by J. J. Keller
“I had a situation to resolve before I could find out if we had a future. And I doubted myself.” He gave her a brief stroke on her cheek at the edge of her mouth, his hand tightened on her waist.
“Do you plan to have a future with us?” she questioned as her stomach heaved in rebellion. What if he said “maybe” or “no”?
“You better believe it,” he trumpeted.
She relaxed as he continued to describe the winter berry bushes and various types of trees. He didn’t ask any questions, which was good because she couldn’t reply with clear logical contemplation or repeat what he had stated. Her thoughts focused on him, their future, and what his touch did to her senses.
His fingers rested against her coat, not in contact with her skin but she could feel the burn. Her pulse rode along her veins at a quicker pace.
His spearmint-scented breath tickled the side of her face. Her cheek gravitated toward his perfect lips. As she hoped, he kissed her. Simple sweet connections, making her feel more in love with him. They were blending together like oils on a canvas, no harsh lines, just simple pure beauty.
“Up here on the right is the structure. I say structure because only the shell remains. Unfortunately, it’s late afternoon and overcast. There won’t be sun shining down and highlighting the best features.” As Morgan made the statement, the glimmer of sun peeking behind a cloud lost its luster. The sky blanketed with clouds, creating an ominous gloom.
“What was the building used for?” The answer was obvious, but she wanted his lips close to her face again.
“Originally, as a family home, then a caretaker’s place, and today, an inspirational site for my fiancée.” He tucked his cheek against hers as the house came into view.
Fiancée. She lifted upward easing the tingling. His knees squeezed her thighs. Desire rocketed through her, heating her. She wanted to be his bride and practice marketing every night.
“The ramshackle house’s solid foundation remains firm despite the roof having caved in recently. Last time I was here the porch collapsed to the point of joining roof to floor. Obviously, it should be taken down.” He stopped the horse within feet of the overgrown hedge or vines or weeds of some sort.
She loved the exterior. Washed gray stone had battled the test of time. Broken paned windows provided a peek into the interior. A small preacher’s cap at the top of the second story remained intact. Vines had woven in the remaining black and rusted steel of the casement. The rotten door hung askew. The cottage style rounded wood had, at one time, created a soft romantic entry. “I’d like to see the inside if possible.”
Morgan hadn’t responded. She glanced at him. Even with his Stetson shading his face, his eyes were narrowed as if evaluating the situation.
“We’ll peek inside. If the interior appears dangerous, I’ll do whatever you wish, back out, go forward. You’ll be calling the shots,” she offered. From his silence and intense evaluation of the house she anticipated “no” as the answer.
He stared.
She blinked.
The corners of his mouth lifted.
She grinned. His actions were so similar to Justin’s she wanted to weep with happiness.
“I go first.” His smile widened. Green eyes glittered.
Shania nodded, holding the victory laughter inside. She slipped her right leg over the saddle horn, and slid to the ground. Silver Star shied a step.
Morgan patted the steed’s neck and spoke softly into his ear. “Whoa, there, there.”
Silver Star snorted, stopped his sidestep. A moment later he settled.
Morgan dismounted, then flung the leads over the saddle. Shania admired the faith he had in his mount not to take flight, a true telling of the measure of the man. Loyalty and trust were a part of Morgan’s character as shown by his horse, family and friends.
Due to the late November frost, a path had formed from decaying weeds. Morgan tucked her hand into his and led the way to the steps. He gingerly stepped onto the wooden portico, keeping her at arm’s length. The scent of decayed wood and aromatic plant life created a private conservatory. She loved the ambience, old world but strong and reliable because of the solid foundation―just like Morgan.
“Take small steps, follow my trail.” He dropped her hand.
His footprints were obvious in the dirt covered porch. She stepped in his shoe imprints, making their path become one. Her breath faltered. She’d always follow him, anywhere on Earth as long as they could be together. The squeak of metal against metal brought her attention to Morgan. He shoved the door open. She held steady as he glanced inside.
“There is a barrel size hole in the floor about two feet in front of the opening. We’ll avoid the crater and keep to the right side.”
“Right. Got it,” she replied.
He stepped farther into the house. She passed over the threshold. He slid his arm around her waist drawing her close to his side. Rotten boards had fallen inward or upward as a large tree branch had plummeted through the roof. In the middle of the room, a dead, leafless, potted plant’s thick end leaned against the fireplace, blocking the opening. The natural stone hearth covered a good portion of the wall. Muted light continued to filter through. A moment of sun created illuminating shadows on the partitions and floor.
Branches had decayed and fallen into the floor’s hole, plugging the cracks. The musty scent of the flora added to the romance of the house. A staircase to the left had a broken banister. The ragged moth-eaten oriental rug at one time had padded the steps.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. She turned into his arms, gazed at him. The cloudy day seemed brighter as a result of being alone with Morgan, by having him in her life.
“Not as beautiful as you,” he replied. Her chest expanded as she absorbed his sincerity.
His lips pressed against her cheek. “I think any structure built on a solid foundation will stand the test of time and survive any damages that may come along.”
By the glint in his eyes, he referred to their relationship as well as the cottage. If she hadn’t already been in love with him, that moment would have convinced her that Morgan Hardwick was the one for her. His consideration was undeniable. His heroic caring attitude made her admiration for him expand with pride and adoration.
As he wrapped both arms snug around her, he kissed her. “Shania, I want to ask you to…”
Thunder rumbled. Sharp swords of white slashed into the now dark space. Silver Star whined.
She inhaled the scent of the impending downpour and placed her gloved hand on Morgan’s broad chest. “Yes, Morgan.”
Another reverberating rumble followed by a strike of lighting illuminated their intimate space. A dash of wind blew broken twigs and leaves into tiny cyclones.
“Damn, I didn’t plan this very well. I want to talk to you, but not rush the words out like a gusher. We should leave. The cold November rain will chill us to the bones if we get caught in the torrent.” Hands clasped, he shoved aside a broken branch, and led her out of their secret place.
Had he wanted to tell her he loved her? To ask her to marry him--for real?
Chapter 16
Shania put the finishing touches on the painting of Morgan and Justin feeding the ducks she’d sketched a few days before. She had created two pieces as gifts for Morgan’s mother and father. One etching defined Morgan’s exquisite side view. The plain, pencil-sketched portrait exhibited his wonderful character, the glint in his eye and the lifted corner of his mouth.
The duck scene deserved color. She had limited materials to work with, a sketch pad made of high-end cotton, and artist-quality oil pastel crayons. A blending of the oils challenged her. She started with the brown grasses in the corner of the page getting a feel for the smudging and merging. The grease paints flowed, filling in the background. Their faces were a trifle more difficult. She found a couple of cotton tips and toothpicks to help her form the details. Quite pleased with the final result, she celebrated by dancing around the room. Morgan�
��s midnight blue jacket and Justin’s crimson coat made the picture pop with vibrancy.
Morgan had created two plain mission-style frames before he left to fix a tenant’s plumbing problem. She ran her fingers over the smooth wood, appreciating his exceptional carpentry.
She glanced at the kitchen clock, two hours until dinner. He would arrive soon. They would drive her car, to his parents’ house, since it had the child seat strapped in, and could fit a family better than the truck. Family. He called them a family and she rejoiced in the thought they could become a permanent unit. She carried the artwork from the house and stowed the two pieces in the front passenger seat. The temperature had risen several degrees. Delicate snowflakes fluttered from the air. She held the sides of her coat close together and glanced into the gray overcast sky. At one time she loved to play in the snow, creating angels and smashing icy-balls together to throw at her cousins.
She’d teach Justin how to make a snow fort if … Would they stay with Morgan in Cyan? Should she plan on going back to Briarwood? Outside of mentioning an “engagement” in Monsieur Barrett’s office and the loose use of fiancée at the cottage, not another word had been spoken of their future. Should she bring up the topic? What if he had been trying to help her, as he always did, and wasn’t sincere? She’d initiate an awkward situation if she introduced the subject of expectations or marriage.
“What are you daydreaming about?”
She lowered her face, from skyward, and met Beck’s stare. What could he possibly want? “I thought you went back to Briarwood.”
Justin would be getting up from his nap. She didn’t want any sort of confrontation around him. Her breath caught. She didn’t want Justin to be told Morgan wasn’t his father. She bit her bottom lip and pushed her hand against her stomach, trying to stop the cramping and twisting.
“I couldn’t leave without wishing you luck.” His face was hard, jaw tight with a vibration twitching on the lower left side. Icy blue eyes narrowed and bits of anger glinted from their shallow depths. Before he went to Iraq he used to smile including his eyes. The three or four times she’d talked to him in the past year, melancholy or rage seemed to be his usual expressions.
“Luck?” She smiled and moved her hand from her belly. Her first love would always remain a part of her history, despite his refusal to acknowledge their past relationship. Beck remained in the past. Morgan was steadfastly planted in her present and God willing, her future.
“I remember everything, Shania.” Beck stepped closer to her.
She jumped back, hoping he hadn’t noticed her quivering arms, and placed both shaking hands on her stomach to hold in the spasms. “Regarding?”
“You never wrote to me once. I wonder why?” He gripped her arm and pulled.
“Odd, I thought you had Shania-amnesia.” Flippancy hadn’t been a part of her character until now, but she hit the target.
He narrowed his eyes. A low growl came from his throat.
“You never wrote to me. Not one letter or sexy telephone connection.” Angry hard hitting words rang through the air.
“I never received a message from you, so how could I have a return address?” She jerked her arm from his and pushed away. “Strange behavior, for a devoted fiancé, don’t you think?”
He snarled, then continued as if she hadn’t made the last comment. “At first, I received regular updates from Morgan. He let you live almost rent-free in his house. Did you trade sex for rent?”
“No.” Her mind whirled. “I sent the check to an LLC.”
Morgan owned the little house on Beeker. Beck had known she was desolate and never contacted her? Her tiny bit of love for Beck leaked, leaving an open fissure behind.
“He helped deliver my son. Don’t give me that surprised look. Justin resembles me. His attitude is exactly like yours. From what I understand, he’s gifted with my talent.” A slight smile appeared on his face and disappeared as fast as the lacy flakes of snow melting in the warm air. “I knew our children would be unusual.”
“Your parents will never, ever, get him, Beck. Your name isn’t on the birth certificate. The Longviews do not exist to him,” she spat. She pivoted, started toward the house.
“He’s only marrying you because of the vow.”
Shania stopped, dead, and turned. Her heartbeats, pulsing in her throat, halted. “What?”
“You remember. I made my best friend, Morgan, swear he’d take care of you until I was able to do so again. He asked you to marry him out of pity. He thinks I won’t remember. I do.” His tick jumped faster, his eyes sparkled with glee.
“It’s none of your business what I do with my life, Beck.” She swallowed the bile in her throat, pivoted and demurely hurried to the cottage.
“Wait,” he coaxed.
She stilled.
Beck’s tone lowered, almost becoming a whine. “Wait for me to come…”
Oh God, he was her client, S1287. He’d called, talked to her through Companion Connections for the past year. He requested she say naughty things. As a result of the extended amount of phone time she’d been able to quit the job and go to school full-time. Did he know she was Shay?
Unable and unwilling to turn around, she grasped the door handle. A quick shove and she’d be inside, away from him.
“To you. Shania, I did send you letters, to your parents’ address.”
“You’re not a part of our lives, Beck. Leave us alone.” She rushed inside and shut and locked the door. So cold. She wrapped the coat close to her numb skin. A quick glance at Justin, asleep on the sofa, proved he was quiet and unaware of the upheaval. The destruction of her hopes and dreams.
A cartoon darted across the television screen. The alphabet song filled the room as the character sang. Shania shuffled to the air register. She stood on top of the metal grate, allowing the heat to slide up her legs and enter her system.
Her research in the university library validated PTSD didn’t erase memories, which was the problem. The victims want to get rid of the horror, the visions of their past. Beck knew while denying her and Justin’s existence. He’d always remembered her, so why had he contradicted the knowledge?
Had Shania’s parents kept Beck’s letters? No, Beck lied. He never sent correspondence. How would he benefit by lying?
The answer: Because Beck actually didn’t want to marry her. He hadn’t believed her son was his. What had changed? Why did he want to acknowledge Justin? She bit her lip. The Longviews had been notified of Justin’s gift. They could get a lot of publicity from being tied to a three-year-old artistic genius. She wouldn’t allow Beck to further a possible political career by using Justin. Morgan would protect his son.
The ringing cellphone brought her out of her musings. She dug the sleek device out of her rear pocket as she walked to the front door to look outside. “Hello.”
Beck had left. She trotted back to the heater. Justin stirred, his eyelids fluttering.
“Shania, it’s Monsieur Barrett. I’m excited to tell you I’ve taken Justin’s artwork to a gallery in The Village, on Thistle Down Street. Do you remember we talked about the prestigious gallery?” His voice vibrated as he rushed the words.
Justin’s sleepy blue-green eyes stared at her.
She lowered her voice. “I’m sorry I don’t. Are the Longviews involved in the gallery in any way, even as a silent partner?”
“No. The owner, Jim Caraway, is on the advisory board for Briarwood’s museum, but he is not associated in his private business with the Longviews. I said I’d let him know within the hour. Are you willing to let me showcase Justin’s work?” His breathless voice stopped. Silence ensued.
Justin slid off the sofa and toddled down the hallway.
Her mind shouted no, but her spirit protested. Her son’s genius should be viewed by others. Even the still-life of a peach he’d created. “Yes.”
“You and Justin need to be at the gallery one week from Tuesday at six sharp,” he exclaimed. “Need I tell you to dress as a
professional?”
He was rude and insulting--she knew which garments were appropriate for a gallery showing. “Why so soon?”
“He had an opening at the last minute. Since Justin’s work is on a small scale he’s exhibiting the two pieces.” The sound of rough, dry hands rubbing together transmitted through the phone.
“Right. We’ll be there.” She disconnected. The sound of water being splashed came from the guest bath. She walked down the hallway and leaned against the frame of the open door. Justin rubbed his hands together creating bubbles, and then smacked his palms. Clouds of soap rose into the air. She smiled. “Want a snack?”
“Crunch?” he asked and yawned. She’d given him a bath before his nap. Short fuzz lifted on one side of his head.
She placed her fingers in the water, testing the temperature. “Rinse off your hands. I’ll get you a peach, because soon we’re going to dinner.”
Her wet fingers worked through his short locks, smoothing down the hair. He played in the water for a few more minutes, and then they walked into the kitchen. She helped him onto a stool and tucked a towel into his shirt, hoping the cloth would absorb the drops of water.
He grabbed the cotton and pulled.
“The towel will keep your shirt clean. You won’t have to change again.” She tugged the cloth farther down.
He quirked an eyebrow as if thinking about it, probably deciding how much more time he’d have to play if a change wasn’t in the equation. “Okay.”
She lifted a peach from the counter. Her stomach churned as she peeled off the skin. A moment later she considered calling Barrett and cancelling. Her fingers scooped out the pit before slicing the flesh. She didn’t want Justin’s art to be placed in a show, drawing more undesirable attention. As she placed bright orange-yellow slices on a plate she reconsidered. Shania Miller always honored her agreements. She grabbed the jug of milk from the fridge and filled the sippy-cup.