A Promise of Fireflies (32 page)

“No,” he said, placing his hand over hers. The simple touch sent his blood surging, betraying a catalogue of wayward thoughts. “I don’t believe that.” His finger traced the ghostly imprint of her wedding ring. “I see the evidence of what once was.”

Ryleigh flinched and tried to pull her hand away. Logan tightened his grip and wrapped both hands around hers to secure the link between her story and the control by which he hung by a very thin thread. “Your story runs deeper than what you’ve revealed.”

“I don’t want to go there, Logan.”

Having heard a multitude of stories through the years, Logan sensed when someone was holding back. She bore no visible marks, but the scars she didn’t speak of, the ones on her heart, were another matter.

“You should.” He hesitated, unsure whether he had opened a door to selfish need, or if he’d closed the door to his own story. “Please. Take me to those places you don’t want to talk about.”

THIS WASN’T A
man easily swayed, and backing down wasn’t an option. Perhaps she could skirt the edges. But why? The niggling compulsion to know the facets of this man endorsed the fact she wanted (or was it some desperate need?) to let him in and she was acutely aware he sensed it. Though she stumbled over a wall of apprehension, this man’s eyes were expressive and kind, and crossing over the edge of fear to tell her story felt natural.

And safe.

“My story’s messy.” She smiled to hide the shadow of fear clinging stubbornly to her heart. “It doesn’t make much sense to me most of the time and it certainly isn’t as interesting as yours. Just…messy.”

“Try me. You might be surprised.”

“I’m not a fan of surprises,” she mumbled.

“No?”

“No. But you seem to have a gift for extracting unpredictable behavior from someone who has an extreme aversion to surprises.”

A smile tucked itself into the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t you care for surprises?”

She hesitated. “Clowns hide behind funny makeup and sometimes they hide in drains and grab and pull you into the sewer. So do surprises. They creep up on you, show their ugly teeth, then leave you to bandage the wounds while you’re trying to figure out what the hell happened.”

He scraped a hand over his chin and nodded. “Fair enough.”

She hesitated, took a deep breath and before she could mentally talk herself out of it, tossed caution out the door. “
Reader’s Digest
version?”

“It’s still snowing. We have all night.” His unwavering gaze held her fast. “But
Reader’s Digest
it is.”

Something remained hidden in his eyes, something deep and solid. Stepping inside felt safe, as though he could close his thoughts around her and protect her and safeguard her secrets. It puzzled her to feel so calm, when a few weeks ago she had disintegrated at the mere thought of retelling the story. Maybe it was as they say—easier with time. Or that time heals wounds. Or perhaps the way this man could peel away the layers, see past the invisible barriers and look directly into her soul.

She guessed it was the latter.

Her hand slipped from his. She stood and folded her arms beneath her breasts in a self-embrace, moved to the window seat, fluffed the cushions, and sat. The falling snow lulled her into deciding how—and where—to begin.

Starting with the end, she told her story backward—the way it happened.

LOGAN SAT BESIDE
her with enough distance to afford her space, but close enough to catch her if he needed to. Compassion welled inside him when she described her mother’s illness and subsequent death, and the weight of guilt pressed against his heart when she confided her absence at her mother’s side to hold her hand while she passed from life.

Ambrose’s story touched him deeply. The shock of gaining a father she never knew and then giving him up to death in the same breath tugged at the place in Logan’s heart reserved for his own father and the father he himself had become. The triangle of love between her mother, Ben, and Ryan whirled through his mind, a carousel of restless thoughts. Anguish turned his stomach when she spoke of Chandler’s infidelity and broken promises and of Della’s lies. Over the years, he’d heard them all. The betrayals. The lies. Excuses. And though his training forced him into understanding, he was never able to tuck them away to be fully dismissed. The hurt would eventually subside, but the scars remained, the invisible wreckage of broken promises.

Logan laced his fingers and peered over them as he studied her. Infinite depth lurked behind her stormy eyes, and he yearned to unravel her story, to see through the window into her heart.

“Ambrose told me I have my father’s eyes,” Ryleigh said, leaning into the cushions. “The color of the inside of an ocean wave.” She lowered her eyes.

The words she so carefully chose were steeped in emotion and each one touched him, a feathered kiss on his soul. “And deeper than any ocean on this earth.”

She twirled a length of hair around her finger, and then her face softened. “I’ve only known Ambrose a few days, but I love the old guy.” A frown inched across her brow. “But how can that happen?”

“It’s easy.”

“But I barely know him.”

He nodded. “It’s not for us to question, Cabin Number Three. The heart knows. We only need follow it.”

“Good,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest. “Because I do love him, even if he tends to brush elbows with the outlandish.”

“He does seem to have a flare for the avant-garde.”

A smile reached her eyes and widened. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“It sounds as though you wish to see him again someday.”

“Wishes come true. Sometimes.”

“And your husband? What do you wish for when it concerns him?”

“Ex.” She picked randomly at her nails. “He wants to come back. To start over.”

The implication hung like a dark shadow that had swallowed the light. Logan spread his fingers and pushed them through his hair in a slow, useless act initiated solely to suffocate the image. “Is this what you want also? To start over, I mean?”

She shrugged and looked directly at him. “It would be the easy thing to do.”

His lungs refused to breathe. “I see.”

“It’s the coward’s way. Scared to go back. Terrified to take a step forward.”

“When pushed to our limits, we assume there is nowhere to go but backward. But each of us possess an inner strength that goes beyond what we think we’re capable of.”

She smiled and looked away. “There’s a difference between curiosity and strength. I seem to be curious to a fault, but when it comes to strength, I’m a wimp.”

“So tell me,” he said, reaching to lift her chin. Emotion swam in her eyes. “Is it your wish to start over with Evan’s father?”

“It’s true,” she said, and looked directly at him, “it would be the easy thing to do. But not the right thing.”

Until his shoulders relaxed, he hadn’t noticed the tension.

THE STRENGTH HIS
presence assured kept her from collapsing. Retelling the story was emancipating, as if an invisible barrier had encapsulated them, protecting her from the heartache of reopening the wounds she’d so carefully sewn closed.

She rose, picked up the journal, returned to the window seat and handed it to him.

He hesitated. “May I?”

She nodded.

Logan flipped carefully through the pages. “These are extraordinary.” He closed the book gently. “No wonder you were awestruck as a child.”

A winsome smile swept over him when she mentioned the fireflies and how deeply their presence affected her mother. And how they both loved white roses, though until recently she hadn’t known of their significance.

“My father—Ryan—was gifted,” she said, the name still foreign as it rolled off her tongue. She still hadn’t fully processed the story, unsure where all the pieces belonged. And she was tired of dredging up the past—one decades old, but one so fresh she had yet to consider it a memory.

“God won’t give you any more than you can handle, Cabin Number Three.”

The wind gusted. Snow lashed against the window. “My mother said that to me when Chandler left.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry, Logan.”

“You’ve no reason to apologize. You have an anomalous history and an extraordinary life ahead. Never abandon your past, your memories.” He inched closer and placed a hand on her thigh, his thumb stroking the denim above her knee. “No one is exempt from the shadows that cross our paths. Even the hearts of saints and sinners bleed, Cabin Number Three, and rain falls on the innocent and the condemned alike. Your secrets—your past—mold you into the person you are and the pieces knitted together are what make you special. It’s what makes scraps of unmatched cloth a quilt.” Empathy sheltered an inward smile. ‘“
Let love and faithfulness never leave you: bind them around your neck, write them on the table of your heart,
’” he said, tightening the grip on her thigh. “Some safeguard the past, some run from it. Don’t let it steal the person you can become.”

At the sound of his words, Ryleigh’s heart opened like a flower exposing its petals to the sun. Where once there had been but one man who had opened the door to her heart, Logan Cavanaugh was inching his way in slowly, unquestionably. He knew her secrets yet remained beside her, his compassion, his solidity unwavering.

Ryleigh placed her hand on Logan’s cheek. Tears clung to her lashes. Not sad tears, but tears for that which she’d hidden, gradually rising to the surface after a long drought.

“You’re amazing,” she whispered.

“And you amaze me.” He gathered her into his arms, a human shield protecting her from the pain of a broken past. “And incredibly beautiful, Ryleigh Collins.”

It was the first time he had spoken her name, the sound a sigh against her skin. The way he’d said it and the way he’d looked at her suggested there could be more. And yet, she didn’t know if she possessed the courage, or if she would know how to take the next step, and it certainly wasn’t one she could, or would take lightly. Plenty of opportunities presented themselves while she’d been married, but she had never crossed the line.

The security of his embrace seemed natural—and so close her skin leapt toward his, the sensitive hairs on her arms singing in rhythm to his song, the melody comfortably pleasant. Like coming home after a long absence.

Cradling his face in her hands, she stroked the day’s shadowy stubble and closed the distance between them. She touched his lips with soft brushes of hers. His mouth parted. Every pore opened to the musky scent of him, the kiss of his breath a warm massage on willing lips.

He lowered her hands to her side and claimed her mouth as his own, his tongue possessive and sweet and tangled with hers. What little reserve she clung to vanished in the wake of the gentle authority with which he claimed her. Assured of the promises his embrace foretold, she melted into the overwhelming power of his kiss.

EVERY INCH OF
him had wanted to stay, to be with the woman who had begun to chisel at the stone that had become his heart, but the reluctance to act on mounting desire had forced him to return to his suite.

He wasn’t surprised often, but when she had kissed him—as a lover would—it unnerved him, and he’d responded with a terrifying passion he couldn’t explain. She was vulnerable. And he was fighting an irrefutable battle with himself. The mental anguish was as sharp and painful as an exposed, gaping wound.

The storm raged on. Thunder echoed in the distance. Alone and unable to sleep, Logan extended his hand over cold, empty sheets. As an ardent desire grew within him to be with a woman he barely knew, the struggle to purge the torment of betraying a promise mounted, a love he’d treasured most of his adult life.

The fireplace and cove lighting cast muted shadows and Logan watched them mingle and flow in silence across the room. The cove lights sputtered, then settled briefly. But a moment later they failed completely. Logan sat up, listening. If the power failed, the generators would supply minimal power to the kitchen and main complex, but the cabins would be dark and without heat. If asleep, his only guest would awake freezing.

The telltale hum sounded in the distance and the cove lights trembled, and then once again burned steady.

Urgent raps rattled the door to his suite. Reaching for his jeans, he hobbled to the door as he pulled them on one leg at a time.

“
Se fue la luz, señor
! The power is out, sir!”

“Hang on, I hear you,” Logan shouted back. He reached the entrance in several long strides and opened the door to all five feet four inches of his right-hand man sprinkled with snow and fidgeting like an anxious jockey.

“Mr. Cavanaugh, sir. Our guest,” he said with obvious panic, “she will have no power. The generators for the cabins and barn have not arrived.
Tenemos que rescatarla, señor.”

“Slow down, Carlos,” he said, motioning with a hand, “and speak English, please.”

“We must rescue her, sir!”

Logan couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Carlos,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. You go back to bed.”