angel.
An unforgettable face. A heartbreaking face, both hopeful and world
-weary. He guessed her to be a year or two younger than he was but she didn’t look sheltered or naïve.
Long eyelashes framed gray-blue eyes as deep as they were soft. She had full lips with a defined groove at the top. Blond hair, parted on the side. Neither curly nor straight, it had a natural, faintly messy look to it. She’d cut it so that it ended halfway between her small, determined chin and her shoulders.
Had he died? Was she an angel? She was here, which made him think he’d died. But his head hurt, which made him think he hadn’t.
“Are you injured?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Except for my head.”
Concern flickered in her expression. At least, he thought it did. He struggled to see her more clearly, furious that he couldn’t look at her with his usual powers of observation.
She knelt on the passenger seat, the door behind her gaping open. “I’ve already called 9-1-1. Hopefully they’ll be here soon.”
“I hope not.”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t want them to take me away from you.”
Her brows lifted. “I . . .” She gestured. “I was behind you on the road. I came around the bend just in time to see your car go off the edge. I pulled over and dialed 9-1-1.”
“How long was I out?”
“Just a few minutes. Is there anything I can do for you?”
He extended his right hand to her. “Hold my hand?”
“Of course.” She wrapped both of her hands around his. The heat of her touch had the same effect on him as her voice and appearance.
He suspected he’d cracked his head on his side window, which had knocked him out and likely given him a severe concussion.
“Would it help if I unfastened your seatbelt?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He was capable of freeing it using his left hand. But if she was offering to do it for him, he wasn’t about to say no.
She let go of his hand to accomplish the task, and he cursed himself for making a tactical error. But then she braced one hand against the center console and reached across him, bringing her hair within a few inches of his nose. He drew air in and registered the scent of lavender.
