Books by Maggie Shayne (24 page)

The Tale Continues…

Rain pummeled the windows and stampeded over the roof. Annie hated nights like this.
Hated
them.

She scooted across the braided rug to sit a little closer to the framed photograph of her husband. If he’d been there, she’d have been scooting closer to him, instead of a cold photo in a silver frame. But he wasn’t. And this was the best she could do. Poor substitute. She took the eight-page instruction manual with her, settled down closer to Richard’s face, and glanced at the pages. “Easy to assemble, my eye,” she muttered, holding up various-sized bolts, trying to match one to the figure on the page that read “actual size.” None of them matched. Ugh.

She ought to be grading test papers. She ought to be preparing tomorrow’s lessons. Or maybe thinking about the new girl, Sara Dawson, and maybe planning some way to draw her out of her shell.

She shivered a little as she thought of Sara, with her straight sable hair and her huge dark eyes. That strange birthmark on her neck. A burgundy-hued crescent moon that looked more like a tattoo than a random bit of pigment. What a strange girl she was. So pensive and so intense. Her expression seemed knowing, wise beyond her years, as if she saw things no one else did. She stood out among the other sophomores at Otselic Valley High, and that had to be tough to deal with at sixteen.

Annie liked the girl, though, and wanted to help her adjust. So she felt guilty about not reading her essay right away.

But the incessant rain wouldn’t let her concentrate on anything that involved too much brainpower. She got distracted every time the wind howled around the eaves, moaning like some disembodied spirit. Every time that damned tree limb outside brushed its soggy branches against the window upstairs. Or every time a gust sent twigs and debris clattering down on the roof.

Lightning flashed. A split second later a clap of thunder split her composure as surely as a gunshot fired next to her ear would have, and she stiffened, dropping the bolts to the floor.

God, she couldn’t even concentrate on putting the crib together. Richard would have had it done in twenty minutes flat. And nothing as mundane as a thunderstorm would have distracted
him.

Never used to distract her either, though. Until that day. Annie looked at his photo again, reaching out to caress his face with her fingertip. “Honey, I wish you were here.” Tears formed in her eyes, and she rapidly blinked them away. It had been eight months. It shouldn’t hurt this badly after eight months, should it?

She shook her head slowly, knowing full well it would hurt just this badly after eight years. Maybe even after eighty. But it didn’t matter how much she hurt. She couldn’t give in to it. She wouldn’t. Not now. She tried to draw strength from the familiar shape of Richard’s face in the photo, the boyish grin he’d saved just for her. But it wasn’t easy. The blond hair he’d inherited from his father contrasted madly with his bronzed skin, a gift of heredity from his Spanish mother.

Annie had thought she might lose her mind when he’d died. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t. Richard would have expected more of her. He used to say she had a special strength down deep inside. Annie always thought he was the only one who could see it there. But maybe he’d been right after all. She’d survived losing him with her grip on reality still intact. She didn’t think she’d ever go through anything worse. Maybe she was stronger than she thought.

Not so Richard’s mother. Sweet Maria with her leathery skin and beautiful, sightless Spanish eyes. She was still delusional, and there didn’t seem to be anything anyone could do to help her.

It would have been so much easier on her if Richard’s body had been found. But with the force of the explosion, the intense flames, and the river so nearby…

There’d been nothing left to find. It was as if Richard had never been.

No, Annie thought, running her hands over her swollen middle. It wasn’t like that at all. He had been, right here, real and warm and incredible. And she held the proof of that in her womb. Richard’s baby. Their child. And maybe this child was part of the strength she was beginning to discover inside her. She had to be strong, take the pain, deal with it, and go on living. Because of the baby. A baby that must have been conceived at Mystic Lake, on their honeymoon, when life was perfect.

She’d forced herself back into the present, back into a convincing mimicry of life. Back into teaching. She walked around wearing a persona she’d created for her sake as well as her child’s, but it was as shallow as the make believe grave where Richard’s headstone rested and his body did not. It was as fake as the old adage that time heals all wounds. It was a daily game of pretending that everything was just fine, that she was adjusting to life without Richard. And she was getting very, very good at it.

But she’d never stop hurting. She’d never stop missing her husband, much less stop loving him. And nights like this were the hardest of all.

Nights like this, when she used to curl into his strong arms and feel safe and cherished and protected. And oh-so-loved.

Annie’s little secret was that she existed in the grip of a black depression, one she hid deep inside herself. But storms brought back the anger, the rage. The stupid storm that day had been to blame for Richard’s death. The wicked rain had made the damned roads wet, and that’s why that godforsaken bus had skidded into the path of his truck.

Richard had loved kids. No way in hell would he have hit a busload of them. No way. He’d adored kids. He’d wanted kids. Now he was going to have one, but he wouldn’t be here to see it.

Thunder cracked and she grated her teeth. These were the times when she realized how hard it was to stand tall on her own. It was exhausting being strong, keeping her chin high and her spine straight. Showing up in her classroom every day with a smile so sweet it turned her stomach and pretending everything was fine. Knowing that if she wavered in the least, everyone in this small town would be wondering about her, fussing over her, worrying and checking in and poking around in her own private pain. Whispering that maybe poor little Annie Nelson was slipping the way she did at that memorial service. Wondering how she’d ever manage to raise a child all by herself. So she faked it. But she was getting tired.

It would be awfully nice to lean on someone else once in a while.

Thunder exploded, louder this time, rattling the old house, vibrating through the windows, and jarring her out of her self-analysis. This was the way it was, and it wasn’t going to change. There would be no one else to lean on. There’d been one man in her life. Just one, and there’d never be another. Richard had been one of a kind. Special. A hero. Annie had always known that, but in the end, the whole country had known it as well. And Annie vowed to make sure Richard’s child knew what kind of man his or her father had been.

Annie dabbed at her eyes with the backs of her hands and gripped the arm of the couch to pull herself, belly first, up off the floor. The crib was a lost cause. Tonight, at least. She pressed a hand to the small of her back, rubbed tiny circles there with her fingertips, and decided to go to bed. There was no use staying up when she wasn’t getting a thing accomplished anyway.

She started for the stairs, but lightning flashed again, and there was a distinct
pop!
that seemed to come from very near. The lights flashed brighter and died, leaving Annie in absolute darkness.

Damn. Was it just her place, or was the power out all over the neighborhood? The thought of braving the cellar stairs alone in the dark in order to check the breaker box gave her the creeps, so she almost hoped for the latter.

Carefully she made her way to the nearest window, feeling her way and taking her time. She didn’t want to risk tripping over something and hurting the baby. She pushed the curtains apart and tried to see if any lights shone from her neighbors’ houses. Through the deluge, though, no lights glimmered. It was difficult to see even the houses through the rain. They were only dim outlines, utterly dark. The power must be out all over.

A brilliant streak illuminated the night for just an instant, and Annie caught her breath.

Frowning, she peered through the rain-streaked glass, but it was too dark. For a second she could have sworn she’d seen a man standing in the rain at the roadside, looking toward her house. Maybe even looking right at her.

But that was impossible.

A little chill raced up the back of her neck, and she told herself to stop imagining things and go to bed. But instead she waited, gaze glued to the spot where she’d seen him. There’d been something about him… his stance, or… She shook herself and stared harder, straining her eyes. Sooner or later the sky would light up again, and then she could be sure. The idea of some stranger standing in a rainstorm staring at her house gave her a serious case of the shakes, even though she was sure she’d imagined it. She must have. Who’d stand outside on a night like this?

Suddenly she was acutely aware of her solitude. Utterly alone in the house. No one else there, or even within screaming distance. Were the phones working? If she saw him again, should she call the police? Could she?

One hand reached down to check the lock on the front door. It was fastened. Good. The other hand slid protectively to her swollen abdomen.

She pressed closer to the glass in the front door, squinting in the darkness, searching for that dark silhouette in the night. Lightning flashed again and the man was on the other side of the glass, his face inches from hers. Annie jumped away from the window when the blinding glow illuminated him standing there on her porch, with only a thin pane of glass between them, staring right at her from huge, haunted eyes. His rain-plastered hair and wet face were perfectly visible this time.

Richard!

The last thing Annie heard was her own anguished scream.

Ren saw her face go white with fear, saw her green eyes widen as she took a faltering step backward, her screams shattering the night. And then he saw her go limp—and crumple to the floor.

The child!

Without hesitation, Ren forced the door open and lunged into the house. He fell to his knees beside the small woman, water running from his clothes to make puddles on the floor and dripping from his brow to hers.

One of his hands touched her belly, fear clutching at his heart as he realized the child he’d been sent here to protect could very well have been harmed when she’d fallen. And if it had, he’d have only himself to blame for startling the woman.

His chilled palm flattened upon the woman’s belly. And a vigorous kick came from within, thudding against his hand. An odd sensation spread through Ren, like melted butter filling his veins, and he smiled.

Then he shifted his gaze upward, over the woman’s face once again, and caught his breath. She was… she was beautiful. Tiny and delicate. And the sight of her sent the strangest sensations through him. Disturbing feelings. Distracting ones. He blinked and gave his head a stern shake. Best to focus on the task at hand.

Moving carefully, he gathered the woman into his arms and carried her to the sofa. She was light, considering the burden she carried. Very warm in his arms, and that warmth seemed to seep through his cold, damp clothing to permeate his skin, heating him and taking the night’s chill away. Her warmth was more than physical. It was a warmth of the soul flowing into him. He felt… odd. As if he’d entered a cozy place where he fully belonged, after wandering in an endless blizzard. As if he’d found a snapping hearth fire awaiting him with its welcoming light and heat.

For a moment he didn’t want to put the woman down.

Ren swallowed hard, once again shaking himself free of the unfamiliar sensations, and lowered her to the sofa. Then he grabbed the blanket lying nearby and spread it carefully over her. He scanned her face once more. Very strange how much he liked looking at her. How it felt. It wasn’t physical desire. Couldn’t be that. Such urges didn’t exist in White Knights. They were erased along with their mortal memories.

Ren tucked the blanket around her and straightened, but before he could take his hand away, hers closed around it.

And he felt sorrow. A sorrow so familiar to him it was frightening. That same ache that had been with him, inexplicably, for as long as he could remember. The one he couldn’t explain. It intensified at the desperation he felt in her touch. The way she clung. The force of her grip, and the way her hand trembled slightly.

His gaze shot from their clasped hands to her face. And from beneath her tightly closed eyes, he saw the sparkle of a tear as it rolled free.

“Richard,” she murmured, her lips barely parting but shaking so delicately he wanted to touch them, smooth them with his fingers until they steadied again. Her pain was vivid, so real that he could see it like a dark aura ringing her very soul.

Richard?

Ren blinked because the sound of that name on her shuddering breath sent a shiver through the core of his brain. Like a blinding light, but it was brief. A flash or a feeling too brilliant to bear, and then gone.

He shook with the effect of it and wondered why. What could it mean? Who was this Richard she cried for? And as her hand went limp again, he pulled his free, slowly backing away from her and yet unable to drag his gaze from her face.

And then there was a sound. Footsteps on the front porch, and Ren’s hand reached automatically for the sword concealed beneath the folds of his dark coat. But then there was a voice, a man’s voice, calling her name. Her man, perhaps? George had said the woman was alone and without protection, that her husband was dead. But maybe she’d found someone, this Richard whose name she whispered with such longing.

The idea shouldn’t be so disturbing. The doorknob rattled and the concerned voice called out again. Ren was out of place here. And it would do his cause no good to b#e discovered standing over the unconscious woman in the dead of night by her lover. He might end up having to kill the man.

And that thought shouldn’t be so pleasing.

Ren turned and moved quickly through the house, unerringly heading into the kitchen and out the back door without even taking the time to get his bearings or find his way. He retreated into the rainstorm, shaken to the marrow.