Firefly Hollow (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

W
HEN HE’D INVITED SARAH TO the house, Owen had acknowledged in the back of his mind that he might have to discuss sensitive topics. When she picked up on the state of his old room, he hadn’t been that surprised. After all, her intelligence and empathy were part of what had drawn him to her in the first place. But he’d forgotten about the family tree.

So when he came out of the kitchen to find Sarah with her mouth open in shock, he was flummoxed. He knew he was staring at her like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t ready to tell her about his life as H. O. McLemore. Whether he was ready or not, though, went out the window.

“I guess we need to talk.” Edging closer, he gestured with the icy cold bottles. “Why don’t we go to the side porch? It’s screened in.”

“That’s probably a good idea.” She preceded him through the living room and out the door. Knowing he’d eventually be bringing her to the house, Owen had cleaned the porch in preparation. He’d even gone so far as to purchase new cushions for the swing, and as they sat down, he wondered if that effort had been for nothing.

He handed her a Coke and set his own bottle aside. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands together between his knees. “I guess you have questions.”

“You could say that, yes. I have no idea where to start, I have so many questions. I guess I’ll start with the obvious. You’re H. O. McLemore, aren’t you?”

He’d guarded the secret for so long, Owen had to struggle to make himself answer. “Yes. I am.”

Sarah didn’t respond, and he glanced at her. She was staring down into her drink, a deep, pensive frown on her face. Owen couldn’t tell what she was thinking, if she was angry, hurt, sad, or some combination of the three.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” she asked quietly.

He sighed. “Yes.”

She tilted her head and looked at him, and Owen could see that she was both angry and hurt. He couldn’t blame her.

“When?”

“Soon, I promise.” He struggled for words. “There aren’t that many people who know, Sarah. My uncle and his wife, my agent, and my publisher. My mother knew, also. I swore everyone to secrecy. I didn’t want the rest of the world to know about my writing. I wanted to tell you, was going to tell you, but it’s not something I find easy to talk about.”

She turned away, looking out over the foggy landscape. Her hands were tight around the bottle, and Owen felt a pang of guilt.

“Please, talk to me,” he begged.

“I don’t know what to say. Why wouldn’t you want people to know that you’re H. O. McLemore? Do you have any idea how wonderful your books are? That’s something you should be proud of, not ashamed.”

“I’m not ashamed. I’ve never been ashamed. But I don’t want public acclaim. I don’t want people traipsing all over my land, trying to get a look at the mysterious writer. I don’t want the community speculating about whether or not I write stories about them, or how much money I make off my writing. That’s not why I do what I do.”

“When I asked you what you did for a living, and you told me all those things—the genealogy, the folklore research—was that just your cover story?”

He got up and stood at the screen door that led into the yard. Bracing his hands on the doorframe, he leaned in and let his arms carry his weight. “Not exactly. It’s something I tell people to keep them from wondering too much, yes. But it’s also the truth. I do all those things. I’ve never lied to you, Sarah.”

“But you haven’t exactly told me the truth, either, have you?”

The sadness in her voice tore him apart inside, and Owen closed his eyes. “No, I haven’t.”

She didn’t speak, and after a minute, Owen took a chance and looked at her. She studied him as though she’d never seen him before. Drawing in a deep breath, he walked to the swing. He hunkered down and placed a hand on either side of her, leaning close.

“I promise you, swear to you on my life, Sarah, I was going to tell you. Please believe me.”

A lock of hair fell into his eyes, and he impatiently pushed it back, only to have it fall right back down. Before he could move it again, Sarah brushed it back, her hand lingering on his face for a bare second before falling back into her lap.

“You said your mother knew. What about your father, your brother? Didn’t they know?”

“No.” He sat back and moved to lean against the house, legs stretched out in front of him. Picking up his Coke, he took a long swig, holding the cold, sweet liquid in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. “No, I never told them. My brother, well, Harlan wasn’t much of a reader, and I knew he’d never leave me alone about being a writer if I told him.”

“And your father?”

Owen felt the bitterness rise in his throat and knew it was reflected in the smile he sent her. “Yeah, we weren’t close. I wasn’t his favorite son.” He gave a small shrug, attempting to disregard how much the memory hurt, but from the look Sarah sent him, he didn’t think he’d fooled her in the least. When she moved down from the swing to sit beside him on the floor, he hid his relief by taking another drink.

“Tell me why you don’t live in this house.”

He let the nearly empty bottle dangle from his fingers. “I told you I dropped out of school when I was in the eighth grade. Well, that disappointed the old man pretty badly. That year at Christmas, Harlan and I got into an awful fight. Harlan was only twelve, not quite two years younger than me, but he was big for his age. It didn’t matter, though. We didn’t stop until Hank stepped in and separated us. We both had black eyes and bloody noses. Hank was livid. He said some things that I think he regretted as soon as they came out, but he never apologized, never took them back.” He finished off the Coke and set the bottle aside.

“You call your father ‘Hank’?”

“Yeah. I haven’t called him ‘Dad’ since that Christmas.”

Sarah handed him her soda and wrapped her arms around his left one. “What happened?”

“After the fight—we’d pretty much torn the living room apart, including Mom’s Christmas tree, by the way—I decided I’d be better off in the barn. We’d added on a nice room that Mom was going to use as a chicken coop, but we hadn’t moved the chickens out there yet. I commandeered it. I never slept in this house again, not until after my father died.”

He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t bear to see the pity on her face. Her gasp had been bad enough, as were the tears he could feel dampening his arm where her face rested against him.

“The chicken coop? Oh, dear God, Owen. How was it that your mother let that happen?”

“She couldn’t stop me. My mind was set. And I didn’t stay in the chicken coop. Hank built me a room in the barn loft, complete with a small bathroom. It was actually pretty cozy. I was happier after I moved out there.”

“I very much doubt that. What was it that he said, that made you go that far?”

Owen really didn’t want to tell her. It was too close to the truth that he was a shifter. That secret was not something he was close to being ready to share. Still, he had to explain as best he could. “He called me a monster, an animal. Said I was no son of his, that blood didn’t matter.”

He hadn’t spoken to anyone about what his father had said since it had happened. Stopping to clear his throat, he told Sarah what he’d never told another person. “I never forgave Hank for that. Never forgave him for letting me go so easily. For not fighting for me. I refused to live in his house until after he was long dead and buried and my mother needed me here. As soon as she was gone, I went back to the barn. I’d have rather been tortured than let him know about my writing. He didn’t deserve that sort of consideration, in my eyes.”

She moved her arms so that they were wrapped around his body and not just his arm. He returned the embrace, pulling her closer. Looking down, he saw that she was crying, silently, and he wiped the wetness away with his thumb.

“Shh, Sarah. I’m okay. It was a long time ago. I’ve moved past it.”

“Have you? Because I don’t see how. Your mother must have hated him for what he did.”

His mouth tightened. “It changed their relationship, yes. That’s something else I’ve carried with me, the guilt about that.”

“Oh, Owen. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t, necessarily. But I still feel guilty.”

Owen closed his eyes. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply. The strands were loose and silky soft against his cheek. His heart twisted as he wondered if this would be the last time he’d hold her. Though he hadn’t set out to deceive her on purpose, the intention didn’t seem to matter as much as the result. Adding to his guilt was the knowledge that he still wasn’t being honest about what he truly was.

Sarah finally stirred against him. “Owen?”

“Yes?”

“Is there anything else you’d care to share with me? Any other secrets you’ve been keeping?”

He didn’t know how to answer. She pulled back to look at him, perhaps sensing there was more.

He looked down at her and shrugged. “There are some things I’m not ready to tell you yet. I’m not… it isn’t you. I’m not ready to talk about them yet.”

“Are they bad things?” A horrified look crossed her face. “You’re not married, are you?”

“What? No! No, I’m not married. Never have been. To be honest, I never considered that marriage might be in my future. Not until recently.”

Sarah looked dubious. “Then what sort of things are we talking about? Are you a criminal? Have you killed someone? Do you turn into a werewolf by the light of the full moon?”

Though he was fairly certain she was jesting with the last question, it took every bit of control Owen had not to react. He stuttered, trying to figure out how to respond.

Sarah put her fingers over his mouth. “Stop. I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t owe me any explanations. You already said you’re not ready to talk about it, whatever it is. But answer me this.” A flash of uncertainty and pain crossed her face, and she wet her lips. “Is there someone else?”

Owen cupped her face in his hands. “No.” He kept his eyes on hers. “No. There’s no one else, Sarah. Only you.” She closed her eyes, and Owen didn’t think he’d imagined the relief he’d seen in them.

“Then I guess I’ll have to be patient, wait until you’re ready.” She turned her head and kissed his palms, first one, then the other. “That said, I think we both need a little space to think about things. I’m going to head back to the house.”

She stood, and Owen followed suit. “Sarah, I—”

“I won’t tell anyone. You have my word.”

He frowned. “I know. I trust you.”

“Do you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. Yes, I really do. You’re sure you have to go?”

Sarah wrapped her arms around her waist. “I think so. I need some time to process what you’ve told me. It’s a lot to take in, all at once. And I’ll be honest, I’m a little upset you didn’t tell me earlier. I understand why you didn’t, but that’s the logical side of my brain. The emotional part is still struggling with why you didn’t.”

Feeling lower than low, Owen nodded. “Okay. I’ll walk you home.”

“No. I’d rather you didn’t, not today.”

He felt the words like a blow, and his jaw tightened. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Oh, no. You’re not getting off that easily.” Stepping closer, Sarah put her arms around him, her head resting on his chest. She gave him a tight hug, but moved back before Owen could pull her to him. “You may wish I had, however. Mama wants me to invite you to dinner tomorrow. The whole family’s going to be there, Randall and Kathy included.”

Owen led her inside to where he’d hung their coats and helped her into the poncho. “You said Eliza wants me there. Do you?”

Sarah sent him a winsome smile. “I want you there, yes. But only if you want to be there. Don’t answer me now. Just show up if you decide to come. We eat around one, and Mama doesn’t like people to be late.”

Not quite sure what to say or do, Owen held open the door and followed her out onto the porch. She went down the steps.

He had to grasp the support post in order to keep from going after her. “Will you call me when you get home to let me know you’re there and safe? You don’t have to say anything else, but let me know you’re okay. Please?”

“Of course I will.” With a small wave and a sad smile, she set off.

It only took seconds for her to disappear from sight, and as she went, Owen felt his heart shatter. The need to shift, to change into a wild creature and run howling through the woods, was strong. In his animal form, he could express pure emotions easier than he could when in human form. The only time he came remotely close to being that emotionally free as a human was when he was writing. He knew he had to resist the urge to change, at least for a little while.

Once Sarah was safely home, though, he would shed his clothes and transform into the monster his father had feared so much. It had been a long time since Owen had felt such self-loathing, and he growled.

“You took so much from me, old man. I’ll be damned if I let you take anything else,” he told the house behind him. He’d never been able to tell his father how he felt when Hank was alive, and the house had come to represent most everything Owen resented about his past. He’d hoped that by bringing Sarah there, he’d finally be able to let go of the hurt and the hate, but it hadn’t happened. “One of these nights, I’m liable to burn you to the ground.”

He grabbed his coat and headed for the house that was his sanctuary to wait for Sarah’s call. He didn’t want to change while it was still daylight out. With the wolf riding him hard, night couldn’t come soon enough.