Callaghan's Way

by Marie Ferrarella

  “You’d be surprised how strong I can be.” She curled against him, as if the space there had been created with her in mind.

  As if God knew that was where she belonged, he thought. The next moment, he upbraided himself for letting his mind drift to such nonsense. But the very fact that it did surprised him. She was responsible for that, for the tiny notions of hope that insisted on springing up in him. She was responsible for that, and for every good moment he’d ever had.

  Rachel trailed her hand slowly along his chest, delighting in the light sprinkling of hair there. “I still don’t know what your room looks like.”

  He gave up trying to shore up his defenses and gathered her against him. He’d crossed this floor a hundred times in his lifetime. A thousand times. It had never felt like heaven before.

  “It’s nothing special, believe me.” He kissed her temple, refusing to think of consequences. Of tomorrow. “We can visit it later.”

  He was going to make love to her again, she thought, joy leaping up within her. It didn’t matter where. “Sounds good to me. Is that where you sleep now, or did you take over your parents’ room, like me?”

  He could never sleep in his parents’ room. He’d heard too many arguments emerging from there. “No. I still sleep in my old room.”

  His voice was filled with emotions he was denying.

  And she heard them all. “Kirk...”

  He looked at her knowingly. “You want to ask questions.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t want to spoil the moment, the day. Talking about his parents could only do that. “Leave it alone, Funny Face.”

  This time, she pushed. “I can’t. It concerns you. And I think you need to let it out. Like Ethan.”

  He shook his head. She was comparing apples and oranges. “I’m not a little boy, Rachel.”

  “But you were when you were hurt,” she insisted. He couldn’t keep sweeping this way. They had to face it in order to get past it. If the child was father to the man, she was certain that his past was what was immobilizing him emotionally now.

  He looked over her head toward the curtains. They were still moving lightly, gracefully, in the wind. “You seem to think you have all the pieces.”

  She had the pieces, but she didn’t know how they fit together.

  “I want to hear it from you.” She waited, hoping, but Kirk said nothing. Rachel tried again. “I noticed you still didn’t open the door to your father’s den.” She knew that Kirk’s mother had discovered her husband there. Edgar Callaghan had been found slumped over at his desk, a victim of a heart attack.

  “I don’t have any reason to go in.” He had no desire to walk in there, where he had stood, a penitent child waiting to be punished for trespasses, real and imagined. His father had always found reasons to punish him, to make him see how unlovable he was. When he was very young, Kirk had waited for his mother to come rescue him. He’d been seven when he realized that she was never going to shield him from his father’s wrath.

  Rachel sat up. Her tousled hair spilled out onto her shoulder. As she leaned toward him, a few strands covered his chest. She placed her hand on it.

  “Is it because he died there?” she asked softly. “Is it because you can’t deal with his death?”

  Kirk blew out a breath, struck by the absurdity of the idea.

  “Hardly. In a way, his death was a relief.” His father had hovered over his life like a threatening force. Kirk paused, sorting, struggling. “All right, you want to know? I don’t want to go in because it’s his room, and he made my life a living hell. He was a drunk, Rachel, a common, ordinary, lying-down-in-the-gutter drunk. And for half my life I was afraid that someone would find out and ridicule me because of it.”

  He’d even been afraid of letting her and Cameron find out. It had been a secret that burned in his breast during all the years they had known each other.

  His reasoning mystified her. “Why? It’s not your fault your father drank.”

  She was wrong. He’d grown up thinking that it was his fault that his father drank, that somehow he had failed his father. If he had just been good enough, smart enough, his father wouldn’t have turned to a bottle to make him feel good.

  But it was far too complicated a subject for a Saturday morning. Kirk was having too much difficulty dealing with the feelings he was having about Rachel to attempt to dredge up the past, as well.

  He shrugged it off as best he could. “I hated him for it, and hated myself for feeling that way.” He stumbled a little. Somehow she always managed to draw more out of him than he wanted to give. “Part of me felt that if I could somehow reach him...”

  She was angry with him for even contemplating that. “You were a child. What was a child supposed to do?”

  He lifted a shoulder and let it drop, frustrated. “Something.”

  She feathered her hand along his shoulder. “You expect too much of yourself. You’re only human.” She laughed softly, then lightly skimmed her lips along his chest. She was delighted when he fell back and pulled her on top of him. “Magnificently so, but only human.”

  Helpless, aroused, he could only laugh. “You’re good for me, Rachel.”

  She shifted slowly along his body and felt his desire hardening. Rachel raised her chin, triumph in her eyes. “I always knew that.”

  He threaded his hands through her hair. “No, really.”

  “Why?” She cocked her head, curious. “Because I always believed in you?”

  Kirk considered that. “Yes, I guess there’s that, too. No one else did.”

  He was too quick to dismiss himself. “Cameron did. And my parents,” she reminded him.

  Her words stirred distant memories. “You have some pretty special parents.”

  She loved her parents dearly. And never more than when they were kind to Kirk. “I know. They’re as proud of you as if you were their own.”

  He looked at her, completely stunned. “Proud?”

  She nodded. For the moment, she just laced her hands together on his chest and rested her chin there, content to look up into his eyes.

  “Whenever they see one of your photographs in the newspaper or a magazine.” Before he could ask, she added, “I make sure they receive a steady supply. They ask about you, you know.”

  She had a knack for making him feel good, he thought, when he least expected it. “Give them my love.”

  “You can give it to them yourself.” She saw wariness enter his eyes. “They’re coming up for a visit in July.”

  “July.” It seemed a hundred years away. “I don’t know where I’ll be in July.”

  July was less than two months away. She’d find a way to make him stay. “Funny, I do.”

  As comfortable as all this was, it was temporary. He’d made up his mind about that. She had to be stopped before she got carried away. Rachel had a great penchant for getting carried away.

  “Rachel, I said not to make plans.”

  She was undaunted, or appeared to be. Inside, she felt as if she were holding on to a rope with soapy hands. “You say a lot of things. I filter out what’s important, the rest I discard.” She winked. “It’s a secret we women have when dealing with men.”

  He tried again, thinking of the house, of his father, of the way he felt about things. “Rachel, there’s a lot for me to sort through....”

  “I know.” Her smile was extremely encouraging. “And with two it’ll go faster.”

  He couldn’t let her in any farther than he already had. Even that was way too much. “I have to do it on my own.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded skeptically, “but you also have to be coaxed and prodded to do it. That’s where I come in.”

  Kirk arched a brow, amused and wary at the same time. Amusement was winning out. “To coax.”

  “And prod,” she added cheerfully, relieved that she could tease him.

  “Like now?”

  She smiled. “You catch on fast, Callaghan.”

  If thin
gs were different, if he were someone else, he could go on making love with her forever. For just a little while, he could pretend that he was. “I don’t need to be coaxed and prodded about that.”

  Contentment and anticipation curled through her like smoke lazily emerging from a chimney on a cold winter’s morning. “Even better.”

  Chapter 16

  Kirk watched Rachel clear away the remnants of their lunch from the table. Even this simple act filled him with a sense of well-being. It had, he knew, been a weekend that he would always remember. It had been an island of time filled with Rachel and nothing else. No deadlines to meet, no bullets to dodge, no enemy soldiers to elude or attempt to fool.

  And no haunting dreams.

  That, he felt, was what was unique about this weekend. His nightmares weren’t a part of it. They hadn’t intruded into his space, into his mind, at all. They’d been part of his life for so long that their absence seemed strange. He could keep things bottled up within him while he was awake. But when he was asleep, all the horror that he carried around with him would emerge. Scenes from his childhood would merge with pieces of the various conflicts he’d witnessed abroad, filling him with dread.

  Since he’d returned, the number of nightmares had diminished, but not disappeared. They hung on like a wound that refused to completely heal. It seemed that almost every time he closed his eyes they would come.

  But for two nights, while Rachel slept curled up beside him, he’d dreamed of nothing.

  Or of her.

  He observed her now as he nursed a beer, an empty pizza box lying next to his elbow. Just watching her rinse off a couple of plates and put them away seemed like watching a finely crafted piece of theater.

  He was trying to absorb it all, to record it so that he could play it back at will.

  And be comforted.

  She filled him like sweet mountain air, like the taste of freedom the time he’d made it across the border of one of those newly created countries to his own crew. Unexpected fighting had erupted in the tiny village he’d been photographing. It was a village that had, until that moment, been populated with people content to live out their lives without caring who sat in the seat of power, who governed them.

  Peace and tranquillity had been blown up by men whose nationalistic pride clashed. The country had splintered in two, and he had been forced to flee for his life. The momentary exhilaration that had filled him when he reached the safe house had been incredible.

  She was like that. She was freedom. Freedom from his past, freedom from all the hellish demons that pursued him. In her arms, he forgot them, forgot everything except her. She was all that had ever been good or clean or precious in his life.

  And all that ever would be good.

  Which was why he knew that this weekend couldn’t have a mate. It would remain a single jewel in his mind, to be treasured on lonely nights. And lonely days. He was going to have to leave Bedford.

  He was going to have to leave Rachel.

  To stay would be to repay a kindness with treachery, with thievery. She had given herself to him willingly. Her sweetness, her passion, had provided a beacon for him in a dark, rough sea.

  He had nothing to give her in return.

  He certainly didn’t have the kind of love to give her that she deserved. His ability to love had been stolen from him a long time ago. The untapped supply of love that had flowed in his young veins had been taken from him. It had become drier than dust and been blown away, never having been used.

  Rachel threw away the empty box. It amazed her how they’d managed to consume such a large pizza with no trouble at all.

  Love made you hungry, she thought with a smile. They’d made love over and over again these past two days. She’d made him laugh like the old days. She was filled to the brim with hope, with happiness.

  It was almost sinful to feel this wonderful. She felt giddy, capable of hugging the whole world. Rachel sat down in the chair opposite Kirk, her knee brushing his. “You know, I feel guilty.”

  Now there was an emotion he’d never associated with her. “Guilty?”

  She nodded as she placed her hand over his. Such a small gesture, such an infinite feeling of comfort. “Being so happy without Ethan.” She bit her lip and then laughed. “Oh, I miss him, but I’m so glad we had this time together.”

  Rachel sighed as she tilted back her chair, feeling very, very young, and yet womanly at the same time. He’d done that for her. He’d made her feel indescribably marvelous, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Able to leap the small wall around his heart.

  “Personally, I think three-day weekends are terrific. We should pass national legislation and have them every week.” Rachel rose and rounded the table until she stood beside him. She could feel him mentally peeling away her clothing until there was nothing there.

  Her heart full, Rachel smiled down into his face. “I feel decadent.”

  Ever so slowly, Kirk ran his hands along the inviting curves of her body. Curves he had already memorized. “No, not decadent. I’d say you feel like heaven.”

  His heaven. And his salvation. Because of her, he was momentarily sane.

  Because of her, once he left her, he’d have to face the greatest loss he’d ever known.

  Rachel leaned over Kirk, her hair raining down and forming a curtain on either side of his face as she brushed her lips over his. She felt him tighten his hands on her waist. And she felt something else.

  She blinked and drew back to look at him.

  “Something’s wrong.” She had thought, hoped, that they’d crossed all the hurdles. But there was something else, something still in the air.

  He slid his hands lower, on her hips, still holding her in place. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  She cocked her head. The look on her face was skeptical. “You don’t lie well, Callaghan.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” They still had today. There was no need for things to wind down until tonight. Tomorrow he’d tell her what he planned to do. But he wanted now. Frozen, the way photographs froze time. “I think I’ve developed a knack for it.” A sensuous smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “That’s all we’ve been doing all weekend, lying around.”

  She dropped her hands to his shoulders. “Cute, but not diverting enough. Why—?”

  Kirk didn’t feel like answering questions. Didn’t feel like surrendering this feeling yet. He’d have to do without it for a long, long time. Forever.

  He rose, taking her hand in his. “How about a sneak peek at what Ethan and I have been working on?”

  “All right,” she agreed reluctantly as she followed him out of the kitchen. “But we’re only tabling this discussion, not terminating it.”

  Like a junkyard dog, he thought, affection weaving a web in the corners of his soul. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Still holding her hand, Kirk brought her to his studio. It was the only room in the house, she thought, that had any warmth to it. The others were just rooms, collected together beneath a roof. There was no life in any of them. Even his bedroom was just a place where he slept and changed his clothing.

  Here was the heart of the man, she thought, in this tiny studio, amid his chemicals and rolls of film. She could have felt his presence here, even if he hadn’t been standing beside her.

  Equipment and supplies shared space with finished works and works in progress. There was a tripod leaning drunkenly to one side. Just above it was a gallery of photographs he’d only hung up in the past week. She took that to mean that he was staying, and reviewed them all with a fondness underlined with joy.

  The last one took her breath away. It was a mounted sixteen-by-twenty black-and-white photograph of her. Her hair was blowing about her face, and she was obviously hurrying from one building to another on the campus. Her eyes were wide, and she seemed to be the embodiment of sheer energy.

  She turned and saw that Kirk was watching her almost apprehensively. She’d seen the same look on a ho
peful student’s face when he handed in his term paper. Did her opinion matter that much to Kirk? The fact that it might thrilled her.

  “When did you take that?”

  He crossed his arms before him. “The first week I was here.” He remembered having to lug his lens and set up in the grassy field just across the way from the building.

  Rachel frowned. She didn’t recall seeing him with a camera. She certainly didn’t recall him taking the photograph. “I don’t remember.”

  Kirk pointed to a long cylindrical object that was resting against the cot. It needed its own tripod when it was being used. Rachel thought it resembled a giant telescope. “That’s my telephoto lens.”

  Rachel circled it respectfully for a closer look. The lens was huge. “I’m surprised you didn’t get Australia with that thing.”

  He grinned. “The lighting wasn’t right that day.”

  Her eyes were drawn back to the enlargement. It was almost as if the camera had made love to her, she thought. “It’s beautiful.” Rachel looked over her shoulder. Vanity born of wanting to be beautiful for him had her asking, “Am I really that pretty?”

  Unable to help himself, he threaded his arms about her waist as he stood behind her. She fit against him so perfectly. Kirk rested his cheek against her hair for a moment, breathing in the fragrance. He was probably never going to be able to smell herbal shampoo again without becoming excited.

  “No, I just do good work.” He laughed as she muttered a stinging retort. “Of course you are. That’s the way I see you. Busy, yet beautiful.”

  Rachel turned in the circle of his arms, absorbing every casual brush against his body the way a battery absorbed a charge. “Anything else?”

  “Becoming vain, are you?” he teased. “You want other adjectives?”

  Rachel wrinkled her nose impatiently. “No, I want to see other photographs, you dummy.” She inclined her head toward the still photo behind her. “There had to be more. This can’t be what Ethan’s been helping you with.”

  “No.” He released her and crossed to his worktable. Amid the organized clutter, there was a white-leather-bound album. “That’s right here.”