A Wish For Love Page 11

  She liked the way he said her name, she thought as she drifted into a haze of exhaustion, discomfort and lingering shock. It sounded almost like an endearment….

  THE BLINDING LIGHTS were coming straight at her, murderous in their intent. Bailey stood paralyzed with fear in the middle of a deserted road, nothing between her and the metal monster barreling toward her. She tried to run, tried” to scream, but she could do nothing but stare as those lights loomed larger and closer, the roar of the engine behind them almost deafening.

  She realized suddenly that she wasn’t alone. Little Casey crowded close against her, crying and trying ineffectively to hide behind Bailey as the vehicle bore down on them. Bailey threw her arms around the child, huddling over her, waiting for the inevitable impact—

  “Bailey. Open your eyes, Bailey. Look at me.”

  The deep voice broke through the nightmare’s cold grip. With a gasp and a shudder, Bailey opened her eyes.

  Bran leaned over her, his expression grim. “Can you see me?” he asked.

  Though she didn’t quite understand why he’d phrased it that way, she nodded, and moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I was dreaming,” she said. “A nightmare.”

  He seemed to relax marginally. “I know. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I—” She cleared her husky voice. “I’m fine. What time is it?”

  “Late,” he replied without glancing at a clock.

  She was shivering now. “Is it cold in here to you?”

  “No.”

  She pulled the covers to her chin. “I’m cold.”

  “It’s probably a reaction from your bad dream.”

  “Probably,” she agreed with a sigh. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

  “No.”

  “You should get some rest. It really isn’t necessary for you to watch me all night.”

  “I’m not tired. And I told you that I intend to stay for as long as I can.”

  He’d said that before. “Is there something you have to do?”

  “Yes. Later. For now, I’m here, if you want to talk. Or would you like to try to go back to sleep?”

  She swallowed. “I’m not sure I can go back to sleep yet. The dream is still too fresh.”

  He sat on the bed, again so carefully that she hardly felt him. “Would you like to talk?”

  “Mmm. Tell me something about yourself.”

  He smiled. “Are you trying to take advantage of my sympathy?”

  “Maybe. Is it working?”

  “No. But I will tell you that I had nightmares sometimes when I was a boy. My mother used to talk to me afterward until I went back to sleep.”

  “What were your nightmares about?” she asked, intrigued by this rare glimpse into his mysterious past.

  “Change.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Change?”

  He nodded, still smiling faintly, though his eyes were serious. “I was a very conservative child. I didn’t like my comfortable routines disturbed.”

  “I would have thought you’d be the adventurous type. Always taking chances and getting into mischief.”

  “No. That was Anna. I was the one who tried to keep her from taking chances and then rescued her when she did.”

  “Her protector,” Bailey murmured.

  He nodded. “I thought it was my responsibility to take care of her and my mother. To keep them safe.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He died before—when I was very young,” he amended.

  “So you became the man of the family,” Bailey concluded. Was that why Anna’s marriage had come between them? she wondered. Had Bran been reluctant to give up his lifelong role as her champion? Had he felt supplanted in his sister’s life by Dean? Somehow, she thought there was more to it than that.

  “Yes. Has Anna told you nothing of our family?”

  “Not a thing. I don’t even know how she and Dean met.”

  “I see.”

  “Of course, I’ve only been with her a few times,” Bailey admitted. “And I was only here a week before she and Dean left for their vacation.”

  “Anna isn’t one to talk about herself much.”

  Bailey yawned as her muscles began to relax. “She isn’t the only one,” she murmured.

  Watching her closely, Bran nodded. “A family trait.”

  “Tell me more about your childhood,” Bailey urged, squirming into a more comfortable position on her pillows. “Was your mother able to stop your nightmares?”

  “Not entirely. She remarried when I was quite young. After that, I learned to keep my fears to myself.”

  “You didn’t want her to remarry?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you like your stepfather?”

  “No.”

  “Was he mean to her? Or to you?”

  “No, he wasn’t mean. He was just… dim.”

  She couldn’t help smiling a little. “Dim? Do you mean he wasn’t very bright?”

  “He smiled a lot and said very little. Mother thought it was because he was quiet and reserved. I always thought it was because he had nothing of particular interest to say.”

  “Did he love your mother?”

  “He was very fond of her inheritance from my father,” Bran muttered.

  “That doesn’t sound very promising. Was she happy with him?”

  “She never complained to me, but I don’t think she was particularly happy. She died when I was a teenager. She contracted pneumonia after a long illness and just slipped away. It was almost as if she didn’t care to live any longer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bailey whispered, hearing the echoes of pain in Bran’s voice. “That must have been awful for you.”

  He nodded. “The next few years weren’t particularly pleasant ones, either. I didn’t get along with my stepfather, I couldn’t get my hands on the—on my inheritance from my parents because of the terms of my mother’s will. I was so angry, I ended up driving away most of my friends. If it hadn’t been for Anna…but then I couldn’t even protect her when it mattered most.” He was looking away, his expression distant, his voice muted—almost as though he were speaking to himself.

  “What do you mean you couldn’t protect her?” Bailey asked carefully. “Did something bad happen to Anna?”

  Bran seemed to rouse himself.

  His frown told her that he’d said more than he’d intended. More than he wanted to reveal.

  “Never mind that,” he said. “The reason I told you these things is because I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. Life is too short to waste with useless regrets. Don’t dwell on the unpleasant things that have happened to you, or continue to blame yourself for the failings of others. Put it behind you and start making a new life for yourself. You have so much to offer, and you deserve so much in return. I want you to be happy, Bailey.”

  She looked at him in surprise. He’d spoken so forcefully, so intensely. It was probably the most he’d ever said to her at one time.

  It had sounded suspiciously like a farewell speech.

  “Bran?” she asked uncertainly. “Why are you saying this now? You aren’t going away, are you? You’ll stay until Anna returns, won’t you?”

  “I have to go now, he said, his expression reluctant. “I’m sorry I can’t stay with you longer tonight. Will you be all right? Should you call someone?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said impatiently, rising to one elbow. “Where are you going? When will you come back?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t explain now, but I’ll try to come back as soon as I can to make sure you’re all right. If I can’t, remember what I said, will you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He was already moving away from the bed. She reached out to him, her fingers clutching empty air as he stepped just out of reach. “Bran, wait.”

  “I’m sorry, Bailey.” He looked harried now, as though he must hurry. “I have to go.”

  Her hand fell. S
wallowing hard, she nodded stiffly against the pillow. “I won’t keep you, then.”

  He hesitated, glancing from the open bedroom doorway and then back to her. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I will.” She had no other choice.

  Still he lingered, his gaze locked on her battered face. “I don’t like leaving you like this.”

  She started to tell him she understood. She kept silent because she didn’t understand. She had no idea what was suddenly calling him away. Why he couldn’t tell her when he would return—if at all.

  He took a step closer to the bed and leaned over her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “About everything.”

  His face was so close to hers that she should have felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. He seemed to be holding it. Her own breath was lodged behind a massive lump in her throat.

  He moved closer, paused, then brushed his lips across her bruised forehead, so lightly she felt little more than a shivery tingle where he touched her.

  She closed her eyes as her pulse raced in response to the brief caress. When she opened them again, he was gone.

  She looked toward the open doorway through which he must have silently made his escape. The cottage was dark beyond that door, quiet. Empty.

  “Good night, Bran,” she murmured.

  She hoped with all her heart that it wasn’t goodbye.

  IAN CURSED the grayness. Cursed the silence. Cursed himself for leaving Bailey confused and vulnerable, hurting from her injuries, still shaken from the aftermath of her nightmare.

  Would she awaken again, whimpering and fearful, with no one there to hear her? No one to reassure her?

  In her own way, she was as much alone as he was. He ached at the memory of her lying so pale and so uncharacteristically subdued against the pillows. Someone should be with her. Someone to comfort her. Care for her. Guard her.

  Someone who could have carried her to her bed and tenderly tucked her in.

  His fists clenched at the thought of anyone other than himself doing those things for her. Yet how could he deny her what he could never offer?

  It would probably be better for both of them if he never saw her again. If they’d never met at all.

  He’d only wanted to help her, to be a friend when she needed one, but it had grown beyond that. Something serious was building between them. Something that had the potential to be very painful for both of them.

  What would happen if she learned the truth about him? Would she hate him? Pity him? Fear him?

  He didn’t want to face any of those possibilities.

  He reminded himself that it had worked out for Anna. Maybe… maybe the same thing could happen for him and Bailey.

  But, no. He had nothing to offer her. No job, no future, no security, no home. The inn belonged to Dean and Anna now.

  He had no knowledge of her world, her society, her history, the technology she so casually took for granted—even her words were foreign to him at times. He would be useless to her, no better than those men in her past—indigent, uncertain, dependent on her to help him find his way.

  The imagery made him cringe.

  He knew he should stay away from her. But he was consumed with the need to know that she was all right. To see her. To hear her voice. To be close to her… even if he couldn’t touch her. Could never have her.

  Suddenly overcome with rage and frustration, he threw back his head and let out an anguished shout.

  There was no sound in the grayness. Only the dim echoes of pain and hopelessness reverberating through his mind.

  8

  November 11, 1903

  Gaylon and I returned from our honeymoon trip to New Orleans yesterday. Though I was weary from the long train ride, I tried to enjoy the welcomehome party the staff had waiting for us. It. went very well. Ian and Mary Anna were on their best behavior, and young Charles participated a bit more than he usually does. I smiled until my face ached.

  To an outsider, we would have appeared to be a very happy family, indeed. I, however, was much too aware of how mistaken that impression would have been.

  I know how unhappy my children really are about the marriage, though to their credit, they are trying to support me. I sense that Charles isn’t at all excited about leaving the farm where he grew up to move into the inn with his new family. As for me, I knew on my wedding night that I had made a sad mistake.

  Gaylon tried to make it pleasant for me. He was very patient and gentle. But though I will try to be a good wife to him, I cannot feign enthusiasm for an act that I find holds little appeal for me now. When I allow myself to remember the way it was with James, I become almost physically ill at the thought of letting Gaylon touch me that way again. There is no joy for me in lovemaking now, only regrettable comparisons, though I will do my best to hide my true feelings.

  Poor Gaylon. He deserves better. But I have nothing more to give.

  I should have known better. I should have realized that a marriage without love is wrong. I should have listened to my children, instead of all those well-intentioned people who do not truly know me. But it’s done now. And for all our sakes, I will make it work. I must lock the bittersweet memories away and concentrate on my children’s future.

  BAILEY WAS NOT overly impressed by the Destiny police force, not even when the chief himself arrived at the inn the next afternoon to report the latest development in the investigation.

  “Just thought I’d let you people know that we’ve found the truck that hit you,” the mousy-looking man in the wrinkled brown uniform reported officiously. “It was stolen from a motel over on the other side of town. Whoever was driving the vehicle when it hit you was long gone. He abandoned the truck in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly.”

  Bailey, Mae, Cara and Mark sat in the lobby of the inn, paying close attention as Chief Roy Peavy made his announcement. They exchanged a look of shared dissatisfaction when he finished.

  “That’s it?” Bailey asked, the first to speak up. “That’s all you have?”

  Peavy nodded stiffly, his gray eyebrows beetled over his cool brown eyes. “That’s all we have at this point. We’re still looking for clues and interviewing potential witnesses. We expect the perpetrator to be apprehended. But it takes time to complete an official investigation.”

  He sounded as though he was quoting from an official police-spokesperson’s phrase book, Bailey thought in exasperation. “What time was the truck reported stolen?” she asked.

  “Fifteen minutes before you say the accident happened. The owner was… entertaining a lady friend in a motel room when the truck was taken.”

  “He left the keys in it?” Mae asked.

  Peavy shook his head. “It was hot-wired.”

  “No one saw anything?” Mark asked with a frown. “It’s not as if it were stolen in the middle of the night. It couldn’t have been much past nine o’clock.”

  “As I said,” Peavy replied, “we are interviewing potential witnesses. Unfortunately, the staff and clientele of this particular motel don’t tend to be overly cooperative with the police. We suspect that the truck was stolen by some joyriding teenagers, probably drunk or high on something. When they hit you, they most likely panicked, abandoned the truck as soon as they could and hightailed it out of there.”

  “What about the scene of the wreck?” Bailey asked. “Are you looking for clues there, as well?”

  Peavy looked a bit confused. “We’re sure we have the truck that hit you. The one we found matches the description you gave us, and the left side sustained heavy damage. We’ll test the paint scrapings against your car, but I’m sure we’ll find that it’s the right vehicle.”

  “What about skid patterns, or whatever you call them? Has anyone studied them?” Bailey asked. “Can you tell if the other driver tried to avoid us? Was there any indication that he applied his brakes? Did his driving appear to be erratic, or was it controlled?”

  Peavy was looking at her now with a suspicious frown. “You make it sound l
ike you’re asking if there’s any evidence that he ran into you on purpose.”

  Cara gasped, then looked quickly down at her clenched hands. Sitting beside her on the small sofa, Mark slid an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t relax into the comforting embrace, but she didn’t pull away, either, Bailey noted.

  “You have reason to think someone’s out to hurt you, Ms. Gates?” Peavy demanded.

  “I was just asking about the details of your investigation.”

  “You aren’t thinking the Peavy family has anything to do with this, are you? Because if you are—”

  “Chief Peavy, I have no reason to accuse your family of anything,” Bailey assured him flatly. “Why would I?”

  He searched her face for a moment, looking torn between answering her question and ignoring it. Bailey knew what was agitating him, of course. She’d been told that Peavys’ overbearing aunt, Margaret Peavy Vandover, had hired someone to intimidate Dean into keeping quiet about her late father’s involvement in the murders of the Cameron twins.

  Dean had been brutally attacked and injured. It was fortunate that he hadn’t been killed. Due to Margaret’s age and precarious emotional state, he hadn’t pressed charges, but he’d made it clear that he would tolerate no further harassment from the Peavy family. They hadn’t bothered him since.

  “My family had nothing to do with this,” Peavy said after a moment. “We don’t like what your brother did to our family’s reputation, and I can’t say any of us like him all that much—”

  Peavy gave Mark a glance that included him in his family’s list of least favorite people.

  “But,” he added firmly, “my generation is respectable and law-abiding. I’ve sworn to serve and protect the citizens of this area, Ms. Gates. If anyone out there is trying to harm you, or any member of your family, you can bet I’ll do my job to the best of my ability.”

  He had defirutely memorized the cop phrase book, Bailey decided. But she couldn’t doubt the man’s sullen sincerity.

  She met his eyes squarely. “I believe that you and your family mean us no harm, Chief Peavy. And I can assure you that I can think of no one who would have deliberately staged that accident last night. If I had any knowledge of who was behind it or why, I would have already told you. I just wanted to make sure that every possibility is being considered in your investigation.”