Waiting for the Moon

by Kristin Hannah

"What happened?" he asked. "He was shot." "Bullet still in there?" "No. The doctor said he dug it out." Ian nodded, but didn't look at her. He didn't dare. Not yet, not while the pain was so fresh and raw. "Idiot doctor probably used his fingers to dig out the bullet- after gardening, no doubt. Take off the bandages."

  Andrew scurried to the bedside and gently peeled the stiff bandages away from Elliot's body as Ian examined the injury. The ragged wound was ringed by flesh that was already an angry red, and a greenish pus pooled in the opening. "It's infected," he said quietly.

  Selena came up beside him. He felt her presence, and it took all his strength not to turn to her and take her in his arms. Instead he stood there, not looking at her, looking down at the man who'd taken everything from Ian, taken his very soul.

  "Ian." She said his name in that quiet, throaty voice of hers-God, how he'd missed that voice.

  He waited for the softness of her touch, the gentle pressure of her fingers on his arm. But she made no move to touch him. "He is a good man, Ian. He does not deserve to die."

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  "Doesn't he?" Ian heard the ugly bitterness in his voice and he cursed himself for it. But he couldn't stop it.

  "Can you save him?"

  I don't want to. Again, so ugly, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to let Elliot die. Now, tonight. Just move back and do nothing and let the old man die.

  Elliot's death was Ian's only chance for a life, and he knew it, had known it the second he looked in Selena's eyes. Her decision hadn't changed. If Ian saved Elliot's life, Selena would leave Ian. Again.

  "Ian?" she prompted.

  She put a wealth of meaning in that one little word; he felt her expectation, her trust, like a weight against his lungs.

  He swallowed hard, wishing-oh, Christ, wishing a million things. All pointless, all impossible. Wishing Elliot had died on the way, that he'd been shot in the head, that there was no way to save him. But mostly he wished he'd never promised Selena to be honorable.

  Yet, only in doing his best, giving his best, was he worthy of the woman at his side. And he'd rather die than let her down.

  He closed his eyes and tried to prepare for what lay ahead. Breathing deeply, he leaned forward and touched Elliot's fever-hot brow. At first all he felt was the damp heat. Then the images came, spinning deliriously, one after another, until Ian felt weak and dizzy. They came so fast and were gone so quickly, he could only focus on a few of them.

  A dirty, dark-haired girl pawing through a garbage can . . . a group of men in somber brown garb sitting on narrow benches ... a white flower ... Selena wearing a dull brown dress, walking in a silent row with other women, her head drooped forward . . . Elliot standing before her with the same white flower.

  He got emotions with the pictures: an aching love, a staggering regret. I'm sorry, Agnes. So sorry.

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  And the strangest thing of all-a thought, loud and clear and filled with razor-sharp pain. Go to him, Agnes ... promise me. . ..

  A headache shot across Ian's eyes, lodged in his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on exploring the wound, only that. The hole from the bullet was small and ragged, a black spot oozing poison from just beneath the collarbone. It had missed the heart and lungs.

  With treatment, Elliot would live. Without treatment, he would die.

  Selena stood beside Ian, still silent. She didn't say anything, and he knew she wouldn't. She would just stand there quietly and wait, believing in Ian more than he'd ever believed in himself. Believing in him with all her heart and soul, knowing he would do the right thing. He sighed. "Get me the carbolic acid, Andrew, lots of it. It's in the herb room in a big black jar. Johann, go to. the washhouse and get some clean, dry sheets. We're going to need new bandages. Tell Edith to start boiling water and bring some up here."

  Andrew and Johann ran from the room; the door banged shut behind them.

  Slowly Ian turned to look at Selena. She stood beside him, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss, and yet there was a stiffness to her that kept him away.

  "I knew you would do the right thing," she said softly, giving him a sad smile. "I know you did."

  The stiff, awkward words made no sense. It wasn't what they should be saying to each other right now. He gazed down at her.

  She broke eye contact and looked down at her husband.

  Ian forced himself not to move, not to touch her. Did you miss me, goddess? He wanted desperately to ask

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  the question, but he didn't dare. He didn't think he could bear her answer.

  Finally she turned, looked up at Ian for a long, long time.

  And the silence broke his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Selena stood in the corner of the bedroom, huddled in the shadows, watching Ian battle to save Elliot's life. Sounds reverberated through the air-the ping of steel instruments hitting the metal tray, Elliot's quiet moans, the labored gusts of Ian's breathing, the harsh timbre of his voice as he snarled orders to Andrew.

  The tension was so thick, it was palpable.

  Over and over again, her mind replayed images of her return, coming always back to the first time she'd looked at Ian, the first time she'd said his name. It had taken everything she had inside, strength she hadn't even known she'd developed, to remain silent.

  The images remained, stabbed deep into the tender region of her heart. Oh, Lord, what she had asked of him, both in words and in silence. Save him, Ian. Save him so I can leave you again.

  It still hurt, hours after she'd done it. She wanted to go to Ian now, slip her arms around his waist and bury her face in the soft lawn of his shirt, to breathe in the familiar scent of him, feel the silky softness of his hair through her fingers. But she was afraid, so afraid, that if she touched him-just once-she'd fall apart. And this time there would be no recovery, no strand of hope that would sustain them both. This time she knew the life that honor required of her, and it was only half a life. She wasn't sure she could do it again, wasn't sure

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  she could climb into that wagon and leave this warm, loving place and return to the village.

  In fact, she was certain that she couldn't. Yet she must.

  And what if Ian saw the truth in her eyes? It would kill him to know that she was unhappy in the Believer village, to know that she'd left his arms for a sterile, regimented life. She could never tell him about her life with Elliot. Never.

  Ian peeled off the thin rubber gloves he'd worn to clean Elliot's wound and dropped them onto the bloodstained tray. "I've done all I can. Now it's up to him."

  Across the bed, Selena looked up. He saw a flash of pain in her eyes, raw and mesmerizing in its intensity. Then she quickly dropped her gaze, stared at her own hand, wrapped so tightly around Elliot's big, scarred one.

  Though the room was full of people, it was eerily silent. Each of the inmates stood stiff and motionless, their gazes darting from Selena to Elliot to Ian and back again. They'd crept back in, one by one, to stand in proximity to their goddess. But none of them, not even Johann, had dared to speak in the last few minutes.

  Ian watched Selena, saw the stiffness in her shoulders, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way she kept squeezing Elliot's hand.

  It hurt, all of it hurt, the soft murmur of her voice, the pale creaminess of her skin, the tired resignation in her eyes. Something about her was different; it had bothered him all evening. Every time he drew back from his patient, he'd looked at her, kept hoping she'd look up and meet his eyes, but she never did. Finally, after a while, she'd let go of Elliot's hand and backed into the shadowy corner.

  All it had taken to draw her back was a whimper of pain. Elliot's agonized moan slipped into the room and she followed it, surging toward him, murmuring soft

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  nothings, smoothing the sweaty hair from his brow until he stilled again.

  Now Elliot was quiet, the wound was cli
pped and cleaned and soaked in carbolic acid, the bandages were new.

  "He needs to rest," Ian said.

  Now, he thought, now she'll look at me. . ..

  She nodded and drew a chair up to the bed, sitting silently beside Elliot, her gaze downward. Maeve went to Selena, touched her shoulder, and Ian saw the tiny shudder that moved through Selena at the contact

  "I'll stay with him," Maeve said, and Ian could have kissed his mother for her thoughtfulness. "Edith will make you something to eat. You're too thin."

  It was a long time before Selena answered, and when she did, her voice was throaty and raw. "I have not slept in two days."

  Maeve bent down and kissed Selena's cheek. "I know how it is to be so scared." She pulled up a chair and sat down beside Selena. "Ophelia wasn't smart, that's certain. Although it was most romantic. Have you seen the oranges?" She took Elliot's hand in hers and scooted forward. "So, Herbert, how are you today?"

  Selena got slowly to her feet. For the first time, Ian could see the exhaustion in her face, the purplish shadows beneath her eyes, the tiny network of lines that bracketed her mouth. The hooded black cape seemed to swallow her, leaving only the pale, pale oval of her face.

  "I think he wants a watercress sandwich," Maeve said, looking around. "Edith?"

  Selena backed away from the bed. Ian had saved Elliot's life; she knew it as certainly as she knew anything. He'd saved Elliot, and soon she would have to say good-bye again. Again.

  Her family stood there, watching her. She knew they felt the awkwardness she had brought with her, and it

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  confused them. She was not the same Selena who had left here; they didn't know how to treat her.

  She wanted to tell them she'd missed them, wanted it so desperately, she felt sick, but she couldn't do it. The words, such little words, would open a dangerous door.

  She turned slightly and looked at Ian, saw the pain in his eyes. She was killing him, hurting the man she loved with her silence. "Thank you," she said, knowing it wasn't enough, not nearly enough.

  "That's it, Selena?" The words were ragged-sounding, harsh. "After all this time, you come back here and say thank you to me for medical assistance. For medical assistance?'

  She felt fragile in the face of his anger and pain, so fragile. The strength, the resolve, the honor-it was all falling away from her. She searched deep in her own soul for something-anything-to hang on to. "What would you have me say?" she whispered.

  Ian looked as if he'd been slapped. Then he crashed a fist through the medical instruments on the tray, sent everything clattering to the floor. "Out!" he screamed.

  The family scattered like ants, scurrying to the door, disappearing.

  Selena blinked up at him, trying to think of something to say, but there was nothing, nothing.

  "Pick up your toys, dear," Maeve reproached him softly.

  Ian lurched around the bed and grabbed Selena's wrist, his fingers punishing in their grip. Without a word, he spun toward the door and strode out of the room, dragging her behind him. In the hallway, the crowd gasped and parted.

  He led her stumbling down the hallway and through the entryway, out onto the darkened porch and beyond into the rainy night. Across the grass, down the drive . . .

  Oh, no, she thought as the moon garden came into view. Not here. Oh, Lord ...

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  Finally he spun around and stopped, staring down at her through angry, pain-darkened blue eyes. Rain slashed at his face, wind whipped his too long hair. "What would I have you say?" he hissed. "Jesus, Selena ..." "Ian, don't."

  "Don't?" He took her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. Her head snapped back at the force of the movement, her hood fell away, exposing her face to the cold rain. "What would I have you say?" He said the words again, only this time they were swollen with sadness. "How about 'I know there's no future for us, but I still love you'? Jesus, Selena. Look at me, touch

  me, something___Tell me you love me."

  She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at him. If she did, oh, God, if she did, she'd start crying and ruin it all.

  How long could she keep her need for him in check? Another day, another minute, or not even that long? She wanted him so badly, needed to feel his arms around her, needed to breathe the masculine, familiar scent of him.

  For a beat of her heart, she remembered his bed, their bed, their love, and a blushing heat crawled up her cheeks.

  "Selena?" He said her name, whispered it, and she let out a low, breathless moan.

  Slowly, not wanting to, but unable to stop herself, she opened her eyes. He stared down at her, barely breathing, his mouth drawn in a hard, straight line. But it was his eyes that destroyed her. So blue, so sad .. .

  If she leaned forward just a little, tilted her chin, he would know how much she wanted him, how desperately she still loved him. He would take her, right now, amidst the frozen flowers and the dying grass, in the garden that smelled of the last white chrysanthemums. And she would let him. God help her, she would let him.

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  I shall be honorable, Ian.

  "Ah, Selena, you're killing me." He seemed to deflate. The anger left his eyes, his breath released in a ragged sigh, his shoulders rounded. His hold on her eased, melted into gentleness.

  He looked beaten, so sad and utterly without hope, and suddenly she couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't stand his pain, or her own. She loved him, loved him more than life, and she couldn't hurt him anymore. How could she ever have thought she could?

  "Is it gone so quickly?" she murmured, reaching up, brushing the moist hair from his eyes. "Already you worry that I do not love you?"

  It took him a moment to answer, and when he did, his voice was hoarse. "I don't know what to think."

  God forgive her. "Then feel," she whispered.

  His hands slid down the wet wool of her cape and circled her waist, drawing her close, so close. She tilted her face up and pressed against him, finding warmth through the wet layers of their clothing. Overhead and all around, the sky blustered and blew, sending raindrops splashing down their cheeks.

  They came together for a wrenching, passionate kiss that tasted of sweet raindrops and bitter desperation. She clung to him, whispered his name, moaned her surrender, and knew suddenly that she'd never had a choice, not really, not in the face of this.

  He drew back, gazed down at her greedily. His fingers moved across her face in disbelief, touching, stroking, memorizing. He pulled the starched white cap from her head, let it fall to the ground.

  "Ah, Selena," he breathed, "I've missed you."

  "I've missed you, too, Ian. So much ..."

  He clung to her, stroked her wet hair from her eyes and rained kisses on her forehead, greedy, hungry kisses that seared her cold flesh. She curled into his arms and let him hold her, pressing her body tightly against his, drawing strength and comfort. It felt right, so right to be

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  in his arms. She closed her eyes and dreamed-of the future they would never have, the children she would never bear.

  "Selena." He said her name so quietly that for a moment, she thought it was the wind. She waited for him to go on, but he said nothing, and the silence hurt her in a way that no words ever could.

  Very slowly, she opened her eyes and gazed up at him. Rain splashed his face, slid down his cheeks in zigzagging lines. "There is one thing left for you to teach me, Ian."

  He took her face in his wet hands, held her with infinite gentleness. "What's that, goddess?" "Teach me to live without you." Behind him, lightning snaked across the sky, exploded in a brilliant white flash above the trees. He drew her into a fierce, desperate hug. Rain fell all around them, battered their skin and soaked their clothes.

  "I can't, Selena," he said in a broken voice. "I can't." She felt his words, hot and moist and whispered, against her ear. His warm tears slid down her throat, mingled with the freezing rain.

  She forced herself to look up at him. His belov
ed face filled her vision, made her ache with need and want and love. She lifted a hand and held it flat, watching the raindrops land like stones on her palm. "God is crying for us."

  Ian didn't smile. "The son of a bitch better be."

  Elliot woke in a strange place. An unfamiliar bed. The room was big and bright with sunlight. And messy. Clothes and trays and bandages lay scattered across the hardwood floor, heaped over the backs of chairs. The window was pushed wide open. A crisp, sea-scented breeze fluttered the sheer white curtains. Beside his bed was a small, blue-painted nightstand that boasted a pitcher of water, two cups, and a thermometer.

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  The memories hit all at once. A gunshot ... searing pain .. . clutching his chest and pitching to the frozen ground . . . Agnes, screaming her name, holding her hand ... the doc, saying Elliot would die, a blessing, really ...

  He jackknifed to a sit, and at the movement, pain exploded in his shoulder. He clutched the wound, felt the bumpy ridge of bandages, and sank once again into the comforting pile of pillows.

  Agnes, he thought. Where are you?

  As if in answer to his silent question, the bedroom door opened and Agnes appeared, carrying a tray of food. Tantalizing scents floated through the room, made his stomach grumble in response.

  She moved toward him, and her dress alone told him that they weren't in the village anymore. Not that he needed such proof-the room itself, and its clutter, were answer enough.

  She was wearing a beautiful bronze dress that reflected all the red and brown highlights in her eyes. Her hair was down, flowing in waves around her pale face. She looked exquisitely, vibrantly alive.

  She smiled brightly. "Good morning, Elliot."

  He ignored the burning pain in his chest and struggled to sit up. "Hello, Agnes."

  She put the tray on the bedside table and sat down, scooting her chair in close to the bed. "You must be hungry."

  He glanced at the food-fried potatoes and sausage, buttered biscuits with jam, and a steaming cup of coffee. Coffee. The forbidden brew smelled so tempting. "I am."

  As she prepared a plate for him, spread jam on his biscuits and salted his potatoes, he couldn't help staring at her. She looked so young and beautiful and happy. "Where are we?" he said at last.

  She flinched at the question. Slowly she put down the salt shaker and turned to him. "We are at Lethe House,

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  Elliot. I did not know anyone else who could save your life."

  "Ian saved me?"

  She nodded. "He is a great doctor." Elliot watched her. Was she truly as innocent as she appeared right now? Did she not understand what this Ian had done, how he had ruined his own life by saving Elliot's? "He must be. How long have we been here?" "Three days."