“Willow, how’re you doin’? Hope I didn’t wake you up. Those hens didn’t want to cooperate this morning, made all kinds of racket.”
“You didn’t wake me.” She pulled up a chair and sank down beside him, glimpsing the basket of newly laid eggs and the container of fresh milk that he had placed beside the door. “I can’t believe you already have the farm chores done. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Sure do. Now that I’m staying at the ranch again, I get to bed by nine.” He sighed with contentment and returned his attention to the sunrise, its golden glow highlighted by streaks of pink and mauve. “Gotta love that sunrise, don’t you?”
She nodded, then took a deep breath of crisp morning air. “It’s so beautiful here.” She heard the wistfulness in her own voice, and saw Blaze cast her a curious glance.
“It is that,” he said. “Whoever named this area must’ve been a prophet or something. It’s been a hideaway for a lot of people, and I’m not talking about just vacationers. You know Dr. Cheyenne Gideon?”
“Of course.” Dr. Gideon was married to Dane Gideon, who ran the boys’ ranch. She was also the founder and director of Hideaway Clinic. Willow had met her last week and liked her immediately.
“Would you believe she came right here to this farm for the first time two years ago?” Blaze said. “And I just happened to be here when she got here. Like to’ve scared her out of her skin.”
As Blaze launched into a story about the night single, beautiful Cheyenne Allison had come to Hideaway, Willow leaned back, appreciating the tranquillity of the morning. By the time he reached the part where Cheyenne attacked Dane with pepper spray, Willow was relaxed enough to laugh.
“Folks who hide away here don’t stay hidden, though,” Blaze said. “Seems trouble does come after them, one way or another.”
Willow looked at him, feeling a chill slide down her spine.
“I kinda figure it’s God’s way of tellin’ them not to put their whole trust in places or people, but to trust in Him alone.”
She held her tongue. Hadn’t she done that? And look where she was now.
As soon as Graham reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the great room, he caught sight of two people sitting on the deck overlooking the lake, heads close together.
Blaze and Willow, engaged in lively conversation. As he stood watching, Blaze raised his hands in a broad gesture, emphasizing a point he was making. Willow burst into laughter, her voice drifting through the glass doors.
Graham hadn’t seen her laugh like that since she’d arrived here last week. Leave it to Blaze. What was his secret?
Graham didn’t need his sister to point out that Willow had been deeply hurt by the incident with the children. He had quickly learned that she possessed an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, a good trait for an ICU nurse, but not good for someone who had been unfairly accused—or at least suspected—of a crime.
He also knew the accident had left her with a deeper sense of danger. He had noticed her watching the clinic door more closely, studying the patients, even starting nervously at times when the phone rang. He wished he could reassure her, but she was right to be so watchful.
In spite of her concerns, however, she’d insisted on renting another car, until she could replace the one that had been demolished in the wreck.
“Coffee?” Ginger’s sleep-thickened voice came from behind him.
He turned to find her dressed in scrubs, hair freshly washed, makeup understated but definitely there. “Are you coming to the clinic with me today?”
“Sure am. Hope you don’t mind if I ride in with you. Ted’s picking up my car and taking it to his shop this morning. It isn’t running right.”
“I thought Noelle Trask was due to work with me this morning,” Graham said.
“Noelle’s having morning sickness, so she called me last night. Tomorrow I’ll help out at Hideaway Clinic. No rest for the weary or the wicked.”
Graham glanced at her, surprised. “Morning sickness?”
Ginger nodded, grinning. “She and Nathan found out a few days ago that she’s pregnant. When did you stop listening to the office scuttlebutt?”
He glanced toward the window overlooking the deck.
“Ah. I see. Never mind. Stupid question.” Ginger crossed through the great room toward the kitchen. “Anyway, if Noelle’s having this much trouble now, I have a feeling I’ll be on call quite a bit in the coming weeks.”
“Willow’s been filling in quite a bit. Why don’t you take some of my cases and let Willow cover for Noelle?”
Ginger raised a brow, then nodded approvingly. “You might ask Willow if she wants to do that. You want that nasty decaf this morning or my specialty, which will curl your hair and make you happy for the rest of the day?”
“And keep me up half the night?” Graham grumbled. “I don’t need my hair curled this morning. Do we have any of that herbal stuff left?”
Ginger gave him a look of disgust over her plump shoulder. “Oh, Graham, please tell me you haven’t crossed over to the other side.”
“Where’s your loyalty to friends? I bought that stuff from Noelle’s Naturals. Don’t you want to support your pregnant colleague?”
“I’ll support her, but I don’t want to destroy my taste buds while I’m doing it.” Her steps slowed as she watched Willow and Blaze outside, apparently now deep in conversation. “Willow must’ve had another bad night. She doesn’t usually get up this early.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Graham followed his sister into the kitchen and sat on the stool at the bar that separated the kitchen from the great room. Once again, his attention was drawn to the two people on the deck, particularly to one person.
“I’m worried about her,” Ginger said softly, looking up from the coffee grinder.
“Why? Has she said something? I know she’s still having nightmares.”
Ginger filled the coffeemaker with water and turned it on, then stepped over to the bar to lean against it. “I’d be having nightmares, too, if I were her. Want to take those two some coffee once it’s brewed? Or I could poison them with your weird stuff.”
Five minutes later Graham stepped out onto the deck with a crocheted throw from the sofa draped over his arm, carrying two cups of bona fide coffee—one with cream, no sugar, the way Willow liked it. The other cup had the works, the way Blaze always drank his.
Two pairs of eyes looked up at him, and he was struck by the glint of laughter that lingered in Willow’s expression. He’d missed that this past week. She’d been so quiet.
“I was just tellin’ Willow about Hideaway’s fall festival,” Blaze said. “And the pig races, and how Fawn Morrison fell in the manure last year.”
Willow accepted the coffee from Graham. “Thanks. Are you going to have your usual nasty brew?” She looked at Blaze and gave an exaggerated shudder. “That stuff tastes as if it might come from the pigpen after those races.”
Graham rolled his eyes. “First Ginger, now you. Some people just don’t know what’s good.” He held out the remaining cup of coffee to Blaze. “Ginger fixed your favorite. Mocha with honey.”
Blaze took the cup and stood. “Mmm, mmm, mmm, she does know what I like.” He took an appreciative sip. “She in the kitchen?”
Graham nodded, placing the throw over Willow’s shoulders. She smiled her thanks. She had a beautiful smile, and he saw it far too seldom.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” Blaze said again. Graham glanced around to find the eighteen-year-old watching him with a knowing glint in his eye. “Well, I’ll go thank Ginger for my drink before I get back over to the ranch. I promised Cook I’d make breakfast this morning.”
“Don’t you ever have down time?” Graham asked.
“There’ll be time for that after I graduate, if I can save enough money.”
“Still planning to attend vet school?” Graham asked.
“If I’m accepted.” He gave Graham a sassy grin. “If not, I’ll have to settle for
med school. Maybe I’ll become a surgeon.” Chuckling, Blaze stepped through the French doors and closed them behind him. Just before he turned away, he gave Graham a thumbs-up and a quick nod of approval toward Willow, who sat gazing across the lake.
Graham felt a brief twinge of envy toward Blaze. The kid had the ability to form a bond with a complete stranger within a few minutes of conversation. Graham had been that way once, but lately his social life had screeched to a dead halt.
He’d become increasingly aware of that fact this past week, even as he’d become more and more aware of how much he enjoyed Willow’s presence in the house. For some reason, that awareness made him revert to sharp memories of insecure adolescence—or something even worse: the overwhelming conviction that he was not worth knowing. That had become obvious to him when Dena filed for divorce. The one woman who knew him best in the whole world, who shared his heart, and his deepest secrets about himself, had decided that she wanted him only if she could also have the money he earned as a surgeon.
But that kind of thinking was exactly what he’d decided not to indulge in. He said a quick, silent prayer for forgiveness, and for help to continue forgiving Dena.
Chapter Fifteen
“What’s Blaze’s real name?” Willow asked, once more turning her attention to the shimmering surface of the early morning lake.
Graham sat down in the chair Blaze had vacated. “Gavin. He nicknamed himself when he arrived at the ranch two years ago, insisted he be called Blaze.”
“Why was that?”
“He was once unfairly accused of arson.”
Willow looked up sharply. “By whom?”
“By his mother.”
Willow suddenly grew very still, hands wrapped around her coffee cup, seeking warmth. As Graham provided Willow with details, she suddenly felt like such a whiner. “These past couple of weeks I’ve felt sorry for myself because I was suspected of arson and kidnapping. Blaze lost his home and both of his parents, and was sent away to a ranch for delinquent boys. He has such a good attitude.”
“I was just thinking the same about you, considering all you’ve been through in two years,” Graham said. “You’re not exactly hiding away in your room. You help me, you handle patients and rental property, you visit the hospital every day.”
“Okay, so I’m a saint,” she said dryly, but she couldn’t prevent a smile. She took another sip of the delicious coffee and leaned back in her deck chair, appreciating the warm throw Graham had brought out for her.
“Speaking of those rentals,” she said, “I did some more background checks on Sandi. I tried calling the previous landlord with no results, so I sent them a letter. I received a reply yesterday. They didn’t know much more about her than we do. She only lived in Columbia two months. Before that, she lived in Blue Springs, which is a suburb of Kansas City.”
Graham frowned. “Interesting that she once lived in the same city you did.”
“A lot of people live in K.C. For instance, Carl lived in K.C. briefly before moving farther south in search of warmer weather. I did some research online.”
“Where did he live before that?”
“Carl had a pharmacy in Minneapolis until he retired five years ago.”
“Have you found any interesting information about the other renters?”
“Nothing that strikes me as significant. The Jasumbacks are from the Pierce City area, retired. Rick worked at a hospital in Columbia before moving here. A lot of the renters are retired. I can’t see any of them skulking around Preston’s cabin, soaking it with fuel and lighting a fire around it.”
“Never underestimate the senior citizens. Have you been able to glean any more information from the neighbors about any visitors Sandi might have had?” Graham asked.
“None,” Willow said. “But I did find out that Social Services paid a call on her last week. They’re apparently keeping a close watch on Brittany and Lucy. I’m glad.”
“So am I.”
Willow knew he wasn’t just saying that. He obviously loved children, judging by the way he coddled the youngest of his patients.
She studied his face. He had kind eyes, the color of dark amber, and generous laugh lines. She often heard him and Ginger bantering, laughing, teasing one another comfortably. And for some reason they had welcomed her into their family circle this past week as if she’d always belonged.
There were times she couldn’t help wishing…
“You’re up earlier than usual this morning,” Graham said. “Is your room warm enough at night?”
“Perfectly. I still don’t sleep the best, and I decided long ago that it’s easier to just get up than to lie there and try to get back to sleep.”
“Would that possibly be due to more of the nightmares you mentioned before?”
She closed her eyes and nodded. “Please tell me I haven’t done anything outrageous like sleepwalk or scream or—”
“No sleepwalking. You can relax. Is it still the same dream?”
She nodded. “Sometimes it’s more graphic than others.”
“Do you have a clear memory of it when you wake up?”
“Not always. This morning I did. A man, lying in a casket lined with white. He’s angry with me, and he sometimes sits up, or even stands up from the casket, reaching for me as if he wants to strangle me.”
Graham frowned. “You know that would be a very difficult thing to do. I know, because our church youth group conned me into playing a dead man who sat up in a casket in a play.”
“This is a dream, Graham, not reality.”
“You never recognize the person?”
“Never, except to tell that he’s a man.”
“And the setting? Always a casket?”
“Always.”
“You’re sure it’s a casket? It isn’t as if he’s stepping through a door or a window of light, or something else rectangular?”
She hesitated, trying to bring to mind an image from one of the dreams. But as with most dreams, the edges of it had always grown fuzzy as soon as she awakened, and with time the images dissipated completely. “No, I don’t think so, because he sits up from it. Or he stands up and lunges toward me. I think the reason I feel it’s a casket is because he’s so deathly pale.”
“In this dream, does he ever catch you?”
“No. Believe me, I’ve tried to figure it out.”
“Remember what Ginger said about it? That it might be a message from your subconscious?”
“Of course, but what kind of message? I just don’t know.”
He shrugged. “My immediate impression is that you might have seen someone or noticed something that could be the cause of what’s been happening. The detail could be so seemingly insignificant that you’ve dismissed it consciously. I’m certainly no expert in dream study, however.”
“I just assumed it was grief. This man could even be a representation of my husband, Travis, and possibly a reflection of my residual anger at him for leaving me as he did.”
“Or it could be anger at yourself,” Graham suggested. “Perhaps you’re feeling guilty because you’re still alive when your husband isn’t.”
She took another sip of the coffee, then set the cup down and folded her hands in her lap. “Today is the second anniversary of his death.”
Graham was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry. That could account for an active dream life. But what if it isn’t? How do you feel about talking to a friend of mine at church who is a psychologist?”
“No.”
Graham blinked at her, surprised, and she realized she’d snapped the word a little forcefully. “Preston urged me to do that once when we were talking about the possibility of inheriting Mom’s illness.”
“I’m not talking about psychoanalyzing you. I’m talking about trying to get to the bottom of this dream. What if it really does have something to do with everything that’s happened to you?”
“No. Call me paranoid, but that would make me nervous.”
&
nbsp; “You’re not psychotic, Willow. Trust me.”
“And you’re an expert on the subject?”
“Not even close, but I find psychology fascinating, and spent some time on rotations with a psychiatrist. I found it so interesting I gave up some free time to study with her further.”
“Why would a surgeon want to do that?” she asked, relieved the former subject had been so easily deflected.
“It never hurts to have a little extra understanding about the human psyche. It comes in handy now, especially, since I’m no longer strictly a surgeon.”
“I noticed you were taking quite a few general medical cases.”
“I feel that’s what God has called me to do.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand His methods. Look at all you’ve given up to follow that calling. He sure has an interesting way of dealing with His children.”
Graham didn’t reply, and she stared out across the lake.
“Would you like a refill?” he asked.
She glanced at him. He wasn’t going to argue with her about her take on God? “No, thanks.”
“I think my nasty concoction is finished brewing.” He reached for her cup and stood up. “Would you wait here for a minute? I’ll be right back.”
Graham took a large mug down from the cabinet, glancing at Willow through the window. He knew enough about the grief process to recognize it when it stared him in the face. He’d gone through that himself, and he was still praying daily to continue forgiving Dena. His bitterness wasn’t aimed toward God the way Willow’s was, but it was there.
Lord, give me wisdom. Show me what to say. If You would, touch her through me with Your healing grace.
He took his time preparing his drink, and he fixed Willow another cup in spite of her polite refusal.
When he carried their cups back out to the deck, she had nudged the throw from her shoulders and formed a pillow with it. She had her head back and was soaking up the early morning sunshine.
He handed the cup to her. “I thought you might change your mind. It’s still a little cool out here.”
She thanked him and accepted it, watching him with an expression of wariness as he settled. “No sermon?”
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