120 Mph (14 page)

As it got darker and darker within the eerily
silent woods, Sara could barely make out the name inscribed in the marble.

“It says Beale,” he quietly informed
her. “And it is a constant reminder to what I can’t have right now.”

Sara couldn’t quite grasp where this turn
in conversation was headed, or the reason he was showing her a gravesite, until
he added more depth to the mystery and kept the words flowing, starting to
unravel his past, thread by devastating thread.

“My wife was pregnant with another man’s
child the day she died.” He took a deep breath, held it, then finished on a
catch.

“Sara . . . I was glad Beale died. Her
death solved so many . . . God help me, it solved all of my problems in one
fell swoop. Her affair, another man’s child, and my alcoholism could then be
hidden.”

Christian turned to her and by the rising
moonlight and fading day the darkness of dusk made the tears in his eyes
visible. She even felt those tears as if they her own. She took his hand in
hers and held onto him. It was the least she could do. As well, all she could
do at this point.

“I told Beale the day she died I wanted
a divorce. And do you know what she said to me?” A strange chuckle came out of
him.

Sara shook her head. Quite obviously,
she had no idea what it was his wife had said to him.

He snorted loudly before continuing.
“She told me to go to Hell. Me. Can you believe that? Reverend Christian Mohr
was to go to Hell. And do you know what I said back to her? I’ll tell you,
Sara. I told my wife that I had it all set with the Big Guy, and couldn’t
possibly go anywhere but up, floating there by gilded wings.”

Sara knew he did not want interruptions
so she gave his hand a gentle squeeze to ease his obvious pain.

Christian closed his eyes and he turned
from her to say the rest. The words practically wrenched from his lips. “My
God, Sara, when I have you in my arms and you kiss me back how can I possibly
forget what I did to a woman who never deserved to die because of my hatred and
shame?”

Sara’s voice came out as a mere whisper.
“Why did you bring me here?” She needed him to explain the reason. She wasn’t going
to guess.

He looked her square in the eyes. “To
prove to you I am not as worthy as you think, or even worthy of you, and that I
am indeed human with the same capacity of guilt and hurt as any other man.”

Not worthy to have her? If anyone was not
worthy, it was Sara. She’d been told time and time again how worthless she was.
From foster home to foster home, throughout a very flawed system, even while an
adult and capable of changing this unworthiness.

“Shouldn’t it be my choice who is worthy
to me?” she asked.

Christian shook his head to deny that it
was. “No, Sara. It should be God’s choice. And since he very clearly has filled
my heart with shame, at this point in time I suspect I had better listen to
Him
or find myself on
His
bad side for another of many times.”

Sara placed her hand to his face.
Christian leaned his head into it, then turned to give her palm a chaste kiss.
Seconds later, he grasped her hand firmly into his and pulled her as close as
she could possibly get to any man.

His chin put to the top of her head he
rasped out, “Why is He doing this to me? Why, Sara?” The words filled with
anguish and vital need the moment he added, “Why do I no longer want to listen
to my God?”

Sara tipped her face up and as gently as
she could she answered this. “Do not stop listening to God, Christian. That would
only make this so much worse.”

What she was really trying to say,
without having said it aloud, was that it would only make to two of them being
together more of a sin in the eyes of others. If he stopped listening to God,
he would then stop caring about who he was, and Sara didn’t want such a heavy
responsibility or burden placed upon her shoulders. She didn’t want to be the
cause a good and decent man stopped caring.

Christian closed his eyes. He reopened
them when Sara dragged in a deep and unsettled breath.

“Isn’t
He
doing this to the both
of us?” he asked, mere seconds before their lips met and another kiss became almost
unstoppable.

As Christian’s tongue battled hers, and
the bulge in his jeans grew hard while pressed firmly against her middle, Sara
struggled with what she wanted against what Christian needed from her. He
wanted redemption of the soul. He wanted a reason to go against God. He wanted
this reason to be her fault, not his.

Sara could not let that be. She could
not let a man do this to her—again. She could not—would not—let another take
control of her life or place blame where blame was unwarranted.

Yet how could she possibly prevent such
a thing from happening? How could she settle this man’s heart, and still get
what she desired out of the dangerous mess?

His hands moved from hers and slid to
her ass. His strong fingers dug into pliable flesh beneath her jeans as his
mouth fought a war she was only too willing to lose.

She wanted him. By God, she dearly wanted
this man! However, not like this, not here, and not while both so desperate for
another’s touch, that without it, they might not survive the night.

Nor did she want his lovemaking to be
while they stood in front of the grave of his dead wife, shunning her every
desire by ghostly presence and little more.

The second she was going to tell
Christian how she felt, he pulled back, checked his body’s violent needs, and
gave her a gentle smile to ease the conscience.

“Perhaps you should go back to the house
now, Sara,” he informed her.

Sara could only nod. A quick glance at
his face, she hurriedly slipped from his embrace and started to make her way over
the wooden bridge. One darted glance at the grave checked her breath.

No! I can’t be.

The moon was high above their heads now.
The entire woods eerily lit by its filtered light. Or was it sudden shame that
made the unusual glow around the headstone?

On the other side of the stream, Sara
heard through a deafening roar in her ears Christian asking across the gurgling
moonlit waters, “Sara?”

She responded with a simple,
throat-strangling, “Yes?”

Dear Lord! Her entire being was suddenly
trembling from head to heels.

Shoving his hands deep into his pocket,
Christian stated without pause, “Please lock your bedroom door tonight.”

Reverend Christian Mohr gave her the
reason why with a wry smile. And for one brief moment, one brief second of
mortal being, while she dragged her wavering sight from a headstone to stare hard
across the moonlit stream at a man fraught with internal conflict over what he
wanted, against what his God wanted, she truly felt both her feet disintegrating
into that infamous pile of Biblical salt. Guilt? No, Sara had more than simple guilt
inside her body. Sara Ruby was filled with dread. So much so, she could barely
speak.

She wanted the man who stood across the
stream more than life itself, and if getting him . . . it could well cost her the
rest of her soul.

Sara turned on heels quickly, then made
her way back to the house. Once inside, she headed straight to her appointed
room and locked the door—as told. To put temptation at one’s hand, even put an
ounce of thought to it, would be to take the forbidden fruit from the tree and
tasting its sweetness when the belly already full.

Right now, neither needed that problem
above all else.

Right now . . . Christian and Sara had
to get past a moonlit night and wanting each other so badly it could be tasted
on the tongue, than put more worry to if they even had a future with each other.

Chapter
Sixteen

Christian stood beside Beale’s grave for
a full half hour before he found the strength to head through the tangling woods
and back into the stillness of his house.

The longer he’d stayed near Beale’s
final resting place, the easier it was to control his body into behaving as it
should, and not as it wanted to.

Christian had to find a way to get over
the fact he wanted Sara Ruby more than life itself. Then, perhaps he would be
able to sleep through his nights, knowing she was right across the hall, and
his not doing something about the woman being right across the hall; something
that would send him straight to the gates of Hell, bypassing all viable chance
for redemption.

Praying it did not work this way,
Christian certainly aware it
shouldn’t
work that way, he wasn’t about to
test the boundaries if even possible. Not tonight.

He took a moment to catch his breath at
the back door. His body controlled by the long walk; his thoughts were well out
of control as his fingers touched the cold knob.

Once inside the house, from down the
hallway that led off the kitchen he could see her bedroom light was still on.
Sara was yet awake, still freshly kissed, and much too much of a dire
temptation to mortal man needing to sin.

A fool of a man would have dared step
down the hallway, knocked on her door, then walked straight into the open arms
of Hell. Christian was not a fool. Nor did he want to face the devil head on
this evening, knowing he would lose.

He, instead, went to his study. Perhaps
if he wrote within the journal tonight, and not waiting for the usual time, his
thoughts wouldn’t hurt him so much. Perhaps if he let out how he felt in words
it would be far easier to fall asleep and stay asleep.

The study—the room itself—welcomed him
into its fold. Christian sat down in the leather chair behind his desk; pulled
open the bottom drawer, grabbed the journal out, took pen in hand, then started
to write. What came to mind flowed easily onto the page. What needed saying as
written word. . . Christian said while in mocking silence.

The usual page filled quickly, spilled
over onto the next, and by the end of ten short minutes, he had five full pages
of sin written in script.

He stared at what he wrote until it
blurred the eyes and stung the throat. Seconds later, he tore out the last two
pages from the journal and crumpled them up, tossing both into the wastebasket
near his leg.

Never before, and likely never again,
had any Reverend in possession of this sacred journal torn a single page from
its leather bound, let alone two. This was a first.

The shame of what he’d done hit him
hard—right in the gut and pinching tight. How could he not tear out those damning
pages? He just confessed in writing that he wanted to make love to Sara
Ruby—tonight and every night until death took him from this world. As well, a
written confession made that he was glad Beale was dead, and that he finally had
a woman in his life who was warm and caring, instead of a frigid, unfaithful
bitch caring nothing at all for him as her husband and coveted his best friend.

No one but Christian and God should know
these things.

No one, but God and Christian, should
make judgment on these things.

He turned his head, almost afraid to
look at what he’d done, and cautiously glanced into the wastebasket where his
sins lay. Set atop the other trash, those sins seemed to grow right before his very
eyes. They mocked him from the trash. They taunted him. They gave violent need
to righteous redemption. They somehow came alive. Therefore, he did only what
had to be done. He pulled out the two sheets, carried them over to the
fireplace and with match lit the paper to flame, destroying the need and the
fury and the hatred he couldn’t find his way past.

As his eyes watched the sheets burn,
then turn into small pile of ash, the pain in his gut grew into something far
worse, far more deadly.

Remorse pushed away the guilt.

Christian stood, bowed his head,
swallowed down his sudden shame, and walked back to the desk. How could he be
so selfish? Other men who had possession of this journal confessed their sins
without remorse. How dared he think his sins far less than theirs or that he
was above the failures of mortal man?

He sat down, grabbed pen in hand, and
rewrote word for word what he’d easily destroyed by flame. If anyone looked
inside this private journal, let him or her do so with a cleared conscience.  Reverend
Christian Mohr was going to clear his own conscience by making it a permanent
record. He wasn’t going to hide how he felt about Sara. Nor what he felt about
Beale. He was going to script what he must, and come what may.

It did his soul good to confess these
sins. Let that goodness fill his heart, body, and mind . . . let it take over
to where he can be able to release his past and start looking forward to a
future.

Perhaps then he could start to feel alive
again.

Five minutes later, Christian lowered
his pen, closed the journal by way of heavy sigh, and gently placed the leather
bound pages back into the bottom drawer. An even heavier sigh brought him to
his feet.

He turned and found Sara at the door. As
late as it was and due to the circumstances of their evening thus far, he’d
thought her to be in bed.

More in point, he’d hoped her to be in
bed.

She was fully dressed and looked ill at
ease. Had she seen what was done in here? Was she ashamed she’d been spying on
him?

No. This did not look to be the case.
Sara looked troubled in thought, not caught in deed.

Christian wanted to move toward her,
take Sara in his arms, and tell her all would be good again. Unfortunately, he
could not make the initial step forward even if his life depended on it.
Something was holding him back from going to her. Something was telling him to
give her the space she needed—the space they both needed.

Something, as well, was telling him that
the next five seconds of his life wasn’t going to be tolerable simply by how
she stood at his open door, wringing her hands, and her delicate cheeks wrought
with an emotion he’d never before seen.

Sara took a sudden step forward. She
came farther into his study by moving slowly until within five feet from him.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.

By the way these six terrible words sounded
in his ears, and by the strange way she was suddenly acting, Christian was all
ears. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and with his own held breath stared
into the most incredible blue eyes a man would ever want to look into.

He shoved his hands deep into his
pockets, responding, “Okay.”

That one word became the only word
produced out of his mouth.

Sara looked as though she didn’t know
where to start. She seemed caught at a crossroad; locked out, due to dire
truth, and wanting in by the pure hands of fate alone. One wrong move, one
wrong word, and by the will of God she would burst into flame.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked,
trying to ease her into announcing whatever she had on her mind. There were
chairs scattered about the room. Surely, they could sit. His legs were
weakening by the second the more he stared at her face.

Sara shook her head. “No. What I have to
say . . . Well, I have to just come out and say it, hold nothing back, then
accept the consequences as my due.”

His brows rose, as did his curiosity.

“I appreciate that you opened your home
to me,” she started. “No one ever has.”

Christian’s head snapped back,
whiplashed by her thanks. His tone turned suddenly crisp. “I thought we were already
past this, Sara. You need a place to stay. I have that place. If this is
because of what I have done or said when outside  . . .”

“No. This is not because of what you or
I have done—or said while outside. And I know there is nowhere else for me to
go right now.” She sighed, the sound heavy, then she turned her face from his
to hide her tears.

The muscles in Christian’s legs regained
movement only by the sight of Sara wrought with fear. He took a step forward.
Then another. “If this has something to do with what happened when we were in
the woods, or what I told you, I can explain  . . .”

Sara lurched back. She held up her hand
to keep him arms’ reach away. “No. It isn’t that, either. It is, well, when we
were in the woods . . . by that grave,” she started, obviously under strong
emotional strain he couldn’t quite fathom the reason for.

Sara’s next words were stalled due to
the startling cascade of her tears. Christian didn’t know what could have
possibly brought on such a strong outpouring of waterworks, yet those tears drew
him like moth to flame. He knew he had to wait until she told him all of what
was on her mind else he wouldn’t be able to stop the torrential flow. Nor he to
have found the underlying cause of what was troubling her so.

“Yes?” he asked, trying to prod that
reason out of her.

Sara’s gaze rose. The tears slid down
her face unchecked.

The words, “Your wife? She died eight
years ago? August 23rd?” startled Christian beyond anything ever felt.

Reverend Christian Mohr swiftly realized
why that was.

The actual day his wife died hadn’t been
on her headstone. Unless Sara had somehow dug into his history, she would never
have known that date. Christian was living in a homemade Hell he could not seem
to get out of because of Beale’s affair and death. Moreover, the only way to
get past Hell’s entrance without being drawn in was to purposely leave the date
his wife died off her headstone.

Giving a date carved into the marble, as
a permanent reminder in permanent form, would have made the truth far too
painful to bear. It was certainly on record at the county courthouse. It was
not set in stone.

Sara took a deep breath right in front
of him, held it for what looked to be as long as she could, then let it come
out as mortally wounding words to his conscience.

“I may have been the one who killed your
wife.”

After the initial shock to Sara’s rather
ill-timed confession, Christians’ feet found ground. He moved forward and
grabbed her by both arms.

“What do you mean . . . may have?” He
knew a shotgun blast to the chest would’ve made less of an impact on his body.

Sara wrenched from his grasp as if his
touch disgusted her. He tried to get her back into his reach but she made this
quest futile.

“I asked you a question, Sara.”

Christian had to hold his breath for the
dreaded answer. A breath that was far too painful to keep inside his lungs for more
than ten full seconds.

Sara would not answer him. She turned
her back on him, fell to her knees, put her head into her hands, and sobbed
uncontrollably on his study floor.

Christian went down on both knees as
well. He turned her into his arms, this time without argument. His mouth set
near her ear, he asked again, “What do you mean . . . may have?”

Every ounce of strength was being yanked
from his body. Every thought and incoherent muttering inside his brain jumbled
all together. To say he was beyond shocked . . .

Sara raised her face, the tears fell
harder still, and she blurted out, “Oh, God! Christian! I don’t know how to begin
or even how to tell this to anyone, or why something is even forcing me too,
but I hit a car, August 23
^rd,
and I ran that car off the road. I
didn’t do a damn thing about it once it happened. Nothing at all!”

Truly surprised he could even speak he
rasped out, “Where Sara?” The reverend part of his mortal soul was kicking into
overdrive. The part that comforted the weak, gave pity to the poor, and shelter
to the needy.

The man part of his being wanted to run
and hide, never look back until such a time as when the strangling of his heart
faded. The man part of his being wanted quick answers.

His hands slipped from her and balled
into fists at his sides.

Sara tipped her head up and stared him
right in the eyes. In that one single moment, Christian had his answer as if
shouted into his ear. Where it had been didn’t matter.
Who
it had been
was going to change his life from this moment forward. A life he never would
have expected changed by another’s hand.

He tried once again to gain answer in the
form of confession. “Where Sara?”

She shook her head. He could see she was
not ready to tell him more of her tragic tale. Nevertheless, he had to know if
the woman in his arms, the woman he’d opened his home to and was sheltering
when no one else would, the woman he was falling hard for in so short amount of
time had been the actual cause of his wife’s premature death.

A careless hit and run driver caused Beale’s
accident. He needed to know if Sara Ruby was even capable of such a horrific crime.

Christian had to be told if Sara was
even capable of hiding eight harsh years of her life from all others.