Always (30 page)

      Suspicious, Taylor watched Gordon's face as she listened to Sally. He looked totally innocent.

      "Ryan said, 'Tell Dr. Bowen that Gordon is suffering from a broken heart and only she has the cure.'"

      Taylor's throat felt very full. She cleared it and asked, "He did, huh?" Her lips twitched and she thanked Sally before hanging up the phone. "Ryan's quite a character."

      "Runs in the family," Gordon said approvingly. "Both sides."

      "Yeah, it does." She grinned. "He called in a medical emergency at your address."

      "You're kidding?" Gordon took a step closer. "What kind of medical emergency?" His voice fell to a husky whisper.

      "The most serious kind–a matter of life and death." She gave a dramatic sigh, though she felt more like crying and shouting and venting. "And I'm afraid I'm suffering from the same ailment."

      "Taylor..." He paused in front of her, so close she felt his heat. "What is it?"

      "A..." She bit her lower lip to still its tremor. "Ryan said you're suffering from a broken heart, and only I have the cure."

      He flashed her a crooked grin. "That little squirt."

      "Is one smart kid." She drew a shaky breath. "Gordon, I miss you."

      Before she drew her next breath, she was in his arms. "I've missed you, too, and I was going to call you tonight," he murmured against her hair. Then he held her at arm's length and stared intently into her eyes. "I want to see your face when I tell you this."

      Her heart stuttered, then plunged into overdrive. "What?"

      "I
love
you, Taylor Bowen, with everything I have." He kissed her, then pulled away again. "You're part of me. You make me whole. I'm miserable without you."

      Tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks and she cupped his face in her hands. "I love you, too, Gordon. So much." She trembled in his embrace. "And I promise you one thing."

      "You don't have to promise me anything, Taylor," he said. "Just love me."

      "Oh, I do."
 

      He pulled her closer and kissed her, long, slow, deep, committed. When they parted, he brushed her hair from her eyes. "You'll have your research, too. I swear it."

      She nodded. "I can commute."

      "I'm going to be teaching in Denver three days a week," he said, smiling. "We'll get a condo in the city and come up here weekends. I'll give the clinic here Fridays and Mondays, which is about all they need anyway."

      "Gordon, that's wonderful." Her throat clogged with more tears and she shook her head. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

      "No, I'm not perfect," he said quietly, "but I'm the man who loves you. Never forget that."

      "And my promise is that I trust you as much as I love you." She watched his eyes brighten as she spoke. "I always will."

      He whirled her around the cabin and jumped over a sleeping Max and they ended up sprawled across Gordon's bed. "We should call Ryan and let him know his diagnosis was correct," Taylor said, stretching out to cover Gordon.

      "Hmm, good idea. Besides, I have a job for him in the not too distant future."

      "What's that?" She lifted her head to stare into the eyes of the man she loved.

      "Have him use that bear track-maker of his to keep people away from this cabin during our honeymoon."

      "Honeymoon?"

      "Count on it."

      Later, much later, he gave her that bone-melting look again. "I'd say we're definitely a medical miracle, doctor. A complete cure, in fact."

      She smiled. "Only if ongoing treatment is applied liberally and often." She kissed him soundly.
 

      He growled low in his throat and whispered, "Always."

Excerpt from Another Dawn

by Deb Stover

A Time-Travel Historical Romance

Foreword

"The current flows along a restricted path...in the meantime the vital organs may be preserved; and pain, too great for us to imagine, is induced... For the sufferer, time stands still; and the excruciating torture seems to last for an eternity."
 

~ Nicola Tesla

Chapter

      The heavy thud of Luke Nolan's heart played a funeral dirge. Footsteps echoed through the tunnel, keeping time with his pulse as if the entire proceeding were meticulously choreographed.

        
Music to fry by.

      His hands were cuffed, and chains linked his ankles, their rhythmic chink, chink, chink punctuating his death march. Everything seemed magnified, in slow motion. Surreal neon lighting provided the finishing touch.

      Looking around, he counted one woman–the prison doctor who would pronounce him dead–and eight men.
How many assholes does it take to execute Luke Nolan?
 

      He almost laughed. Hell, he should laugh. Eleven years rotting on death row should give him that right. So much for the Court of Appeals and a pitiful excuse for a public defender.

      
How do you plead?

      
Not guilty.

      And no one had believed him, including his so-called attorney.

      The prison chaplain appeared at Luke's side, an open Bible clutched in his hands as they continued the long walk to the execution chamber. Luke was beyond prayer, but it couldn't hurt. Maybe, just maybe...

      
Get over it. You're dead meat, Nolan.

      He banished hope from his mind and heart as the heavy doors opened before them. It was freezing cold, in absolute contrast to what he'd soon feel.

      Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, commanding himself not to reveal his fear. These sons of bitches wanted him to fry, and there wasn't a frigging thing he could do to prevent it, but he'd be damned before he'd give them the satisfaction of seeing his terror. No matter how real...

      "Would you like last rites, Luke?" the chaplain asked.

      For a moment, Luke met the man's gaze. The expression in the priest's aging eyes left no doubt he disapproved of these proceedings. "Nah, that's all right, Father. Too late for me."

      "I've always believed in your innocence," he whispered. "I'll pray for your soul, my son. Is there anyone you'd like me to call?"

      "No thanks, Father."
 
So there was one person in the whole world who actually believed him. One. "Tell my grandma..."

      "Yes?"

      "Never mind."
 
Luke released a long sigh. "She wouldn't even believe you. Thanks just the same, Father."

      Raised by his devoutly Catholic grandparents, Luke Nolan had been a kid from Denver, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tough, cool, cocky as hell...

      And gullible.
 

      Eleven years ago, he'd followed Ricky–a punk from nowhere with no last name–into that liquor store believing they were after a fresh six-pack. One minute they were joking around. A few seconds later, Ricky pulled a gun on the old man behind the counter.

      The crotchety old fart triggered an alarm before Ricky could clean out the register. Enraged by the man's nerve, Ricky shot the clerk between the eyes and ran, leaving both his gun and Luke behind.

      Luke was a wild kid, but not a killer. He'd never even owned a piece, for Christ's sake. But when the cops rushed in and found him on his knees with a rag pressed to the man's bloody forehead, it was a done deal.
 

      No witnesses and no prints on the gun–just an eighteen-year-old punk who'd already found plenty of trouble in his young life. Luke was arrested, tried and convicted practically before the victim drew his last breath.
 

      Eleven years. Luke sighed and looked around the room–anything to keep him from fixating on the chair. Public outrage over capital punishment had delayed his execution countless times. With so many idle hours on his hands, he'd even managed to earn his college degree.

      After the raging hormones of adolescence had loosened their grip on his sanity, Luke discovered a new side to himself. If his appeal had ever came through, he'd intended to complete his Master's and teach high school. Hell, maybe he could've prevented a few punks from ending up like him.
 

      
Idealistic bastard.

      Bitterness settled in his gut like acid and he swallowed the bile that burned his throat. Hell, at least getting his degree had kept him busy.

      "I have something for you," the priest said, jerking Luke back to the present. "Your grandfather wrote a–"

      "My grandfather
died
three years ago."
 
Disbelief and the pain of remembrance sliced through Luke. His pulse escalated to a jarring thud in his ears as he recalled his grandmother's words when she'd phoned with the news. She'd accused him of murdering the old man with shame.
 

      The priest lowered his gaze for a moment, then drew a deep breath, reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. "Your grandmother sent this yesterday. Your grandfather left instructions that you were to have it if..."