She had written Before I Sleep to purge herself of Charles's abuse. But she had never purged herself of the aftermath. After the divorce she had avoided men. She could look at herself in a mirror and see two Alexis’s. The first was the girl who had married Charles—young, innocent, shyly confident that she had something to offer. The second was the woman she had become—no longer innocent and no longer confident. That Alexis saw only the faults that had pushed Charles into rage after rage.
But Matthew, despite his complexity, hadn't seen faults. He had looked at her with awe, and he had desired her. Just as miraculously, she had desired him.
After everything, there were still warmth and hope and possibly love inside her. Knowing that, she hoped that someday her wounds might really heal.
It was almost dark when she began to make her way back to the house. She hadn't meant to stay out so long, but there had seemed to be no reason to go home earlier. Now, as the sun disappeared behind a bank of low-lying clouds, she wished she had hurried. There was a world of difference between walking through the bush in the sunlight and in the dark. She hadn't realized how quickly darkness could come when there were no streetlamps to smooth the transition. She hadn't even thought to leave a porch light burning, and not one light shone through any of the windows.
She forced herself not to move too quickly. The sky was darkest purple, and the deepening twilight played tricks on her eyes, so that she stumbled over a root and nearly fell. By the time she got close to the house, the darkness was almost impenetrable.
She had lived too long with fear to question her instincts. Five hundred yards from the house something made her stop and shrink back against the mallee that led up the hill from the beach. She stood absolutely still, becoming one with the contorted scrub behind her, and listened intently. She wasn't sure if she had heard something, or seen something, or just felt something different in the air around her. But as she stood there, all her senses alive and finely tuned, she became more and more certain that her caution wasn't misplaced.
A minute passed, and then two, as her concern and certainty grew. The wind had picked up as night fell, and it whined and moaned around her, portending a storm. Carrying over the whine was the faintest whisper of a human voice.
Alexis listened closely, trying hard to calculate the distance between herself and the source of the whisper, but the wind defeated her. She couldn't even tell the direction the voice came from, because the wind blew in gusts, changing directions to whip through the mallee, then down from the hill where the house stood. The voice grew no louder, but changed in quality until Alexis realized she was hearing two separate voices. The men—and she was fairly sure the voices belonged to men—weren't coming any closer, but neither were they going away. They were standing somewhere within hailing distance, and until she knew who they were—and where they were—she was trapped.
Another minute passed, then two. She crept out from her hiding place, staying low, to assume another vantage point behind a large chunk of granite. She could see the house more clearly now, and the path leading up to it. There were no moonlit figures, no ominous, threatening shapes. The path was clear. She gauged the time it would take to scramble up it, cross the porch and unlock the door. Inside she would be safe while she called the police—or Matthew.
But she needed too much time. She would be vulnerable too long, and although it was possible that she would be out of sight anyway, she wasn't ready to take the chance.
She strained her eyes, making a slow, calculated turn as she searched for some sign that would betray the men's whereabouts. Just as she was about to drop back into the safety of the mallee scrub, she saw a pinpoint of light. It came from a ridge beyond the house, and as she watched, it was joined by another.
The men were poachers. She had never been more certain of anything. The ridge was the beginning of the eucalyptus grove. The men were searching for koalas, feeling perfectly safe because there were no lights on in the house. Even her car was parked out of sight in the old barn, because the last week's thunderstorms had been so severe she had been afraid of damage.
At that moment she remembered the koala in the tree near the house. The men weren't close yet, but how long would it take them to venture closer? They believed they were undetected. They could take their time. Koalas didn't run away, and they didn't hide. They waited patiently for their death, and Matthew had told her once that they cried like little children when they were shot.
She was filled with such anger that all fear was forgotten. She could not hide in the scrub and listen to the cries of a dying koala. She had cowered before Charles for six terrible years. She would cower before no man again.
She was scrambling up the path before she had even made a conscious decision to do so. She was on the porch and inside the house in the next minute. In the darkness she stumbled to the telephone and dialed Matthew's number, trying desperately to come up with a plan as she waited for him to answer.
Her options were cut short when she heard a gunshot followed by the shouts of the men. The receiver fell from her fingers, and she cried out in anguish. There was nothing Matthew could do, not in time to stop the poachers. They had found their prey, perhaps already slaughtered it. If they were to be stopped from more destruction, she would have to be the one to do it.
She ran through the house, turning on every light as she came to it. In her room she unlocked the bedside drawer that held the pistol Peter Bartow had given her. She took it out and loaded it, then headed for the back porch. At the door she almost lost her courage. She was only one woman, and there were at least two men intent on hunting the koalas. They were dangerous men, lawless men, and she was risking too much.
But she knew what it was like to be hunted.
She opened the door and went to the railing. "I've called the police," she shouted. The words seemed to hang in the air. There was no answer, but another gunshot rang out.
"Murderers!" Alexis pointed the pistol to the sky and pulled the trigger. Her ears throbbed as the roar echoed the one before it. "The next shot goes right into the trees and maybe into one of you!"
She was temporarily blinded by a strong beam of light directed toward the porch. She stepped into the shadows, behind a pillar and clutched the gun to her chest with shaking hands. The gun frightened her almost as much as the men.
The light was extinguished. She heard the men's voices, but they were so low she couldn't distinguish any words. She listened intently, her fear magnifying every gust of wind, every falling leaf.
Finally she heard a noise. It was the revving of an engine on a nearby road—probably one of the many overgrown dirt tracks that had once crisscrossed the farm. The revving became a distant purr. And then there was silence.
Chapter 9
MATTHEW WAS IN the shower when the telephone rang. He was tempted not to answer it. The day had been a difficult one. All the campgrounds were closed for renovation, and along with his other duties, he was supervising the extensive repairs. If the campgrounds were to reopen in time for summer there was a lot to be done. He had worked without a break, and he was exhausted. The shower was the closest thing to a moment of peace that he'd had since breakfast.
On the third ring he realized that the caller might be Alexis. He turned off the water and jerked a towel off a hook, drying himself as he hurried into the kitchen. He answered the phone and stood waiting, but there was no voice on the other end, just a sequence of unidentifiable noises.
He frowned, repeating his "hello" louder. Again there was no answer, although it was clear the connection hadn't been broken, because there was no dial tone. He waited another moment, then just as he was about to place the receiver back in its cradle he heard a shout. He pressed the receiver back to his ear. "Hello!"
There was no response, but he heard another noise, fainter than the shout. It sounded like distant fireworks. Then, clearly, he heard a voice screaming "Murderers!" and the loud crack of a gunshot.
He didn't need to hea
r any more.
* * *
ALEXIS STUMBLED UP the ridge that led to the eucalyptus grove where the poachers had been. She was afraid of what she would find, but more afraid not to search. Five minutes had passed since she'd heard the poachers leave. She knew she was alone on the property once more. Alone except, perhaps, for a dying koala. She had already made certain that the koala in the tree near the house was all right. He had been agitated—noisy and restless, as if he sensed what had transpired—but he had been untouched. She doubted he would have remained so if she hadn't shot blindly into the night.
Her flashlight barely penetrated the darkness. There was a thin sliver of moon overhead, but storm clouds obscured it more often than not. Each step was treacherous enough, but with the wind skipping leaves and debris across her path, she had to inch along for fear of falling.
With a sense of foreboding she reached the grove. What moonlight there was shone in pinpoint patches. She had to depend completely on her flashlight. She spotted an empty beer bottle and footprints in the boggy ground at the base of a large tree. Methodically she searched for more signs, deadlier signs, that the poachers had been there.
She had expected the final piece of evidence. In the deepest part of the grove, in an area of rotting stumps and thick undergrowth, she found an ominously fresh stain on the forest floor. The stain was blood. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach she identified it, then turned off her flashlight. She sank to her knees and began to tremble, fighting back tears. She had done her best, risked her own safety, but she hadn't done enough. The poachers had killed a koala.
She had felt a brief sense of triumph when the poachers had driven away, but now she knew just how ineffectual she had been. What was one woman against men intent on slaughter? She was worse than useless. She was like a child trying to hold back a thunderstorm with a prayer. She had no power; she had no strength. She had only the worthless conviction that she had to make a stand.
She began to cry. Fighting tears was useless. Women cried, and they died a little inside each time they faced their weaknesses.
Once released, her tears were a torrent. She cried for all her failures, for the terrifying years she had spent with Charles, for the loveless years with parents who had tried to mold her into something she wasn't, for the last minutes when the depth of her failures had been revealed. And she cried for the koala, who, like her, had been the innocent victim of men who could not be stopped from violence.
She knelt beside the blood of the sacrificed animal, and all her hope drained away.
"Alexis?"
She felt hands on her shoulders. In her misery she didn't even question how Matthew had found her, how he had even known to look.
"They killed a koala," she said, wailing as all women who mourn the dead have wailed. "They killed one right here. I heard them, and I was too late to stop it. I let them kill it."
"You didn't let them. You had no choice."
"I was too late. I stopped to call you. I should have gotten the gun first. I should have shouted."
"You could have been killed!" Matthew knelt behind her and tried to take her into his arms, but she continued to rock back and forth in agony.
"I didn't do enough. I'll never be able to do enough."
"You've done more than anyone should be asked to. You've made this a crusade." Matthew wrapped his arms firmly around her chest and pulled her back to rest against him. "Shh— Be silent." He forced her to stop rocking, holding her as she fought him. He sensed her growing hysteria as he tried desperately to calm her. "Shh.... Alexis, be still. It's over. There's nothing you can do about what's happened here. You've got to get hold of yourself."
"And when is the rest of the world going to get hold of itself, Matthew?" She wrenched away from him, but he brought her back against his chest. She turned in his arms and searched his face, grappling to find an answer. "When is the rest of this damned world going to get hold of itself? When are the men in this world going to get hold of themselves? You kill, you maim, you laugh at suffering! And it doesn't matter who suffers, does it? Anything smaller than you, weaker than you, is fair game."
He let her shout at him, knowing that neither of them had a choice. But when she fought to get away again, he held her tight.
"Don't hold me!"
"You need to be held."
"I don't need anything from you or any man!"
She needed more than he could give her. She needed more than anyone could give her. For a moment he faltered, wondering if wanting to give her anything was an excuse for taking. Then he knew it didn't matter, because both were really the same. She needed so much, but he needed just as much—maybe even more. They could only go on together. They could only risk failure on the slim chance they might succeed.
"You need me," he said, holding her still to bury his face in her hair. "You need me, and I need you. I need you, I want you. Don't fight me, Alexis. I didn't do this thing, and I'm not like the men who did."
His tone more than his words began to penetrate. She was shaking with fury, with anguish, but even riding the crest of her emotions, she knew that Matthew wasn't to blame for the problems of the world. He struggled to make the world a better place. And because he cared so much, he had lived with despair.
She calmed, gradually. He whispered into her hair, and his hands made slow circles on her back. Her breath caught once, twice, until she was breathing evenly. Tears dried on her cheeks, and her trembling began to ease.
His arms encircled her tighter. His lips sought her forehead, her eyelids. He tasted salt and the beginnings of desire. "Come back to the house," he whispered before he took her mouth.
She leaned against him, letting him kiss her. The wonder of being cared for, began to steal over her. She had been so cold that she'd thought she would never know warmth again. Now it crept through her, slowly, in ripples that began in the places where he touched her. She sighed, letting go of her anguish inch by inch.
"Alexis, dear one." He traced her jawline with his lips until his face was buried in her hair once more. "Come back to the house with me."
She pushed away from him and stood, anxious now to leave the place where the koala had died. He stood, too, and took her hand, leading her back through the forest.
The rain began before they reached the house. One moment the wind grew still and the moon appeared through the dense thunderheads. The next, the wind was roaring in from Hanson Bay carrying rain so cold that whatever warmth they had found together was immediately extinguished. Alexis slipped, almost crashing to her knees in her hurry to escape it. Before she could recover, Matthew had lifted her in his arms for the last steps up to the porch.
Inside, he didn't put her down. She was shivering again, from shock and cold. Without a word he carried her into her bedroom. Outside her window, lightning split the sky, followed immediately by a burst of thunder. She shuddered against him.
At her bedside, he laid her gently on top of the covers. The red robe lay carelessly tossed over the footboard, and he reached for it, using it like a towel to begin drying her hair.
"I'll be all right," she said, embarrassed to be treated like a child.
"Yes, you will be." He sat beside her, rubbing her hair. He followed the path of the robe with his fingers, smoothing the fine blond strands back from her face as he dried them.
"But you're wet, too."
"Shh.... I don't care."
She looked up at him, and he saw traces of fear in her eyes. He smiled gently, encouragement lighting his face. He cupped her head, forcing her to turn away so that he could dry the rest of her hair. She lay still, but he could see her breathing accelerate. He moved away only long enough to turn off the overhead light, then returned.
He smoothed the robe along her cheeks and down her neck. Then he began to unbutton her blouse.
"Matthew...."
"Shh...."
She remembered his anger when he'd looked at her before. Her hands went to his to stop him, but he ign
ored them. "I've thought about the way you looked," he said quietly. "I've thought about little else. Let me see you again."
She turned her face away, wanting to believe his words, afraid at what she might see in his eyes.
He unfastened the last button, smoothing open her blouse. She wore no bra. "So beautiful," he said reverently. "So perfect." He touched her with the robe, passing it tenderly across her chest and over her breasts. He didn't want the cloth between them, but he wanted even less to startle her with his hands.
She remembered the abuse Charles had hurled at her the first time he had seen her undressed. She swallowed painfully. "Please, don't say anything else."
"No?" He lifted her, sliding the blouse over her shoulders and arms until she was free of it. "I'm not allowed to tell you how you make me feel? That I never believed I would feel this way again?"
Her head turned, and her eyes sought his. There was no anger there. Awe, and perhaps a touch of sadness, but no anger.
"Do you feel pity?" she asked.
"For you because you've lived in hell? Not pity. Sadness, concern, anger that it had to happen. But you don't deserve pity. You walked out of hell alive. Now you're in my arms." He swung his legs on to the bed and stretched out beside her. He dropped the robe on the floor and began to caress her with his hands.
Alexis wondered if she had ever known tenderness before. Matthew's hands weren't casual or punishing. They stroked to give her pleasure, to give him pleasure. They moved over her with the delicacy of a butterfly's wings and with the strength of a gentle man. Where his hands stroked, his mouth followed, tasting, testing. She was ready for more long before he gave it to her. She held back her response, afraid she might spoil the miracle, but when she could hold back no longer, she sighed brokenly, inching closer to him.
His mouth dipped lower to cover one breast. As if she had asked. As if he had known what she needed. This time she couldn't suppress a moan, and his fingers tightened on her shoulders as she did, as if he had felt the sound inside himself.
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