Love Lies Bleeding

by Jess McConkey

  Her chin went up a notch. “Yes, and I’ve worked hard for you.”

  “Us . . . you’ve worked hard for us,” he emphasized. “You’ve made me proud, Princess, and someday it will all be yours, but you need to get well first.”

  “I know,” she hedged, “but just because I need therapy does not mean I can’t make my own decisions—”

  His eyebrows shot up, stopping her.

  Dropping her hands into her lap, she lowered her head. “Look, I know I have some problems . . . the nightmares, the vertigo, the panic attacks . . . but I’m still capable of living my own life. I know what’s going on.”

  He remained silent.

  Looking up at him, she saw doubt written on his face. “I do,” she protested. “I’m getting better at differentiating between my dreams and what’s real.”

  “What about last night?”

  She silently cursed Jackson for not keeping his mouth shut.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had an episode like that.”

  Sitting back in his chair, he watched her for a moment before shifting his attention to the lake below. “You agreed that it’s restful here.” His focus returned to her. “Staying here and letting Anne take care of you is much better for you than living in the Cities and doing your therapy there.” His eyes strayed back toward the lake. “Up here, you won’t be running into our friends all the time. You won’t have to deal with their endless questions about your accident. You can concentrate on getting better.”

  “And if I’m away from the Cities, you and Mom won’t have to deal with their curiosity either, will you?”

  “Samantha, what on earth is that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s got to be hard not having the perfect daughter anymore, isn’t it, Dad? If I’m up here, you won’t have to be reminded of how things have changed. Out of sight . . . out of mind. Isn’t that part of it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He huffed. “We’re only thinking of what’s best for you.”

  “I can think for myself.”

  “No, you can’t.” He focused on her hair. “You proved it this morning. Look at what you did to yourself,” he said, disgusted.

  Not meeting his eyes, she ran her fingers through her short hair. “It doesn’t look so bad,” she said defensively.

  “Samantha.” He rose to his feet. “I’m done arguing. Anne Weaver will be staying with you and that’s it.”

  Sam let her body sag, feeling drained. She should’ve never let her temper get the best of her. How could she have been so stupid? She’d played right into their hands and now she didn’t have the energy to fight him. Great. Another stranger hovering over her, telling her what to do. Time to get up, Sam. Take your meds, Sam. Eat your broccoli and carrots, Sam. Time to go to bed, Sam. Any hope she had for privacy would be gone.

  Her father pivoted on his heel and moved toward the French doors.

  “Wait,” Sam cried out, jerking forward. “Couldn’t we compromise?”

  Turning toward her, he arched an eyebrow. “What kind of compromise?”

  “Let me stay alone at night.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He shook his head slowly. “What about the nightmares?”

  “Didn’t you say Jackson was prescribing a new medication that’s supposed to stop the dreams?”

  “You’ve refused to take your medications.”

  From inside the cabin, Sam heard someone knocking at the door. Anne Weaver. Time had run out.

  “If I promised to take them?” she asked in a rushed voice. “Look, if they work like Jackson said, I’ll go to sleep and not wake up until morning.”

  Her father eyed her skeptically. “Will you cooperate with Anne?”

  “Yes,” she said, wringing the word out.

  “Hmm.” He looked at her, unconvinced. “I’ll need to discuss it with Jackson.”

  Sam rose to her feet and reluctantly followed her father into the cabin. Once inside, she saw Jackson standing in the middle of the living room and talking with a woman dressed in blue jeans and a sleeveless top. A thick blond braid snaked down her back. God, she was tall, a couple of inches taller than Jackson. At first impression, she seemed willowy, but then Sam noticed that her arms were corded with muscle.

  She felt weak and helpless next to her.

  The woman’s attention shifted from Jackson and landed on Sam. Immediately her eyes focused on Sam’s hair.

  Cocking her head, Sam silently dared the woman to comment.

  Her mother noticed Sam’s defiant stance and rushed to her side. “Samantha, darling, this is Anne Weaver,” she said in her best society voice.

  “Hi, Samantha,” Anne said, holding out her hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

  Conversation stilled and it seemed that her family held their collective breath as they waited for her reaction. Sam knew what they were thinking. Would she play nice? Or would she be rude? If she wanted her father to agree to give her at least some privacy, it was in her best interest to be polite. She tamped down the urge to tell them all to go to hell and leave her alone. With a tight smile, she took Anne’s hand. She could almost hear their collective sigh.

  “Anne,” she said curtly as she tried to return Anne’s firm grip and failed.

  Releasing Anne’s hand, she limped to the table and snagged a piece of bacon off a platter as the conversation resumed.

  Jackson and her father poured on the charm while they explained their expectations. They began to go over the list of Sam’s medications; her therapy; her injuries. Every time they said the word accident, Sam cringed inside. Trying hard not to limp, she carried her bacon over to the couch and sat down. She broke off a small piece and popped it into her mouth while the talk flowed around her as if she were invisible. It tasted like sawdust. With a grimace, she swallowed hard and placed the uneaten portion on a napkin lying on the end table.

  Anne had a small notebook in her hand and was taking notes. She paused and glanced over at Sam.

  “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “No,” Sam replied, rising slowly. “I feel a headache coming on. You really don’t need me, so I’m going back to bed.”

  As she stood, she caught the look passing between her father and Jackson. But she didn’t care what they thought. They’d all ganged up on her and she’d lost. No matter what she said or did, she was going to be stuck with Anne Weaver. She might as well retreat to the bedroom and let them hash it all out. Once in the bedroom, she slipped out of her flats and crawled under the covers. Spying Jackson’s book, she picked it up and began thumbing through the pages, the words not really penetrating her brain. Suddenly the title of one chapter caught her attention.

  “ ‘Lake Country Ghosts,’ ” she murmured.

  “Do you really have a headache?” Jackson asked from the doorway, startling her.

  “Yes,” she lied as she slammed the book shut and tossed it on the bed.

  Noticing the book, Jackson crossed the room, and picking it up, ran a finger down the spine.

  “Not your usual reading,” Sam commented drily.

  His shoulder rose. “I was bored, and found this in my room.” Placing the book on the nightstand, he sat beside Sam. “Look, I know you’re unhappy with this arrangement, but it really is for the best.”

  “According to you and Dad.”

  He shot her a dark look. “You need to trust us.” Abruptly, the darkness fell away. “You’re going to like Anne. She’s highly qualified and I know she’s just the person to get you on track.”

  “I’m not a derailed train,” Sam replied in a voice tinged with sarcasm.

  “Darling.” Jackson’s hand moved toward her cheek.

  Sam froze, fighting the desire to scoot away from him.

  With a sigh, he let his hand drop without touching her. “By the end of the summer, you’ll be back to normal,” he said with a firm nod of his head.

  She didn’t know if his statement was for her benefit or his.
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br />   His eyes strayed to the clock on the nightstand. “Look at the time. Lawrence wanted to leave by one.” He stood and looked down at her. “I’m leaving the car here. Anne has the keys along with a spare key to the cabin. That way she can come and go without disturbing you.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  “Why?”

  “How do you know she won’t make copies?”

  “She’s not going to make copies,” he replied with a snort. “We wouldn’t have hired her if she couldn’t be trusted.”

  “What if she loses the key?”

  “Sam, you’re being silly,” he said, blowing her off. “Are you going to come out and say good-bye?”

  Easing down in the bed, Sam pulled the covers up to her chin and curled on her side. “No.”

  With a sigh, Jackson sat back down on the bed, careful not to crowd her. He was silent for a moment while a mixture of emotions flitted across his face—irritation, disappointment, and finally resignation. When he did raise his head, Sam caught the sadness in his eyes. “Samantha,” he began slowly.

  She drew in a sharp breath as her fears from the night before came crashing back. Here it comes . . . he’s had it . . . he’s going to break off the engagement. Part of her longed to throw her arms around him and beg him to stay.

  “Samantha,” he said again, “I hate seeing you and your father at odds.”

  She exhaled in a rush and waited for him to continue.

  Turning his face away from her, he stared off into space. “I’ve told you how my childhood was filled with family strife . . . my mother . . . my father . . . the affairs . . . the constant conflict. That’s not what I want in our life.”

  Surprised at the mention of his parents, Sam rose up in bed. “Jackson, he’s not allowing me any independence.”

  “He agreed to let you spend the nights alone.”

  “As long as I’m a good girl,” she said bitterly.

  “I’ll talk to him—”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “I think you talk to him a little too much. Why did you tell him about the nightmare?”

  “He had a right to know.”

  She felt her temper flare. “And you took it upon yourself to tell him. You say I need to trust you, but how can I when you report everything to my father? Exactly where does your loyalty lie?”

  “My loyalty?” he sputtered, his face turning red. “After I’ve stood by you through this horrendous ordeal, you can question that?”

  Too late she realized that she’d gone too far and leaned toward him. “Jackson, I’m sor—”

  Shooting to his feet, he stared down at her. “Loyalty? Ha! It’s a question of love. Your father loves you, and you take it for granted. You don’t know how lucky you are. Try having parents like mine!” he exclaimed. “You’ve never had to suffer the embarrassment of watching your mother carry on with young men. You’ve never been a pawn in a marital tug-of-war.”

  “But—”

  He whirled and paced over to the window. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his shoulders drooped. “I can’t stand this fighting. Between us—between you and your father. Is it too much to ask for a little peace in my life?”

  Sam struggled out of bed and crossed over to him. Hesitantly she placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t like fighting either. And I’m sorry if it brought back bad memories.”

  He turned and Sam saw the stress on his face. Silently she promised herself to be more understanding. Jackson had suffered an unhappy childhood. His mother had died when he was sixteen and left him with a storm of conflicting emotions. He’d loved his mother, but he’d also hated her for the way she’d used him against his father. And any time conflict erupted between Samantha and him, he always brought up the bitter experiences of his past. She rubbed her forehead. Now she did have a headache.

  Jackson’s face cleared. “You’d better take something for your headache. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  Moving to the bed, Sam crawled under the covers and waited.

  He returned a few moments later, but instead of a glass of water, he held the picture from the nightstand.

  Sam sat up. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I found it hidden in a drawer.” He jabbed the picture toward her. “Why did you hide it?”

  The muscles at the base of her skull tightened and her head began to throb. “I didn’t hide it.”

  “No one else has been in the bedroom, so how did it get into the bathroom?”

  “Ah . . . ah,” she stumbled, “Mom was . . . after I cut my hair . . . maybe she moved it.”

  “Sam, I was with her the whole time . . . She never touched the picture.”

  Drawing her knees to her chest, Sam rested her forehead against them as the blood pounded at her temples. “Then I don’t understand how it wound up in the bathroom.”

  “Neither do I,” he said in a tight voice.

  She raised her head and stared at him.

  His lips tightened in a thin line. “Obviously you don’t want it, so I’ll take it with me.” He glanced down at the picture. “I think Dr. Weissinger needs to know about these periods of forgetfulness.”

  “I remember exactly what I did this morning and it doesn’t include—”

  A sharp rap at the door stopped her.

  “Jackson, we need to leave if we’re going to beat the traffic back . . .” Her father paused as he picked up on the tension in the room. “What’s wrong?”

  Jackson glanced down at the picture in his hand. “Nothing.” His gaze moved toward Sam. “I’ll call you this evening.” Pivoting, he left the room.

  Her father’s eyes followed him. “Do you want to explain?” he asked Sam.

  “No,” she said, lowering her head and massaging her neck muscles. “I’m sure Jackson will tell you all about it on the way home.”

  He moved to the bed and stood looking down at her. “Don’t worry, Princess,” he said with a pat to her head. “Once you’re better, things will smooth out with Jackson. I’ll reason with him.”

  Sam raised her head. “I think it would be better if you left it alone.”

  “Nonsense.” He gave his hand a careless wave. “Jackson is perfect for you, and if I can help you two through this rough patch, I will.”

  “Dad—”

  “Shh,” he said, bending down and placing a kiss on her cheek. “Everything will be fine.” He straightened and wagged a finger at her. “Remember your promise, Samantha. I expect to get good reports from Anne.”

  Too tired to argue, Sam simply nodded.

  Crossing the room, he turned at the doorway. “Get some rest. Anne will be here if you need anything.”

  After her father softly shut the door, her eyes traveled around the empty room. Maybe he was right. All she had to do was cooperate and everything would be fine. The nightmares would be gone. Her relationship with Jackson would be back to normal and they could finally proceed with the wedding. She’d have her old life back. Working with her dad . . . married to Jackson. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

  But what about the picture? How did it get into the bathroom? Did she pick it up without realizing it and carry it in there with her? The thought scared her and made her head pound. Her gaze settled on the antianxiety pills sitting on the nightstand. She did need to calm down. Opening the bottle, she shook one of the small pills into her hand and stared at it. She really hated these little blue pills. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told her father they left her feeling numb, but maybe numb was better than the way she felt now. Popping the pill into her mouth, she swallowed it without water.

  Sliding back down in the bed, she closed her eyes and let oblivion claim her.

  Whispers . . . I hear whispers.

  The thought woke Sam up with a jerk and her eyes flew open, staring into the darkness. She glanced at the illuminated clock. Midnight. Was Anne still there, talking to someone? Was the TV on? In the glow from the clock’s lighted face, she spied a piece of paper prop
ped on the nightstand. Flicking on the light, she scanned it quickly. Anne had been gone for two hours. She was alone. It had been another dream.

  Then she heard it again . . . the soft, sibilant whisper that had jarred her awake. She scooted up in bed and quickly shut off the light. A pulse throbbed at the base of her throat. Anne forgot to lock the doors. The spit dried in her mouth and she wanted to cough, but didn’t dare. She didn’t dare alert whoever was in the cabin. She listened hard as she grabbed the pillow and squeezed it tight to her chest.

  The sudden call of a loon echoed across the lake, and Sam shoved her face in the pillow, stifling her cry. She couldn’t stand the uncertainty and lowered the pillow, craning her neck as she struggled to hear. Nothing. The overwhelming urge to bolt from the bed and tear through the cabin, inspecting all the windows and doors, fought with the need to stay still, stay safe. The muscles in her left leg twitched while she battled the need to move.

  She lost.

  Grabbing the Maglite lying on the nightstand, she crept out of bed and across the room. With the light in one hand, she slowly turned the knob with the other and opened the door a crack. Holding an ear to the small opening, she listened.

  Silence.

  Carefully, she eased the door open and slipped into the hallway. The tile on the floor felt cool beneath her bare feet as she flattened her back against the wall. Slowly, with her hands trailing the wall for balance, she edged down the hall toward the living room. At the end of the hall, she half turned and sneaked a look around the corner.

  Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains covering the patio door, casting silver light across the floor. She drew back while anger melded with her fear. Damn, Anne hadn’t pulled the heavier drapes closed. She had gone off and left Sam exposed. Shutting her eyes, Sam inhaled deeply and steeled herself to take another look. Slowly she shifted until she could peek into the living room with one eye. No shapes lurked in the room, but shadows obscured its edges. Someone might be waiting in those shadows, waiting just beyond the moonlight, ready to pounce if she made a move. Clutching the light with sweaty palms, Sam caught a faint whiff of cigarette smoke and snapped back around the corner. The intruders had taken the time for a smoke while ransacking the cabin? In spite of her fear, the idea seemed ridiculous.