by Gina Wilkins
Nothing.
She sat on the couch and looked at the old photograph in her lap. Her thoughts were a maelstrom of questions, emotions, memories, doubts. Shadows crept like wraiths across the floor as the evening advanced. Bailey hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights when she’d come in; the darkness didn’t trouble her now. It seemed appropriate for the newest turn her life had taken.
If only she could talk to him. She touched a fingertip to the shadowy face in the photograph and leaned her head wearily against the back of the couch, closing her eyes. She wished there were some way she could contact him.
When she opened her eyes again, he was there.
10
December 7, 1910
Something is wrong with me. I have difficulty explaining, even to Dr. Cochrane, but I know that something is not right. I tire so easily these days. My limbs feel heavy, and there is a weakness in my right hand. Last night, my water glass fell from my fingers, as though all the strength had left my grip. My head seems to hurt all the time. Not excruciating. It is just a constant, dull, nagging ache.
Gaylon is worried. I see it in his eyes when he looks at me. I believe the staff is beginning to worry, as well. They have been so kind, so solicitous lately. Particularly Emma. She frets so. I wish she wouldn’t, especially now that she is expecting a baby. Poor Emma. Pregnant and left alone. Gaylon wanted to let her go when she told us. I told him we would do no such thing. Emma Watson has been with me for years. I will not turn my back on her in her time of need. I’ve promised that she will have a job here at the inn for as long as she needs one.
Gaylon wants me to make a will. He said we both ought to, in case something should happen to one of us. He assured me he doesn’t think there is any reason to worry about my health, but he has mentioned the will several times. He told me he wants to provide for Charles, entrusting the boy to my care until he reaches his majority. And, he wishes me to settle the ownership of the inn in case I die before he does.
The inn, of course, belongs to my children. James built this place with his dreams, his sweat, his hopes and his love. There has never been any question in my mind that it will belong to his son and his daughter. I told Gaylon that. He has always agreed with me that I could make no other choice.
He has asked me to name him as executor of the estate until the twins reach their twenty-fifth birthday, should I die before that day. He said it would be best for the inn, and for the twins. He promised he would take care of the place, that he would turn it over at the proper time without hesitation. I have been married to him long enough now to believe in his sincerity. He has enjoyed managing the inn, and he will not look forward to the day it is no longer his to control, but he will honor his promise.
As for Charles, he shows no interest in innkeeping. To be honest, Charles displays little interest in anything other than his books and his lofty dreams of someday having a great deal of money. He knows all too well that he would never make that kind of fortune with this simple country inn. We get by, but we have never been rich. Nor have I ever cared. I have my children. I consider myself wealthy, indeed.
I must consider the possibility that I will die before my children are grown. I must decide what would be best for them. Obviously, they need guidance. Twenty-five does not seem an unreasonable age for them to become responsible for the management of the inn. Mary Anna will most likely marry before then, and move into a new home with her husband, but Ian, I think, will stay on. He loves this inn deeply. He has always expected to own it someday. Gaylon’s suggestion has merit.
Gaylon and I will speak to our man of affairs next week. Regardless of my state of health now, these things should not be left to chance. I hope I will be here to watch my children grow to adulthood, to see my daughter married, to hold my grandchildren in my arms. I hope to be the one to pass the ownership of the inn to my son when the time is right. But if I am not granted that much more time, then I want to die knowing that I have done my best for my children.
I love them so much.
BAILEY WASN’T SURE he was really there at first. The room was so dim by now that he was only a darker silhouette against the shadows. And then he moved toward her.
She jumped up and turned on the light.
He looked exactly the same. His hair, his face, the dark shirt and suit. The look of hopeless longing in his eyes.
But she couldn’t see him in exactly the same way she had before, she realized dazedly. Where before she’d thought him just an exasperatingly enigmatic man who intrigued her more than any man she’d ever known, now she knew who—and what—he really was. And she was having a great deal of trouble knowing what to do about it. What she felt. How she should act.
“Bran,” she whispered, and moistened her lips, which had gone dry and stiff.
“Bailey,” he said, searching her face intently. “Are you all right? How long have I been gone?”
Where had he gone? And why?
She cleared her throat, trying to concentrate on his questions rather than her own. “I—I don’t know, exactly,” she said, having no idea of the time. “A few hours.”
She didn’t try to answer his first question. She couldn’t. She wasn’t at all sure she was all right.
His gaze fell to the wooden frame she held like a shield against her breasts. “What are you holding?”
Slowly, she turned the photograph toward him.
His eyelashes flickered. “Where did you find that?”
“Dean had it hidden in his room. Aunt Mae told me about it.”
“It’s a very good picture of Anna,” he murmured.
She nodded. “And of you.”
His gaze lifted again, his dark eyes flaming so intently she could almost feel the heat. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
The first flicker of anger penetrated the numbing shock Bailey had felt since that moment when Elva had looked at Bran and hadn’t seen him. “I see. So you left me in ignorance. You lied to me.”
He winced. “I never lied to you,” he insisted. “I just didn’t tell you… everything.”
“You lied, Bran,” she insisted, clinging to the anger. It was so much easier to bear than the grief. “Or should I call you Ian? Or whoever the hell you are.”
She lifted an unsteady hand to her aching temple. “God, I feel like Lois Lane,” she muttered.
He frowned. “Who?”
“Another woman too stupid to put two and two together and come up with the truth.”
“You aren’t stupid. Far from it.”
“Funny,” she said with a flat laugh,” I’m feeling pretty dense. I came here to escape the mess I’d made of my life in Chicago, and now look what I’ve done. I’ve fallen for a ghost.”
“I told you I didn’t want that to happen.”
“Didn’t you?” she asked, remembering her aunt’s theory.
“What do you mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Having Dean fall in love with your sister apparently gave her another chance at life. Maybe you thought the same thing would happen for you.”
He visibly recoiled. “You can’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she whispered. “I only know that I’m so damned tired of being used by the men I meet.”
His own temper flared, making his face harden, his eyes glitter dangerously. His voice was very soft. “You’re comparing me to that man who threatened you? And the other fools who preceded him?”
“There weren’t that many,” she snapped defensively. “But they did have one thing in common with you. They didn’t mind lying when it suited their purposes, either.”
“Bailey.” He moved closer, his hand lifted toward her, his expression softened. “Let me explain—”
Instinctively, she flinched.
He froze. His hand clenched, then dropped to his side.
The look in his eyes broke her heart.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I—”
“The one poss
ibility I couldn’t accept,” he said hoarsely, “was that you would be afraid of me.”
“But I’m—”
A sudden pounding on the door, so hard and so loud it rattled the windows, made Bailey jump.
“Bailey! Bailey, please. Help us!”
The muffled cry was Cara’s. Even through the door, the terror in her voice was obvious.
Bailey dropped the photograph and sprang for the door. She fumbled with the locks for a moment. Cara and Casey fell inside almost before Bailey could get the door fully open. Both of them were pale and crying.
“Lock it!” Cara insisted, shoving the door closed. “He’s out there. We have to call someone.”
Bailey had already turned the lock. “Who’s out there?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”
Cara put her arms around her whimpering, trembling daughter and huddled over her. “His name is Rance Owens. I testified against him two years ago. He went to prison, but he escaped. He’s been looking for me ever since. I don’t know how he found me this time, but—oh, Bailey, we have to get help. He’s insane. He won’t stop until—”
“I’ll call the police,” Bailey said, snatching up the telephone and listening to the dial tone. “You and Casey sit on the couch. You’ll be safe in here.” She hoped.
She watched as Cara led Casey to the couch, passing within inches of the man who stood there looking at Bailey with concern. It was quite obvious that they weren’t aware of his presence.
“Summon the police,” he urged. “If he’s determined enough, your locks won’t keep him out.”
Bailey nodded and dialed 911. She waited with held breath for a ring at the other end of the line. She heard only silence.
Praying she’d done something wrong, she pressed the disconnect button, then waited impatiently for another dial tone.
There wasn’t one.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, trying again for a tone. “Oh, no.”
“What’s wrong?” Ian demanded.
She looked at him helplessly. “I think he’s cut the line. I can’t get through to anyone.”
“Damn.”
Cara gasped. “You can’t get through?”
Bailey turned toward the couch. “No. The phone isn’t working.”
Casey sobbed and hid her face in her mother’s chest.
Bailey made a sudden decision. “I’ll run for help,” she said. “You lock the doors behind me and then lock yourselves into the bathroom. There’s no window in there.”
“No!”
“No, Bailey. You don’t know him like I do. He’s crazy. He’ll do anything to get to me.”
Ian and Cara had spoken at the same time. Bailey focused on Cara as she argued. “He isn’t after me,” she said. “We can’t just stay out here waiting for him to make a move. I have to get help. It’s only a few yards to the inn. If the phones are out there, I’ll get the staff, the guests, anyone I can find to help us.”
“Bailey, no,” Ian protested. “If he’s as dangerous as she says, he won’t hesitate to hurt you. I—I can’t protect you,” he added, obviously hating the admission of impotence.
She looked at him, then, not caring that Cara might find it strange. “I have to do something.”
“And if he has a gun?” Ian’s expression was tortured now. “I couldn’t bear it if you died out there in the darkness, Bailey. The way—”
The way Anna and I did. The words hung unspoken in the air between them.
She swallowed hard. “I—”
Her words were drowned out by the crash of an explosive kick against the front door. Metal grated. Wood groaned. A second kick shattered the doorjamb.
Cara and Casey screamed.
Bailey ran toward them. “In the bedroom!” she cried. At least there would be one more lock Owens would have to go through if he made it past the front door, she thought desperately.
Wood splintered beneath the force of another kick.
“Get out of here, Bailey!” Ian shouted. “Lock the bedroom door, open the window and scream as loudly as you can.”
They might have made it to the bedroom if Casey hadn’t fallen. Bailey and Cara wasted precious moments hauling the child to her feet.
One more kick and the front door flew open, a mess of broken wood. The man in the doorway was huge. Dark-haired. Red-faced. His eyes were black with rage and what Bailey instantly identified as drug-fueled insanity.
She threw herself between the intruder and the others. She had nothing for a weapon, no lamp, no fireplace poker. Nothing. She really was going to have to talk to her brother about furnishing this place, she thought fleetingly.
Owens glanced at Bailey, curled his lip and jerked his head toward the door. “Get out of here.”
“Cara, Casey, get in the bedroom.” Bailey moved backward with them, toward the open bedroom doorway.
Casey was screaming. Owens advanced steadily toward them, his massive fists clenched, breathing loud and ragged. “Shut her up,” he told Cara. “Or I’m going to have to do it myself.”
“Leave them alone,” Bailey insisted, trying to shield the child.
“Get out of my way.”
“Bailey, run,” Ian urged, looking both deadly furious and despairingly powerless. “Go get help.”
For only a moment, Bailey considered doing as he said, considering the chances that she could escape and bring help before Owens could hurt either Cara or Casey. But then she looked again at the madness blazing in Rance Owens’s eyes as he moved grimly toward Cara, and she knew there wasn’t time.
“Leave them alone!” she screamed again. “Get out of here!”
All his concentration focused on Cara, Owens didn’t even seem to hear Bailey. She might as well have been as invisible as Ian.
“I’ve got you now, bitch,” he said, the words hissing with ominous satisfaction. “You took everything from me. Everything. And now it’s time for you to pay.”
He reached out for Cara. Without stopping to think, Bailey threw herself at him, kicking, swinging, clawing.
As though she were little more than an annoying insect, Owens swung a fist at her, connecting solidly with the side of her head—the same side that was still swollen from the accident.
The blow rocked her backward, the pain stunning her, blinding her. She reeled, then crumpled.
“No!” The enraged roar came from Ian.
Bailey thought she felt something—someone—rush past her. And then Owens grunted in surprise. “Where the hell—”
His voice was abruptly choked off.
Bailey heard the sounds of battle as she tried to rise, blinking rapidly to clear her pain-blurred vision. She focused just well enough to see Ian and Owens strugghng in the center of the room, both staggering to keep their footing as they grimly fought for dominance.
Cara and Casey knelt beside Bailey. “Bailey, are you all right? Oh, God, you’re bleeding,” Cara said, on the verge of hysteria.
“Take—take Casey and get out of here,” Bailey managed to whisper, her stomach wrenching. “Get help.”
Owens’s fist connected with Ian’s jaw, snapping Ian’s head back. Bailey gasped as Ian rocked from the impact. Owens hit him again. A crimson smear of blood stained Ian’s mouth.
She pushed herself to her feet, shrugging off Cara’s concerned hands. Owens was so much larger than Ian, so dangerous in his dementia. She had to do something to help.
The only weapon she could find was Dean’s laptop computer, which she’d left lying on the bar. The sixpound device felt unsatisfactorily light in her hands, but the case was constructed of hard plastic.
She ran up behind Owens and slammed it with all her strength against the back of his head.
Owens faltered. Ian took advantage of the opportunity to drive his fist into the larger man’s face.
Owens went down. Hard.
“What the hell? What’s going on in here? Cara!” Mark rushed through the splintered doorway. He went straight to Cara and jerked her roughly into his arm
s. “Are you all right?”
She started to speak, then caught her breath and buried her face in his shoulder. His arms closed protectively around her.
Bailey stared down at Owens. “Is he out?”
“For now,” Ian said grimly. He looked at her face. “You’re bleeding.”
She felt the warm liquid dripping from her temple. It throbbed, as did her sore ankle, which she’d twisted again.
She ignored the discomfort. Her eyes were locked on Ian’s mouth. On the blood that oozed from the deep cut at one corner. “You—”
“Bailey, who is this?” Mark demanded, looking down at Owens. He had one arm around Cara, the other around Casey. Both clung to him.
“He was after Cara,” Bailey said, dragging her attention from Ian.
Cara drew a deep breath and repeated the explanation she had given Bailey.
“I walked into a convenience store in Tampa just as he shot the clerk,” she added. “He fired at me, hit me in the shoulder and thought he had killed me. I lived to testify against him. He warned me then that he would find me and kill me. When I heard he’d escaped from prison, I knew he would come after me. Casey and I got into the car and just started driving. We ended up here. I—I thought we would be safe.”
“That’s why you were so frightened all the time,” Mark murmured. “You were afraid he would find you. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I had a terrible experience with the press in Tampa,” she explained quietly. “The reporters seemed to be fascinated with my part in the trial. They hounded me. It was because of them that Owens knew so much about me, even though I begged them to leave me alone. I—I was afraid that if… another reporter learned about me, he wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of a sensational story.”
Mark tilted her remorseful face upward. “You were wrong,” he said flatly.
“I know,” she whispered. “I think I knew all along that you weren’t like that. But I still thought it best for you to stay away from me. I—I didn’t want to risk anyone else getting hurt because of me.”