He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his suddenly throbbing temples, and concentrated on remaining calm. He refused to give her the satisfaction of making him angry. "Jack?" she said in a taunting, singsongy voice. "Are you all right?"
His eyes popped open and drilled her. "Yeah." He bit the word off. "I'm fine."
"Good, then how about we all go into the living room and find?"
"No."
Her sentence snapped in half. She looked up at him, obviously surprised by his refusal.
Their gazes locked across the table. He was breathing a little heavier than he'd like, but other than that, Jack
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thought he looked pretty damn calm for a man slowly being sucked over the edge.
"We hid all the silverware," she said smugly.
It was Jack's turn to grin. He reached for the chicken and wrenched off a succulent, still hot leg. "Then it's a good thing you made chicken."
Surprise flitted through her eyes. She studied him for a moment longer, and he would have sworn he saw a glimmer of respect. Then her lips twitched slightly and she turned away.
Jack allowed himself a triumphant grin. He'd one-upped Amarylis for the first time in years, and goddamn, it felt good.
It would have felt even better if she hadn't laughed.
Chapter Nine
Jack lay on the couch, shivering. He thrashed side to side, fighting the nightmare's frightening grip. A low, miserable moan escaped him. Restlessly he pulled the flimsy woolen blanket tighter to his chin. His teeth chattered in staccato bursts of sound.
A red haze crept across his closed eyes, turning his world into a twisting quagmire of dripping blood and oozing mud. Screams of the dead and dying reverberated through his head. Gunfire exploded all around him. Suddenly he was awake.
The darkness was coming. Oh, God, it was coming. He could feel it, circling him like hungry wolves, closing in for the kill. Fear washed through him, closed around his throat. Hot, aching breaths pushed past his trembling lips. He curled into the fetal position and lay there, panting, praying it would go away this time. Praying this time he could forget ...
Rain splashed at the windowpane behind him, rattling the house. The sound rocked Jack to the core of his soul. He wrapped his shaking arms around himself, trying desperately to hold himself together until the storm stopped. But it didn't do any good. He could feel the darkness, feel its cold, icy breath on the back of his neck, feel the brush of its fingertips along his arms. It was coming.
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Thunder boomed through the night, echoed through the too still house like a volley of cannonfire.
A scream of pure terror wrenched up Jack's throat. He had to protect his family.
He lurched to his feet, not bothering to find his shoes in his panic to flee. Only half-awake, he lumbered to the kitchen and grabbed his coat, plunging his arms into its sheepskin-lined warmth.
Panicked, desperate, he wrenched open the door and raced onto the porch. Rain hammered the overhang above his head and ran in sheets of silver, rattling the floorboards. The wind whistled, screaming, through the night.
"Oh, God," he moaned, feeling the darkness get closer. Closer.
He closed his eyes in a hopeless prayer, then stumbled down the rain-slicked steps and ran.
He had no idea where.
Tess woke with a start. Something was wrong.
She pushed to her elbows and gazed around the room through bleary, unfocused eyes. The first rays of dawn were pushing through the glass, but otherwise the bedroom was dark and quiet. Nothing looked wrong.
She flipped back the coverlet and reached for her robe. Shrugging into the warm flannel, she went to the cradle and checked Caleb. The baby was fast asleep, sucking on his fist.
She hurried down the hallway and peeked into the girls' bedroom. Relieved to find them both asleep, she headed for the living room.
The sofa was empty except for the brown woolen blanket slung haphazardly across its back. Crossing her arms across her chest, she walked toward the kitchen and peered out the window. Dawn was just beginning to creep through
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the shadowy grass. Last night's lingering rain clung to the leaves, making them appear rich and glossy green.
It was so quiet, Tess could hear the raindrops falling from the leaves and plunking in the still wet grass.
Cold seeped through the thin pane, making her shiver. But it was more than the cold that sent a skitter along her flesh.
Something is wrong.
"No," she said aloud, taking comfort from the strength and certainty of her own voice. Nothing was wrong. Jack was simply out before dawn, working his fields as always.
And yet, she didn't quite believe it.
She stared across the farm's rolling, grassy pastures, willing herself to see a lone figure. Somewhere. Anywhere.
"Where are you, Jack?" she murmured. "And what's wrong?"
Jack opened his eyes and thought for a moment he was blind. The world was a smeary wash of black and midnight blue and deep purple, of impossibly shifting shapes and imposing shadows.
Dread slammed through his body, tensed his every muscle until he ached. He rolled onto his stomach and lay panting, trying desperately to remember something. Anything.
Nausea thrummed his stomach hard, coiled around his insides. He swallowed thickly, praying he wouldn't vomit, and crawled shakily to his knees. On all fours he paused, head hung low, taking deep, measured breaths.
Gradually he became aware of the scent of fresh green grass and wildflowers.
He sat back on his heels and looked wearily around him. The headache had already begun, pounding behind
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his eyes like hammerblows. His vision swam in and out of focus.
The west pasture.
He was in his own field.
"Thank God," he whispered in a raspy, scream-weakened voice.
He started to get to his feet, but as he moved, his knee ground into something hard and cold. He shifted sideways, reaching blindly for the object. His fingers curled around something long and narrow and chillingly cold.
A knife.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a flash of terror so icy, so consuming, he thought for a moment he was going to vomit after all.
His hands started to shake. Curling his fingers tighter around the cold blade, he lifted it up. It seemed to grow heavier, colder. Sweat crawled in an itchy trail down his forehead. Fear radiated through his body, echoing with every painful throb of his headache.
What have I done? The familiar question drove like an icepick into his brain.
No, he thought desperately, I wouldn't hurt my children. Please, God, not my children ...
Weary, shaking with fear and shame and despair, he opened his eyes and looked at what he had in his hands.
A piece of metal. Just a goddamn piece of metal. Not a knife at all.
He got to his feet and started the long walk home. With every step, every breath, his fear escalated until, by the time he saw the outline of the house in the distance, he was wound tighter than a badly made clock.
"Please, God," he mumbled time and again, his hands curled into white-knuckled, shaking fists, "not my children. Not my children. Please ..."
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Tess crept across the darkened yard and slipped into the chicken pen, latching the gate behind her. Sighing, exhausted, she plunged her hand into the burlap sack and scooped up a fistful of grain.
"Here, chicky-chicky-chicky," she called, scattering the golden kernels across the shadowy yard. Dozens of birds ran into one another, squeezing together in a great, feathered mass in their haste to peck the fallen grain.
Tess stared at the cluster of birds without seeing them. Her mind was a million miles away. Jack? she thought for the thousandth time today. Where are you7
She was so deep in thought, it took her a moment to notice the sound. She paused, listening.
&
nbsp; Footsteps.
Jack!
Tess spun around, accidentally dropping the bag of grain in her haste. Corn spilled across her feet. Birds surged toward her, ringing her skirts and pecking feverishly at her feet.
She immediately dropped to her knees and started scraping the grain back into the bag. "What are you doing?"
Tess heard Jack's scratchy, angry voice and thought it was the most wonderful sound she'd ever heard. She'd been so worried.... Smiling, she looked up.
He was standing about ten feet away from her, legs braced in a fighter's stance, arms crossed. Pale moonlight silhouetted his body, outlining the tired droop of his shoulders. His face was a dark void beneath an even darker hat. Tess opened her mouth to speak, and was surprised to find a lump in her throat. "Hi, Jack," she said quietly. "We missed you."
"How ... how long was I gone?"
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Tess felt a momentary confusion at the question. Her eyes narrowed, focused on the shadowy area of his face.
He sighed, and it was the tiredest, oldest sound she'd ever heard. "Fine, don't answer me. I don't give a shit."
That's when Tess knew. He wasn't mocking or taunting or teasing her. He was asking her a real, honest-to-God question. He didn't know how long he'd been gone. And he was scared.
"I think you left just before dawn ... today."
His shoulders sagged downward. Another ragged sigh escaped him. "Thanks. So, what are you doing out this
late?"
"Feeding the chickens."
"At this hour?"
"I ... I couldn't sleep."
His shadow shifted slightly. "Why not?"
Tess grabbed a handful of skirt and scrambled awkwardly to her feet. She wanted to move toward him, wanted to touch him and reassure herself that he was really back. But she didn't move. She forced herself to remain perfectly still. "You were out."
"So?"
"So ... I was worried."
"Ha!" His burst of laughter was as sharp as glass, and filled with a pain so deep and drenching, Tess felt ill. He pivoted, heel grinding into the gravelly dirt, and strode
away.
Toward the barn. Damn.
Tess winced. She should call him back, find some excuse, however feeble, to keep him from going into the barn tonight. But he wouldn't listen. Wouldn't stop. She felt a sick tensing in her stomach.
He wasn't going to be amused by what she'd done. Not
tonight.
He disappeared into the barn. Tess waited.
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There were about two minutes of blessed silence, and then came a bloodcurdling yell. "Get in here, Lissa. Now!"
Tess thought briefly about running into the house, but knew it would be pointless. He'd find her. "Lissa!"
Tess clutched the grain sack to her midsection like a protective shield, tilted her chin, and headed for the barn. It was all part of the plan, she reminded herself, and the plan was for his own good. She had to get him off guard and keep him off guard. She had to make him react.
And what she'd done in the barn would certainly do that.
She sidled past the huge wooden door. Jack was standing with his back to her. He stood stiff as a fence post, staring at the enormous yellow flower she'd painted on his workbench. Beside him was a huge, beribboned barrel that held all of his farming tools. "What the hell did you do?" Tess jumped. He spun around. "Talk!"
Tess bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling. All at once she realized the error in her plan. She didn't know this man, didn't know what he was capable of. The mouse had blithely baited the lion.... "Now!"
"I painted your workbench and rearranged your tools." "I see that." His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Another icicle of fear streamed down Tess's stiffened back. "What is it you painted, a daffodil?"
"Tulip," she said in a small, strangled voice. He grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her to him. She hit his chest hard and let out a tiny yelp of pain. He glared down at her, breathing hard. She looked up.
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Pale lantern light highlighted the hard, unforgiving angles of his face. "This is my place, goddamn it. Mine."
Tess was just about to say something?she had no idea what?when she saw it. Deep, deep in his eyes, beyond the fury and the disbelief, lay pain.
Her fear dissolved and was forgotten. Jack was hurting right now. Hurting so badly, he couldn't summon enough detachment to cover it up. His pain touched something deep in her soul, something small and frightened that had never been touched before. He needed her. And she needed him. Maybe together they could escape the fear and loneliness that shrouded both their souls.
She touched his face, laid her palm against the stubble-coated hollow of his cheek. At the touching of their flesh, she shivered. Her gaze turned warm and liquid and melted into his. "What's the matter?"
His hold on her shoulders tightened, bit deeply into her tender flesh. Tess's breathing quickened. With each inhalation, she felt her breasts brush the hard wall of his chest.
"Jack ..."
He flinched. Without the high color of anger in his cheeks, his skin looked ashen and old. Aching, desperate pain filled his eyes.
"Please," he said in a husky voice, "don't do this to me, Lissa. Please."
"What has she done to you?"
Jack let go of her as if he'd been scalded. "Leave me the hell alone."
He shoved past her and ran for the door.
She watched him. "I don't think I can do that, Jack."
He slowed. She thought for a second he was going to turn around. She leaned forward, waiting.
Then he regained his footing and disappeared into the darkness beyond the barn.
He never looked back.
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* * *
Be numb. Be numb. Be numb. The words circled in Jack's brain, gathering force with each repetition.
He knew it was the only way he could survive this new game of hers, knew it as certainly as he knew his name.
He paced back and forth in the darkness behind the barn. Moonlight crept through the bank of gray clouds and cast the pasture in uncertain, blue-tinged light. The world tonight was quiet, so quiet he could hear the whisper of the wind through the tall grass. It sounded like a woman breathing.
Like her breathing. He walked to the edge of the barn and glanced at the house.
She was down there. Just a few steps away. Maybe she was even waiting for him....
Groaning, he closed his eyes and leaned tiredly against the rough wooden wall. But the self-imposed blindness didn't help. He could still see her face, and though it was a face he'd seen since childhood, it looked different now. And it was that difference that was killing him. Slowly. Inch by agonizing inch.
In his mind he saw her smiling. The vision held the dreamlike quality of a favorite memory. As if in slow motion, she turned, hair flying around her like strands of sunlight, and glanced down at Katie. Pride and love shone in her brown eyes, gave her a radiance she'd never had before. A softness that made him ache with longing. It hadn't been so long ago?not so long, really?that she'd looked at him that way.
She couldn't be changing, not really. No matter what he saw?or thought he saw?in her eyes, she couldn't really be changing. It was just another game designed to hurt him.
No matter what she said or did, he had to remember that
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it was just another game. The changes, the smiles, had to be in his sick, twisted-up mind.
Be numb. Be numb. Be numb.
The words came back to him, and he focused his thoughts on them with single-minded determination. He could do it; he could resist the need washing through his body.
He'd been resisting it for years.
Jack stared at the closed door, knowing he shouldn't go in. He wasn't strong enough to fight her again. He should just turn around right now and run to the safety of the barn. Except that he was tired of running, so tired. For the last two hours he'd paced the darkness, fighting a need h
e'd thought long forgotten. Now he was so damn tired he could hardly stand.
Slowly, cautiously, he opened the door.
Amarylis was waiting for him by the stove. "Hi, Jack."
He had to remind himself again that she wasn't relieved to see him, because goddamn, she looked relieved.
She looked breathtakingly beautiful, too. Tousled, unbound hair framed her pale, upturned face in a halo of unbelievable light. Her cheeks were flushed and pink from standing over a hot stove. He could smell the sweet aroma of cinnamon and peaches that clung to her like expensive perfume.
She looked and smelled like ... home. Against all reason, he found himself thinking about cozy nights curled around a fire and early mornings spent softly talking.
"I knew if I waited long enough, you'd come back."
Jack couldn't think of a single word. He stood there, dumb as a post, staring into her luminous brown eyes and praying as hard as he could. God, don't let her touch me now. Not now .. .
She came toward him. Her skirt hem breezed across his
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ankle like a caress. She started to reach for him. He shrank backward. She paused. Slowly, frowning, she eased her hand away from his arm. "I've drawn you a bath. Savannah and Katie are sleeping. We're alone."
Alone. The word was like a dagger in his heart. He shook his head. "No."
Her gaze slid casually from his face. He felt suddenly self-conscious, realizing for the first time how he must look. Torn, ragged red long Johns streaked with dirt; hair that hung in planklike sheets of muddy black; filthy, earth-caked feet.
She stared at his dirty face and tried not to smile. "You don't want to bathe?"
Jack felt as if he were being strangled. "No." Their gazes met, held. For a moment he thought she was going to mock him, but she didn't. She just stood there, still as a stone, her strangely focused eyes searching his face. He sensed that she saw more?far more?than he wanted her to.
"Your clothes are filthy. Why don't you bathe with them on?"
She was trying to make him comfortable. At the realization, his mouth dropped open in surprise. Amarylis was doing her best to make him comfortable. She moved closer, her hand outstretched. "Come on." He started to say something?he had no idea what?but the words jammed in his throat when her fingers brushed his sleeve. He felt the warmth of her touch, and something inside him, something deep and dark and desperately weak, melted like wax. "Amarylis, I?" "You can hate me again tomorrow." "Hate you?" The words seemed to be ripped from the last remaining portion of his soul. "I wish to hell it was that simple."