Memory Whispers

by Angel Smits

  Clarissa was silent for several moments as she stared at the photograph. She shook her head. “I’m not getting anything new.” She laid the picture down, a frown creasing her brow.

  “It’s spooky, isn’t it? To see your face on a picture you don’t remember posing for.” Cord stared down at the photograph.

  “Yes.” Faith went to stand beside him. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. I . . . .” What was she trying to tell him? That she’d never had to deal with problems, that her father had always seemed to do that for her, that she’d only recently taken control of her own life. “It’d be easier to just walk away.”

  Cord reached out and ran his fingers along the edge of her chin. “You can’t this time.”

  “I know. The dreams aren’t going away. They seem to be getting worse.” His hand felt so good, so right, so strong.

  “They’ll continue to do so, won’t they Cord?” Clarissa pinned him with a stare.

  She knew. How the hell . . . ? Cord stared in shock at the woman he’d at first thought a flake. She knew about his dream. The dream that had brought him awake with cries of anguish. Cries that were his own screams echoing through the years and through his room.

  “Yes. They’ll get worse. Much worse.” He looked down at Faith, knowing she too would soon be crying out in the night, screaming with the pain of the past.

  Eleven

  CORD SAT BEFORE the never dying gas firelight. Flames lit the room enough for him to see shapes and shadows combine.

  He stared at the wall of pictures he’d examined earlier. Dozens of faces stared at him, all smiling and happy. A little girl in a pinafore in one photo caught his eye, and he knew from the tilt of her little smile and the bright copper curls that he was staring at a much younger Faith.

  His heart twisted. The wanton woman in his dream and the woman who’d once been that innocent child were worlds apart. The dream woman was like half the women he met in the bar and casino trade. They didn’t necessarily have to be hookers for him to know they had only one purpose in mind. Taking care of themselves and no one else.

  Faith, on the other hand, confused him. Her fear when he’d first arrived had pulsed in the air. After Clarissa arrived and they’d talked, she’d relaxed. He wasn’t sure who was more surprised when she’d offered him the couch for the night. He’d had several glasses of wine, but he’d been nowhere near drunk. He’d gladly taken her up on the offer, though it felt strange to have someone take care of him, to fuss over him. He couldn’t remember the last person who’d done that.

  He turned back to the fire. No, Faith was nothing like the women he was used to. She wore her heart in her eyes and cried tears for total strangers.

  Disturbed by his own thoughts, Cord paced, avoiding the staring eyes that seemed to watch him from the wall of pictures. He thought of the single photo he had of his own parents. Old. Tattered. Lying in the bottom of his dresser drawer.

  He didn’t fit into Faith’s world. Never would. But a part of him wished he could. What would it be like to have a family and a home? He’d built the closest thing he knew to a home with his casino. Johnny was as close to family as Cord got. He knew he should return to it, but not yet. For just a little while he wanted to believe he could have Faith’s world.

  Besides, it fit into his plans. The images that had invaded his mind last night returned, images that he knew she’d soon experience.

  He wanted to stop them. He’d expected to arrive here today and find her in emotional pieces. When she went about business as usual, he’d known she hadn’t shared his dream last night. Odds were, she wasn’t far behind.

  He headed to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. He needed something to do, something to occupy his mind.

  As the coffee dripped, he turned his gaze to the small, orderly kitchen. A pile of bills and letters scattered near the phone provided the only disorganization.

  The corner of a handwritten note caught his eye. He knew he was snooping, but he wanted—needed—to learn more about Faith. The letterhead spoke volumes. Reverend and Mrs. McCoy. He slid the paper from the stack, glancing down at the scrawled signature. Love, Mom.

  He cringed. A preacher’s daughter. Figures. He couldn’t remember ever setting foot in a church. What a contrast to his life, as well as the Cumberland’s. Suddenly, her hesitancy to gamble that first night made sense. No wonder she resisted the very thought of being Maria.

  The bright red lettering of Past Due across several papers caught his attention. A mortgage. Utilities.

  She needed the money from this book. That was what drove her, kept her working. What did she have planned after that? Something told him she’d pay the mortgage, find Mr. Right and create the proverbial 2.5 kids.

  A rolled tube of paper sat wedged against the blender. He recognized blueprints and unrolled them. A handwritten note stuck to one corner. “Check out these plans. Just perfect for you.” The strip mall sketched on the page looked new and modern. A big red “x” on one section drew his attention. The same handwriting had scrawled “portrait studio.”

  There weren’t any strip malls in Cripple Creek. How much further from his world could she get? A cold knot of loneliness settled in his chest.

  Uncomfortable, Cord filled a large mug with coffee and returned to the living room. As the hands slowly maneuvered around the face of the clock, he sat. Waiting. Watching the flames, and dreading the pain to come. His normal life was miles from hers, but for now he’d be here for her. He hoped and prayed, for the first time in his life, for strength.

  ON THE OTHER side of the locked door, Faith listened to Cord moving about her house. Her mind filled with images of him spreading out the bed linens she’d given him for the short, narrow couch. Of him pulling his shirt over his head. His tight jeans sliding down his thighs . . .

  Stop that. She moved away from the door and turned toward the bed. She would not think about him.

  She jerked back the covers. Turning off the lights, she snuggled under the down comforter. The bed felt cold and empty. She tried to ignore the urges telling her she should be sharing it with him.

  Sleep. She’d go to sleep and soon morning would be here, then he’d head back to Cripple Creek.

  Why did she find little comfort in that knowledge?

  Despite her hectic thoughts, exhaustion tugged at her. Sleep battled with images struggling to form, as if having difficulty separating themselves from the darkness. Even when the images did emerge into the light, the gloom clung to the edges of her dream.

  Rain fell in sheets. The town’s dirt roads turned into a quagmire, tugging at her shoes and the heavy, wet hem of her skirts. Giving up, she pulled the thick fabric above her knees. To hell with propriety.

  His voice floated on the wind. “Mama?”

  She followed its lead. She had to get to him. Had to protect her baby.

  The buildings fell behind as she struggled through the clinging mud. “I’m coming, sweetie,” she cried, unsure if her voice carried through the wind and rain.

  From out of nowhere, Rafe appeared in the clearing ahead. As she drew closer, the lantern’s golden light illuminated his features. She stopped, searching his face for an answer. His red-rimmed eyes met hers and then skittered away, looking at some spot behind her. She saw dampness on his cheeks—the rain?

  “Where’s Timmy?” She ran the last few yards. “I heard him calling.”

  Rafe wasn’t alone. Several other men stood nearby, still and silent in the dark.

  His big hands reached out to hold her as she moved to pass him. She shrugged off his touch. Other arms tried to reach her. She had the strength of ten men. She pulled from the grasp of the strong, burly miners.

  A tiny form lay on a pallet, beckoning to her, pulling her gaze. The men’s arms fell away. They couldn’t stop her. Nothing could keep her away. Like a wheat field
under a summer wind, the group parted.

  “No.” Her voice tore away on the night. Her heart stopped beating. Timmy lay covered in a man’s coat, a coat she vaguely recognized. She stumbled and crawled the last few feet through the mud. “Sweetie, Mama’s here. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.” She reached out for him. His skin was cold and pale. “We’ve got to get you warm. It’s so chilly.”

  She heard no response. No welcoming snuggle from his tiny arms. The footsteps nearby were loud and grating to her ears.

  Rafe knelt beside her, and she looked up at him, realizing tears did indeed slide down his face.

  “He’s gone, honey. Timmy’s dead.”

  “No. You’re lying.” She pulled her son’s tiny body close to her chest, rocking back and forth as if she were in the wooden rocker in the nursery instead of here in the freezing mud.

  “Maria, please.” A sob broke Rafe’s normally strong voice.

  “Rock a bye baby,” she sang in a soft, tear-filled voice. “On the tree top . . . ”

  Rafe sank into the mud, his head bowed and his face buried in his work-roughened hands. Sobs shook his big body. Time barely moved.

  From out of nowhere, arms reached out and took Timmy from her. The cold and damp had weakened her grasp, but still she fought. “No, don’t take my baby. Stop them, Rafe. They’re taking Timmy. Stop!”

  The voice echoed across time and into the room where Faith struggled in her sleep. She awoke in the darkness, the feel of the damp pillow against her cheek, and the pain of Timmy’s death an unbearable agony. Jumping from the bed, she fumbled with the lock and then tore open the bedroom door.

  The gas logs in the living room glowed and hissed. Their unchanging flame became an odd comfort, a testament she was in modern times, not that long ago day a century past. The faint aroma of coffee teased her, reminding her she was awake.

  “Now you know why I stayed,” Cord said, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked up at her from the wingback chair, a mug of coffee between his big hands. She saw the pain reflected in his eyes.

  The firelight danced, sending shadows to and fro in the room. She couldn’t seem to move. He sat there, so close, so real. What would he think if he knew she ached to fling herself into his arms? The broad, bare expanse of his chest invited her to seek comfort . . . and something else. The something else made her hold back.

  He set the cup aside. “Come here.” He extended a hand and after a moment’s hesitation, she ran to him, seeking his comforting embrace.

  She knelt before him, and he pulled her tight. His warm skin was reassuringly real and alive. “It was awful, Cord. It hurt so much.”

  “I know. I went through this last night. Dear God.” He buried his face in her hair, anguish strong in his voice. “We found Timmy in the mine shaft and carried him to the surface. Watching you—her—sing to him, in that sad, pitiful voice nearly did me in.”

  Both Cord Burke and Rafe Cumberland had been taught men don’t cry. Yet, no man, no matter what his strength, could have fought off the horror of that night.

  “I’m not Maria.” Faith lifted her head, desperation in her voice. His face and pain-filled eyes were so close. “She hurt too much. I’m Faith.”

  “Faith,” he whispered her name, kissing first one eye, then the other. With his thumbs, he wiped away the damp trail on her cheeks. “Faith,” he repeated.

  Her hand came up to cover his, pressing his palm against her cheek. For a moment she closed her eyes, savoring the warmth and stability of his touch. Reality.

  She let her eyes drift open. “I need you, Cord. Now. Tonight.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he whispered but didn’t move his hand away.

  She wanted him and didn’t stop to wonder why. Thoughts of the past and their pain faded. Moving closer, Faith pressed her lips to his, seeking comfort and passion and finding both in his arms. His fingers moved to cup her chin, holding her lips to the kiss he professed not to want.

  The magic of the night in his office swept in. Quickly, she pushed the frightening images of the storm-shattered window from her mind and thought only of the warmth seeping through every inch of her chilled body.

  His fingers moved from her chin, along the curve of her neck and down the sides of her body. She felt him shudder and his growing arousal pressed against her belly. His hands reached her hips, and he lifted her to his lap where the heat of him nestled intimately against her.

  A sigh and then a gasp escaped her. His kiss swallowed the sound. The hem of her nightgown tempted him, and he played with it before sliding his hand beneath.

  “So soft. So sweet,” he breathed into her mouth.

  She had responded to his caresses in the past, but this was different. She burned hotter.

  With his fingers, Cord drew tiny circles on her inner thigh. Slowly they slipped between her legs, touching her tenderness, teasing and tempting through the thin barrier of her panties. She whimpered when his fingers moved away—and upwards.

  A shiver shook her as he grazed the top of her panties and the sensitive skin of her abdomen. When he found the soft underside of her breast and gently stroked, she nearly shattered.

  With shallow breaths, she fought to slow her pounding heart. No one had ever made her feel like this before. So alive. So real.

  He played her body like an instrument—an instrument of pleasure—caressing her in all the places aching for his touch. After what seemed an eternity, he found the curve of her breast again and brushed her nipple. She cried out. The pleasure, while expected, bloomed stronger than she’d thought possible. He rubbed and stroked her, building heat along her nerve endings.

  She wanted to pleasure him and ached to feel his body beneath her fingers. She slid her hand across the broad expanse of his chest, enjoying the tickle of the rough hair covering his bare skin. Her hand brushed a hardened, male nipple, and she heard a low groan in his throat. She couldn’t stop the smile forming in their kiss.

  His stomach muscles were taut and hard beneath her touch, his skin warm and smooth. She moved her hand over him, touching each inch, unsure if she’d ever get enough of him.

  When her fingers touched the top button of his jeans, his hand shot out, catching hers and stopping her progress. “Not yet, love. We’ve only just begun.” He guided her hand back up to his chest.

  To distract her, he tugged the hem of her nightshirt upwards and over her head. She moved to lean against him, but he held her away for a moment, gazing at her in the dancing firelight. “You’re so beautiful.”

  He dipped his head, taking one distended nipple into his mouth, rubbing it with the damp, insistent tip of his tongue until she moaned aloud with pleasure. He moved to the other breast, repeating his actions until she whimpered in delight.

  Hot sparks flashed behind her closed eyelids. She leaned into him, burying her fingers in his hair and holding his head to her breast. She longed to touch him, but she found herself incapable of doing anything except feeling and accepting the magnificence he offered. She gave herself up to him.

  “I want you,” she whispered through her parched throat. “Cord!” She called his name as he shifted her to the floor in front of the chair and nearer the fire.

  He knelt over her, watching as the firelight played across her skin. With one hand, he slipped off the tiny barrier of her panties and traced a tormenting pattern upward across her bare skin. With the other, he took her hand and returned it to the button of his jeans where he’d stopped her earlier. “Now.”

  She pushed the metal button through the frayed buttonhole. His zipper slid down, the sound loud and provocative. She smiled as he impatiently took over and quickly shed his clothes. Her eyes drank in his every action, looking at and memorizing each inch of skin revealed.

  Her breath caught in her throat as he knelt beside her again
, naked, aroused and exactly as she wanted him to be.

  “Mmmm,” she sighed as he leaned over and captured her lips with his, filling her mouth with his tongue, in a provocative imitation of his intent to fill her in other ways.

  He moved closer, the length of his body matching her curves. He thrust inside her, pausing when he realized this was her first time. She blushed, and he smiled and carefully pushed forward. After she’d adjusted to him, they moved together, rocking in a motion as old as time. The heat, intensity and depth of his touch astounded her.

  Her fierce reaction came as a surprise. She held him, wanting him to stay within her for eternity. Fulfillment lay ahead, and she waited with increasing anticipation.

  She hung upon the edge of a precipice, clinging to him and returning kiss for kiss, thrust for thrust, and cry for heated cry. The joy came, filling the world with a radiance she’d never seen before and her body with the sparkle of release.

  In response to her climax, Cord let go and gave in. His head was thrown back, and the firelight danced on his sweat-glazed skin. In awe of his abandon, she pulled him closer and he folded her into his arms. He held her tight as the last of their passion spent itself in the quiet, shadowed night.

  When her breathing had slowed, Faith stirred in his arms. She nuzzled his chest, and her arms tightened around him. “Cord?” she whispered, lifting up on one elbow and gazing down into his eyes.

  “Yes?”

  Her hair fell in a curtain between her face and the firelight, distorting his expression with shadow. “Thank you.”

  He chuckled. “Any time.” His arms encircled her, pulling her into the crook of his arm between the angle of his shoulder and chin. “What’s going through that pretty head of yours?”