The Stranger in Her Bed

by Janet Chapman

  He crawled in behind her and started taking off his boots.

  "Aren't you going to close the door to shut off the light?"

  "Just as soon as you show me what's under that raincoat," he said, unbuckling his belt.

  "Did you bring any condoms?"

  His hands stilled on his fly. "Did you?"

  Anna sighed. "I didn't think that far ahead."

  He reached out and began undoing the belt of her raincoat. "We don't need them. We've got three nights to see if we can keep the Knight family tradition going."

  "What tradition?"

  He gave her a lopsided smile. "Of us Knight men marrying pregnant women," he said, his fingers next going to work on her coat buttons.

  Anna crushed the lapels of her raincoat at her throat. "A baby?" she whispered. "You want us to have a baby?"

  "With beautiful green eyes and hair down to her waist."

  Anna covered his hand when it went to the next button. "What if she wants to own a mill when she grows up?"

  "Then we'll give her Fox Run," he said, working his fingers under hers until the button released. "It might be in full operation by then. Ten seconds left, Segee, before you're going in the lake."

  Anna slowly pulled the edges of her raincoat apart, finally revealing what she was wearing. "Claire told me to tell you that this is her wedding present to you," she said, letting the coat fall to the blankets.

  It took him a few moments, but he finally lifted his deeply appreciative eyes to hers. "I really like Claire," he said thickly. "And I love you, Anna. Will you marry me?"

  She plopped her chin in her hand and looked up at the ceiling to think about that.

  "You're down to four seconds," he growled, reaching back and closing the door, plunging them into darkness.

  Anna lunged before he could guess her intention and had him pinned flat on his back with two seconds to spare. "Say it again," she demanded, wishing the light was still on so she could see his face.

  "Umm… say what again? I seem to have lost my train of thought. Maybe if you say it again, I'll remember."

  Anna shook her head, realized he couldn't see her, and wiggled her hips to settle more firmly against him, knowing he got that gesture when he shuddered beneath her. "Guess what I found in the drugstore, next to the women's book on affairs?"

  "Toys?" he asked way too eagerly, his own hips lifting.

  "No, a book on marriage," she purred, lowering her mouth real close to his. "And it said we women need to make sure you men say it first. It said you're supposed to say it three times a day, four times on Sundays."

  "Oh," he said, sighing in disappointment. "It didn't even mention toys?"

  "Nope. But it did come with a nice set of handcuffs."

  He went still beneath her. "For you or for me?"

  Anna brushed her lips against his. "Say it again, Ethan," she whispered. "So we can start making our baby."

  "I love you, Abigail Anna Segee."

  "And?"

  "And I would be honored if you'd marry me in three days," he added, lifting his head and kissing her.

  But just as he got his hands free to capture her shoulders and deepen the kiss, Anna lifted her head. "What is that noise I keep hearing?" she asked, trying to see through the darkness. "It sounds like chewing." She scrambled off him. "And it's coming from inside the truck," she said, ignoring Ethan's long-suffering groan as she crawled off him to peer over the front seat.

  "He was supposed to be a surprise for after," he said, getting on his knees beside her and reaching into the front seat. "Hey, quit chewing on your bow. Now you got it all wet and tangled. Come on, you little varmint," he said, lifting something over the headrest and plopping it in her lap.

  The squirming shadow started licking her hands. "A puppy!"

  Ethan snapped on one of the soft map lights in the ceiling console, and Anna burst out laughing when the puppy leapt up, his little pink tongue aimed at her face. "Ethan, he's adorable. Where did you get him? And when?" she asked, fighting to control the squirming, licking black bundle.

  Apparently deciding he wasn't getting anywhere with her, the puppy suddenly lunged toward Ethan. Ethan caught him with a laugh and quickly subdued him, holding him against his chest, where he immediately began to chew on one of his shirt buttons. "It took a bit of digging, but I found out that old Bear had fathered a litter or two in his day," Ethan told her. "This little guy is Bear's great, great grandson."

  "That's perfect!" she said, reaching out to pat the young black Lab. "What did you name him?"

  "I'm leaving that to you. Oww!" he said, pulling his fingers away. "I've just been calling him Puddle, because that's what I've been cleaning up in my cabin all afternoon." Ethan's eyes suddenly turned pained as he lifted the pup off his lap. "Damn. Why do babies and puppies think I make a good bathroom?" he growled, looking down at the dark spot on his pants.

  Anna took the pup with a laugh, and cuddled him to her. "Take off your shirt," she said.

  "It's my pants that got wet."

  "Them next. But first put your shirt in the crate for him to sleep on," she suggested. "Your scent will be comforting, and he should settle right down."

  Ethan took off his shirt and stuffed it in the dog crate sitting on the front seat, then put the puppy in next.

  "Now the pants," she said huskily, reaching up to switch off the overhead light.

  Ethan stopped her. "Let's leave it on."

  Anna changed direction and reached for him instead, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him down on top of her. "I love you, Ethan Knight. Forever and ever."

  "So you'll marry me on Saturday?"

  Anna nodded. "But the anniversary we'll celebrate is today, and for the next sixty years we spend that night in our truck, just like tonight." When he grinned, she frowned up at him. "What's so funny about that?"

  He shook his head, his eyes bright with amusement. "I'm just trying to picture us at ninety, making love in the back of a truck. I guess we better keep taking our vitamins." Then his mouth captured hers in a kiss loaded with the promise of what was to come.

  Letter from LakeWatch

  Dear Reader,

  I most often wake up writing. Usually between three and four a.m., the characters in whatever story I'm working on begin stirring in my subconscious, urging me out of my earthbound dreams and into their ethereal world. It doesn't seem to matter that I could use another hour of sleep; these earthbound people are in such a hurry to get on with their lives that they don't much care about mine. They've been quite patient, they point out, to have put their problems on hold while I recharged my mental batteries. And since I had the nerve to imagine them into existence to begin with, I am their only means of achieving happily ever after.

  I have awakened to whispered conversations, the sound of something falling in a far corner of my bedroom, and occasional eye-opening shouts that only I seem to hear. I've tried ignoring these determined figments of my imagination by using my sons' trick of simply pretending I'm still asleep. I've tried directing my thoughts to other things, such as grocery and to-do lists. Sometimes, I must admit, I even shout back. But inspiration is a relentless taskmaster, and eventually I am compelled to get up, get dressed, get over to my studio, and get writing.

  This is not an easy thing for me to do in the dead of winter, when the outside thermometer reads ten below, there's a foot of new snow on the ground, and I just happen to be scared of the dark. I think that's why God blessed me with an indulgent husband who, without complaint, will get up, get dressed, walk me to my studio, and open every closet door in the place looking for the proverbial bogeyman. (Though Robbie claims he checks the newspapers regularly, and has yet to see any reports of anyone being accosted by a bogeyman, I still can't make that short trek alone when it's dark out, much less bring myself to open those closet doors.)

  Time is an earthly concept, I've decided, designed to give us humans a false sense of control. I came to this conclusion one particularly early wint
er morning when Robbie and I stepped outside and found ourselves in a fantasy world. Four inches of new snow covered everything in a pristine mantle of white that glittered in the starlight like crystal gems. The world was uncharacteristically silent, and so were we as we gazed around at the splendor laid before us. My eye caught the flash of something overhead, and I looked up to see thick ribbons of green light pulsing across the sky in endless waves of brilliant energy.

  The aurora borealis occurs when electrons from the sun's solar winds are drawn into the earth's magnetic field, where they collide with oxygen and nitrogen in the ionosphere. The result is a light show that is unrivaled in its ability to instill sheer awe. And on this particular morning, the sky appeared to be a living, breathing thing.

  Time was suspended as the universe gave us a small glimpse of its vast mystical powers, and my incessant need to rise hours before the sun suddenly became clear to me. There are no clocks or calendars out there, I realized, which is why inspiration never seems to arrive with any semblance of order or logic, let alone any concern about sleep, meals, familial obligations, contract deadlines, or a new grandson needing his gram's attention.

  Inspiration, like the universe, just is.

  Many people have asked me where I get my ideas for the stories I write, and I have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. But not for lack of trying, for I, too, would like to know not only how, but why these characters step out of the ether and take up residence in my mind, refusing to leave until I tell their stories so that they may enter your minds through my books. They want to be known, to inspire us, tug on our emotions, and endear themselves in our hearts. They want… they want simply to be.

  Once I've told their stories, they very quietly get on with their lives and leave me to get on with my own. My peaceful little corner of the world— and my sleep pattern— returns to normal. That is, until another group of characters come marching in like Mardi Gras revelers, shouting and knocking things off my bureau.

  Not that I'm complaining. I love these people. Just like you and me, they have wants, needs, secret desires, and dreams of their own. They bravely face their trials and tribulations, and hopefully conquer their fears and triumph in their endeavors. They laugh and cry and feel very much what we flesh-and-blood mortals feel as we try to find our own way in this mystifying world. Yes, the characters in my stories are as real as the northern lights that blessed Robbie and me with the wonderful gift of connective awareness on that utterly magical morning.

  So what awakens you, and compels you to get up, get dressed, and get going?

  Until later, from LakeWatch… happy reading!