He was near. She always knew, always felt this same sense of safety, relief, regret. He gave so much and she so little. How long could he continue to tolerate this hell their life had become?
The breeze was the same: light and caressing, luring Megan from a sleep that had been deep but not particularly restful. With her eyes still closed, she stretched and felt the slide of her jeans against her leg. Curious, but not yet ready to leave the comfort of sleep, she stretched again and realized that beneath the light sheet that covered her she was fully dressed except for her shoes. The last thing she remembered was sitting snugged up to Jake's side on the porch, watching the night and listening to the music of the night creatures.
Reluctantly she opened her eyes. Her bed. Her house. Her yard beyond the open and uncurtained windows.
She heard a noise and turned her head.
"This is getting to be a habit." She said to the big black dog just rising to his feet.
Deacon whined, trotted to the side of the bed, and butted his head under her hand, just as he had the day before. This time, thought, he didn't turn and leave the room. Instead, he stretched out on a small rug near the foot of the bed and looked up at her expectantly.
She took a strange sense of comfort from the dog's presence and from the knowledge that, for the second time, Jake Kenyon had carried her to bed. But it had to stop, before she once again became so dependent on someone else that she could not function on her own. Still, a few more minutes of feeling part of a protected and secure world couldn't hurt too much, could it?
She lifted herself up on her elbows, glancing about the room to make sure Jake wasn't there to hear her holding a one-sided conversation with his dog.
"Does this mean you haven't been told to fetch me?" she asked, stretching her hands up over her head to grip the decorative metal railing of the headboard and yawning hugely. "Or that your master doesn't quite have breakfast ready?"
A big man, his huge belly hanging over his belt. She gagged at the stench coming from his rancid clothes, his unwashed body, his rotten teeth.
Megan sucked in a startled breath and bolted upright in the bed. Good God! Where had that come from?
She glanced at the dog. He was now watchful, but she felt sure it was because of her abrupt actions, not because someone else was in the room.
Of course no one else was in the room. The man had been a memory, not an intruder.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat slumped on the edge of the mattress, fighting the reaction of nerves to something that had seemed as real as a physical attack. A memory, she told herself again. But a memory of what?
Jake wasn't in the house, but Megan found enough signs of him to know that he had been there until only a short while ago: a pillow and a neatly folded afghan on the sofa, a rinsed cup in the kitchen sink, a pot of still-fresh coffee.
Megan didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when she found his note tented beside the coffeemaker, but she poured herself a cup of coffee, checked the water level in the bowl Jake had set down for Deacon, and refilled the kittens' bowls with fresh kibble and water before unlocking the back door and carrying note and coffee out onto the narrow porch.
The back porch had once been screened, but by the time she'd arrived the screens were in such bad shape she'd had them ripped out and carted off, along with the years' accumulation of debris she'd found there. They were scheduled to be replaced, as soon as certain spongy portions of the floor were repaired, and in anticipation of that she had set a round metal table and two chairs on the porch so she could have her morning coffee while watching the sun rise over the mountains to the east.
The sun had long since risen by the time Megan sat in one chair and propped her feet on the other. She didn't have the sunrise to admire, and for a change the hills failed to work their gentling magic on her.
Reflectively she sipped her coffee and considered Jake's note. What it said was straightforward enough. He'd had to take care of some things at his place. He'd left Deacon with her until he returned. What it didn't say was why he'd felt it necessary to spend the night and why he'd felt it necessary to leave his dog.
She'd been a basket case lately. She thought she'd hidden it fairly well; maybe she hadn't. Of course she hadn't. In the short time since they'd met, she'd either been screaming her head off, quaking in terror, staring at something no one else could see, or listening to something no one else could hear.
Should she tell Dr. Kent?
Was it safe to tell Dr. Kent?
Megan's father had denied all she'd said about who was responsible for the carnage in Villa Castellano, but the fact that she had made the accusations had been politically embarrassing for him. Just how embarrassing she wasn't sure. Embarrassing enough so that putting a mentally unbalanced daughter away in some safe place might be expedient?
She hated herself for thinking that of her father. Once she wouldn't have doubted him. But now, as much as it hurt to admit it, she no longer trusted him not to put his political career before any concern for her—which pretty well ruled out telling Dr. Kent about anything as potentially dangerous to her continued freedom as hearing voices and seeing visions.
Barbara. Could she risk their fledgling friendship by confiding in Barbara? Or would remaining silent and refusing to share what was becoming a major factor in her life put an end to the intimacy that true friendship required before it really began?
The notebook. Oh, God, where was it?
She hadn't seen it since she had pushed it off her lap the night before.
Megan hurried through the house. She found the new front door locked but the screen unlatched and knew how Jake had left, locking her in securely with his guard dog, locking out the world. She was glad he had assumed the role of protector, but why had he? Two days ago they hadn't even known each other.
Jake had been busy on the porch. He'd straightened the overturned chair, disposed of any lingering debris from their impromptu party, and apparently extinguished all the citronella candles before placing them safely on a small table near the living room window. But the notebook?
He'd been careful with it before; it made sense to think he'd be careful with it again. Megan backed into the house, latching the screen but leaving the wooden door open to let the morning breezes enter, and looked around the room.
A double window fronted the room, overlooking the porch and shady yard. In front of that window, she had placed all she had been able to find of her mother's things: two comfortable reading chairs, a round table, and a lamp. Preferring to curl up on the couch and let the kittens snuggle next to her, she hadn't used the furniture since she'd been here, other than that first day when she'd noted with satisfaction that it had survived the years in her father's attic much better than she had feared.
Jake had placed the notebook and her pen on that table.
Had he read it? Was that why he had sat with her through the night?
Megan wiped her hand across her face, sighing as she looked at the innocent-looking black book. He hadn't needed any reason revealed in it to think she needed help. And even if he had read it, what would he have seen, a cry? A plea? What on earth was so strange about that?
Nothing—except that she wasn't sure she knew who was doing the crying.
And right now she wasn't sure she wanted to find out.
She carried the notebook into her bedroom and buried it in the drawer with her cotton nightgowns. Later, she promised herself. When she couldn't put it off any longer.
Today was not a day for introspection or housework or gardening, or even trying to coax this poor abused house back to life. Too much had happened for her to carry on as though nothing had.
Quickly she changed out of the shorts and sandals she had put on that morning after her shower, into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she laced her feet into hiking boots. "We're going exploring," she told Deacon, who had dropped into an expectant sitting position by the bedroom door. "Unless, of course, you've been given different orders. Want to go?"
He cocked an ear at her and scrambled to all fours.
"I thought so," she said. "Me too. Let's get out of here."
Megan knew from looking at a map that the Hudson place and the one to the south of her—Jake's, as she had so recently discovered—fit together like chunks of a Tetris puzzle, forming a huge rectangle. Jake owned a lot of the mountains and a little of the valley; she now owned a lot of the valley and a little of the mountains.
She'd once mentioned going hiking in those mountains to Sarah North, the woman who ran the store in Prescott that served as gas station, grocery store, post office, and lunch counter. "Oh, be careful," Mrs. North had warned. "Those mountains go all the way to Texas without anything to mark your way but old logging trails that all look the same. You can get lost in there and never be found—and never find your way out except by accident."
Megan had never flown over that part of the state, but she had no reason to doubt Sarah North's warning. There were towns to the west, even towns farther south in the Ouachita National Forest, but they were widely scattered, and the section line roads, which she had thought divided the entire state of Oklahoma into one-mile squares like an enormous checkerboard, seemed not to exist in this part of Pitchlyn County.
Her house nestled up to the base of the first hill of the range, while Jake's was farther up the twisting road that climbed the hillside. She wouldn't go that far, she decided.
Hiking was like sitting on her porch enjoying the night; she hadn't been sure she'd ever again feel free enough to do so. She grimaced. She might have recovered some of her bravery, but she wasn't foolish enough to risk cresting the hill and getting trapped in a labyrinth of trees and slopes and contour lines.
But if she stayed on the north slope, if she kept the distinctive peak of Sugarloaf Mountain which guarded the Arkansas border to the north and east in her sight, she couldn't get too lost.
"Besides," she said to her companion as she directed her steps toward the tree line that stretched at an angle in the overgrown field behind the house, "you know the way home, don't you, Deacon?"
He woofed once and wagged his tail, as though acknowledging that they were playing hooky, then took off at a determined pace that challenged her to keep up with him.
It was a beautiful morning, too beautiful to be stuck inside a house with nothing but hard work and disturbing memories.
The tree line bordered what appeared to be an old roadway, overgrown now and impassable to any but the hardiest of vehicles. It led in a meandering northeasterly angle toward the county road in the valley, or in a direction she thought must lead to Jake's house. The valley held little interest for her this morning, and while she had no intention of going as far as Jake's, she turned and began the uphill climb.
A narrow creek cut across the roadbed, complete with lush overhanging trees, water-smoothed stones, and a small, happy gurgle of water. Deacon plowed into the water and splashed upstream. Megan chuckled, and the music of her delight blended with that of the stream as she followed along the bank.
Laughter. Delight. Curiosity. Things she'd been afraid she'd lost forever. Thank God she was alive again!
She followed the creek around a bend and stopped, sure that this spot had been created just for her, for this time.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the oak, hackberry, wild cherry, and other trees to play over the surface of tumbled stones, some flat, some in surreal shapes, surrounding a small shallow pool fed by a splash of water from a ledge from which the rocks had fallen.
"Ohh," she whispered on a slow exhalation of pleasure.
Deacon had already scrambled over the naturally formed dam and was swimming slow figure-eights in the center of the pool. Megan could see it wasn't deep enough for her to swim, but the thought of wading in that clear water enticed her into reaching down and dipping her fingers to test the temperature, into casting a practiced eye over the bottom to judge the safety of the gravel in the streambed, into scrambling onto a flat rock and tugging off her boots and socks and rolling up her jeans.
She let out a small shriek when she stepped into the pool and found the water colder than she'd thought it would be, then laughed when Deacon's head shot up and he came paddling toward her. "It's okay," she assured him, laughing. "For the first time in a long time, it really is okay."
She ruffled the long, soft hair on his neck, found a stick near the bank to throw for him to fetch, splashed in the water, and played as she never had been allowed to do as a child until she realized later, reluctantly, that she was tired. It was a pleasant tiredness, one that tempted her to stretch out on one of the sun-dappled rocks and soak up the sunlight, the soft shaded breeze, the beauty of the location, the absence of pressure or doubts or questions, the memory of Jake holding her sheltered by his side the night before . . .
She woke slowly, aware that the sun had moved across the morning sky by the patterns of light and shadow it now cast; aware that Deacon, his coat now dry, snored gently as he lay beside her on the rock; aware that the gentle breeze had died; aware that the birds, once almost overwhelmingly noisy, were now silent. Aware of childish laughter coming from the pool.
Surprised, Megan recognized the young woman she had seen in Jake's living room. She—Liddy—wore the same long dress she had worn before, but now it was tucked up between bare legs to allow her to wade in the pool. A boy several years younger splashed farther out in the water, bare-chested, his straight black hair plastered by the water against the golden-brown skin of his forehead and his rounded cheeks. His black eyes danced with humor.
"What would that rich white aunt of yours think if she could see you now, Liddy?" the boy asked.
"Perhaps she would refuse to let me live with her."
"What good would that do? You know our father isn't going to let you stay here."
"Why not?" she asked, with a formality at odds with the picture she presented, wading barefoot in a mountain pool. "He needs someone to manage his house—I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to remind you."
"Don't worry, Lydia. I love my mother, but she's dead and pretending she didn't exist or refusing to talk about her won't bring her back. And her being gone isn't going to get you out of doing what your mother wanted."
"I can go to school here."
He snorted his derision and, scooping up two handfuls of water, splashed it at her.
"Oh, Peter!" she shrieked. "Don't get me wet!"
"Don't get you wet? Liddy, you're standing in the pool in Waterfall Canyon. You don't make sense about anything these days."
As Lydia's eyes misted, Peter stood up in the pool and waded toward her. "I'm sorry, I would not hurt you for the world, but you know our father would never let you marry Sam Hooker, even if Sam felt that way about you. Which he doesn't. You must go to Fort Smith, to your aunt."
"Oh, Peter, I'm going to miss you so much!"
"And I will miss you. But when you are a woman grown, and have finished your schooling, you may come back. Who knows," he said, thrusting out his lower lip in a mock pout, "perhaps then you may teach others of us who do not have rich relatives to send us to the States for our education."
Lydia chuckled and sniffed. "Do you think the Council would let me?"
"Of course. You will have a brother who is a citizen. And a father."
"Will he be? Still, I mean?"
"I think he must marry again very soon," Peter said in an all-too-adult voice. "I think Daniel Tanner cannot risk having the law and therefore his status change. No, I think he will ensure his citizenship by taking another Choctaw wife."
"She will be good to you."
"Of course she will," he said, grinning widely. "I am very lovable."
Lydia laughed even as tears coursed down her cheeks, until a sound from the bank drew her attention. A tall travel-worn man stood there, holding the reins of an equally travel-worn sorrel horse. His dark hair showed strands of silver, and his hair, his clothes, and even the day's dark stubble on his jaw wore the dust from his ride.
"You're back!" Lydia cried, and then, as though realizing how she must look, gamboling in the water like a child with her skirts up almost to her knees, she stopped in her initial glad rush to his side of the pool. "I was so afraid I wouldn't see you before I left."
Megan stared transfixed. I know him, she thought. But who? And from where?
You're so young, child, and so innocent. I wonder: Could you survive me?
An image of a man asleep in a straight-back chair flashed through her memory. She blinked it away. A vision within a vision? Even with all the strange happenings, that was too much.
"I couldn't let that happen," the man said. He gave the girl a tired smile. "I knew you'd never forgive me."
"I'd forgive you anything, Sam Hooker," Lydia said softly.
Peter choked and splashed a handful of water toward his sister, and Lydia flushed. "I mean—"
The man she called Sam smiled again. "I know what you mean. I also know this need you have to say whatever comes to mind. You won't be able to do that where you're going, so I've brought you something to help, a way to share thoughts that no one around you wants to share."
Lydia waded from the pool and across the stone dam to stand in front of Sam before she dropped her skirts. "You brought something?" she whispered. "For me?"
With a brief nod the man turned, drew something from a saddlebag, and handed it to her.
Lydia turned the book over in her hands before opening it. "A diary," she said on a soft sigh. "And you inscribed it."
Too much! Megan swore silently. Too much!
For the first time, she remembered the dog at her side. Weren't animals supposed to be psychic or something? If she was seeing ghosts out there in the creek, shouldn't Deacon be upset? He was awake now but watching her, not anything in the pond. And it was too pat. A diary, for God's sake?
The trio in front of her were oblivious to her or to the dog, oblivious to anything except their own scenario. Seeking something substantial, Megan reached for the dog and grasped a handful of his fur. He woofed once, gently, raised his head, and then, with a surprising lunge, jumped up from the rock and plunged into the shallow water of the pond.
He sees them, Megan thought for just a moment before the dog skirted the edge of the water and clambered up the opposite bank, barely missing Lydia, Sam, and the horse as he disappeared into the woods.
Gradually Megan became aware that the birds were once again singing, small creatures were rustling through the fallen leaves in the woods surrounding her, and the breeze played across her face. Lydia, Sam, and Peter were gone, as surely as Deacon was gone, leaving her more alone than ever.
"Stop it!" she whispered, forcing her hands into fists. No one had been there. She had been dreaming. That's what it had to have been.
Dreaming while wide awake?
She heard Deacon's deep bark from somewhere in the woods and reached for her socks and boots. All she needed to make this day perfect would be to lose Jake Kenyon's highly trained dog.
She fought back a giggle when she realized how improbable that was.
But, hey! Wasn't this the day—the second day—for the improbable?
She dropped her sock when a tall man emerged from the woods on the opposite side of the small pool in almost the exact location where she had seen—where she had imagined seeing—Sam Hooker. Jake. Thank God, it was Jake. But maybe she shouldn't be too thankful, not with him staring at her as though he could read all the thoughts roiling around in her confused mind. Deacon joined him then, tail wagging, tongue lolling, very full of himself for having found his master and brought him back to join their holiday.
Jake studied her silently for several seconds before bending down to scratch Deacon behind the ear. "Are you spoiling my dog?"
It wasn't the question she had expected, but at least it was one she could live with. "Yes," she told him, dredging up a grin and retrieving her sock. "I thought that was why you left him with me."
Jake skirted the pond and crossed the dam to her side, still studying her but not with his earlier intensity. "I should have known he'd find some way to bring you here," he said. "This is one of his favorite places."
"Yes. Well," she said, finishing with her sock and tugging on her boot, "it might be one of mine too, if it wasn't so far back to the house."
He grinned at her. "Do you even know where the house is?"
"Sure," she told him, pointing. "Downstream about a half mile until the creek intersects the old road, down the old road another half mile or so to a curved pine tree a landscape architect I know in D.C. would give his right arm and half his family to be able to clone, then almost due west along the base of the hill and across an overgrown pasture until I stumble onto either the house or the road that runs in front of it."
"I'm impressed," he told her.
He should be, she thought. She'd come a long way from the woman who once couldn't find her way across town without the aid of an accomplished taxi driver. But that was another life and a long hard lesson ago. Now she had other things she had to find a way around. That knowledge made her defensive and gave a sharp edge to her attempt at humor. "That's nice. I'm hungry. But I'm also about a mile and a half of hard walking from lunch."
"Not necessarily."
Suddenly it dawned on her to be suspicious of his appearance. Again, she thought. Immediately following one of her whatevers. Ridiculous, she told herself. There could be no connection. But her suspicion thickened her words. "What are you doing all the way out here?"
He laughed and held his hand out to her. "Am I following you is what you mean, isn't it? Now that's an interesting idea. But no, I'm not. I had pretty well finished up what I had to do and was on my way back to your house when Deacon intercepted me."
She took his hand and let him help her up from the rock.
"So I'm farther up the hill toward your house than I thought I was?"
He released her hand the moment she was on firm footing. "Probably not," he said, giving her a maddening smile.
She missed the touch of his hand. Megan denied that thought almost as fast as she recognized it. This was, after all, a highly emotional time. It would be easy to confuse her need for some sort of stability in her life with the strength and security Jake Kenyon seemed to represent.
"Do you often speak in circles?" Megan asked.
Jake chuckled. "Probably about as often as you walk in them," he told her.
"Oh," she said, understanding at last. "Just where, precisely, am I?
"Follow me," he said. "After one trip, you'll know all the landmarks, but the first time can be kind of tricky. You're about a city block from the road that connects our two houses, and much less than halfway up that road."
She grimaced. "So I was lost after all?"
"What are you talking about?" he asked, gesturing and waiting for her to cross the dam ahead of him. "You're not lost. You know the way home; you're just not exactly where you thought you were."