A Dark and Lonely Place (11 page)

John nodded, an odd ringing in his ears. “When I accepted your invite, Edgar, I swear I didn’t know she was your wife.”

Wife?
The word felt foreign on his tongue. Laura? Someone else’s wife? He hated Edgar for a moment and wished him dead, but he realized as they talked and drank that he would probably like the man—if he had only married some other woman.

Laura flounced into the room, her face flushed.

Edgar announced that John was staying and asked her to make up the daybed on the side porch.

After a quick, startled glance at John, Laura took some time to fetch the linens and a pillow. Edgar continued to drink.

Laura draped mosquito netting above the bed on the shadowy, covered sleeping porch and patted the pillow. “Hope you’ll be comfortable, John. How nice to see you again.” Her words sounded sweet, sad, and rehearsed.

He said nothing as she firmly closed the door behind her, the way he was now closed out of her life.

He sat on the hard, narrow bed, head in his hands, then stretched out and tried to sleep. The entire day seemed unreal. Hope at dawn. Grief in the afternoon. Then joy followed by a different sort of despair.

He listened to the angry, high-pitched whine of mosquitoes that hungered for his blood and thought about what he hungered for more than life itself. If he could only go back in time, to the moment he saw her bright body naked in the river, the sky and the water the same color as her eyes.

She’s a woman now, he thought, and I am the goddamn fool who waited too long and lost everything.

How could he sleep with her so close, in another man’s arms?

He crept out of bed, yanked his clothes on, and stepped quietly out the creaky porch door, which protested loudly in the silent night.

The entire house was dark. An old dog rose stiffly from the stoop, stretched, and padded across the yard at his side. Each found comfort in the other’s company. Neither moon nor stars shone in a somber, overcast sky. John felt alone under a shroud of darkness. “I lost her,” he said bleakly. The dog gazed up at him, eyes watery, as though he understood.

John decided he couldn’t stay, went back to the porch, and let himself inside. He smelled orange blossoms and rose water and heard her breathing softly in the shadows just inside the door.

“I was afraid you left,” she whispered, relief in her words.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“Me either.” She paced the room, graceful in a white nightdress, shaking out her long, loose hair as she rubbed the back of her neck.

He sat down on the bed, afraid to touch her. “Where’s Edgar?” His voice sounded hollow.

“Sleeping like a baby. He drank too much.”

“Is he good to you, Laura?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “He is a plain, boring, and decent man.” She covered her eyes with her hand in the shadows. “Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

“I was putting enough money together to build us a home down in Miami. Found us a nice piece of property on the river.”

He heard her swift intake of breath, then a hiccup.

She slumped down next to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’ll always love you, Laura,” he said miserably, scarcely breathing, fearing what might happen if he touched her. “Do you still love me?”

“Always have, always will.” Her words were low, sweet, and mournful.

When he turned to face her, her mouth melted into his with the taste of passion and regret.

He kissed her again and again. “If I don’t die of a heart attack now, I never will,” he whispered. Their youthful explorations of each other’s bodies were the gropes of innocent children compared to the passion that now overwhelmed them.

They writhed on his bed in a deep embrace.

“I can’t.” He pulled away, voice pained. “Not here, under your husband’s roof. It’s not right. You’re killing me, Laura.”

“He will probably kill us both,” she said.

“Edgar’s crazy”—John struggled to catch his breath—“to let me stay here. We can’t do this.”

She caught his hand and placed it to her breast. He could feel her heart pound. “Oh, Johnny, it’s like we never were apart. It’s like it always was, but better.”

“If Edgar doesn’t kill me, your stepfather will. He waved that shotgun at me again today.”

“I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself, if you ever leave me again, John,” she said, her voice steady.

He knew she meant what she said and nodded. “Sounds fair, darlin’.”

She laughed. The sound was clear and sweet, the laughter of the river girl he remembered.

He held her close. “We belong together,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered fervently in his ear. “We do.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

E
dgar’s head throbbed as he pulled on his overalls, then plodded out to feed the livestock in the morning. His painful hangover drove him back to the house sooner than usual.

As he stepped into the kitchen, the smells of ham, hot biscuits, and coffee turned his stomach. So did the sight of his wife and John Ashley.

Rosy-cheeked and radiant, Laura stood at the wood-burning stove, a long wooden spoon in her hand. Ashley stood behind her, his arms around her waist. Her laughter was a singular sound.

He’d never heard his wife laugh like that. He blinked and rethought what Ashley had said about their childhood friendship. Pale and melancholy yesterday, he looked like a new man now. Edgar frowned, then blinked again. That shirt he’s wearing—is it mine? He cleared his throat. Neither had the decency to react with embarrassment, guilt, or surprise. They remained focused on each other.

He stood, ignored, in his own doorway. Can they see me? Am I still asleep? he wondered. Is this just a bad dream?

Despite the dull pain behind his eyes, he mustered up enough swagger to stride into that kitchen as big as life, as though he owned it, which he damn well did.

“Mornin’, Ashley,” he said. “’Bout time for us to ride out to the smithy’s shop. If your axle’s fixed, you can be on your way. If not, you can wait on it there.”

No reaction, so he took a deep breath and the direct approach.

“You’ve overstayed your welcome, John.”

“Sorry, Edgar.” John tore himself away from his murmured dialogue with Laura. His smile faded. “I didn’t mean . . .”

For the first time, Edgar noted, the silver-tongued houseguest from hell groped for words.

John and Laura exchanged a glance so tender that Edgar decided to forgo breakfast. He’d have Laura fix him a plate later, when he came home. Alone. His stomach should be settled by then.

“Let’s go.” He emphasized the final word.

“Let’s talk,” John solemnly countered.

“No, unless you’d rather walk than ride.”

“Edgar . . .” Laura dried her hands on her apron. She looked concerned.

About time, he thought. “Stay outta this, Laura. I’ll deal with you later.”

John took offense. “Hold on,” he said.

Laura touched his arm. Their eyes locked, then she turned and left the room without a word.

John stared after her, dismayed. What did that look mean? He could take nothing for granted, even after last night. Sure, they had expressed their love and agreed they belonged together. But they hadn’t hammered out a plan. What if, in the light of day, she’d changed her mind? That she had married still had him reeling. In a fit of passion he’d promised to never leave her again. But what exactly did that mean? He frowned. Did she expect him to stay here? With her, Edgar, and the children?

Fearless in the wild, an unrivaled marksman with an unfailing inner compass, he now felt bewildered. Laura was so different from the other women he knew best, his mother and sisters. And thank God, he thought, she’s not at all like Lucy.

He weighed the pros and cons from Laura’s point of view, ignoring Edgar’s impatient glare. He and Laura had a shared history. But so did she and Edgar. The man was her husband, the father of her children. This house, his house, was her home.

Edgar fidgeted, his fuse growing shorter.

He wants me gone, John thought. But if I go, how and when will I see her again? Are she and the children safe with him now? He needed time to figure it out.

“Ready?” Edgar marched to the door, his bloodshot eyes narrowed, increasingly obsessed by an urgent need to remove John Ashley from his home and his life at once.

To his utter annoyance, John failed to follow. Instead, he’d taken a seat at the kitchen table. “Let’s talk.”

“We can do that on the road.” Edgar stepped toward him menacingly, fists ready.

“No. Don’t do that, Edgar.” John waved him away. Brow furrowed, he had an idea. “Let’s ask Laura to join us.”

Where in God’s name did she go? he wondered. She’s holed up in their bedroom. What did that mean? It didn’t look good.

“Out. Out of my house, now!” Edgar snarled and pointed to the door. “And take off that shirt before you go!”

“Sorry.” John glanced down, embarrassed. “I only borrowed it so Laura could wash and iron mine.”

“Not on your best day! Out! Take your dirty laundry! Now!” Edgar gestured as though scolding a dog he was about to kick.

John sighed, got to his feet, and slowly peeled off the shirt. How can I refuse to leave the man’s house? he wondered. It’s not right. But how can I leave without her?

“Okay!” Edgar puffed up, ready to fight. “I’ll throw you out!” Despite his fury, he couldn’t help but notice how muscular Ashley looked without his shirt.

“I’m not gonna fight you, Edgar. We have a lot in common.”

“Get out of my house!”

“Not without Laura.”

“What the hell?” Edgar’s face contorted in disbelief.

“I’m ready.” Laura sang out the words as she appeared like an answered prayer, in a blue traveling suit with a matching shirtwaist, the baby in her arms, and a valise at her feet. Her little girl, also dressed for travel, clung to her mother’s skirt with both hands, one thumb in her mouth.

Weak with relief, John knew he’d never doubt her again.

“Why, John,” she asked softly, “are you taking off your clothes?”

“Edgar wants his shirt.”

“Damn right,” Edgar said. “Where do you think you’re going, Laura?”

“Away,” she said calmly. “With John.”

“No, you’re not.” He lumbered toward her.

“She is.” John stepped between them.

“You’re crazy if you think you can take my children anywhere.”

“They need their mother,” she said quietly. “Perhaps when they’re older . . .”

“I’ll never let you steal my kids! Never!”

Laura wilted. “I’m so sorry, Edgar.”

“Don’t be,” John said. “It’s my fault.” He turned to Edgar. “I’m lower than a worm because I waited too long to—”

“No! It’s my fault,” she argued and squared her shoulders defiantly, “because I didn’t wait for John. He’s not responsible for this.”

Edgar, sweating, his face beet red, lunged for the shotgun beside the door. His hands shook; he fumbled, nearly dropped the weapon, but then recovered and raised it grimly to his shoulder.

“Now, Edgar,” his wife said gently, “stop that.”

John rolled his eyes. “This isn’t personal, Edgar. It’s just that Laura and me,”—he gazed at her fondly—“we belong together. Always did.”

She nodded.

“I’ll blow you to kingdom come, you son of a bitch!” Edgar gingerly sidestepped the kitchen table and gritted his teeth, the shotgun barrel leveled at John’s chest. His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t care how well-liked you and your damn family are, Ashley. You’re a dead man now. Nobody on earth’ll blame me when I tell ’em how you sneaked into my home under false pretenses and took advantage of my wife.”

“I never took advantage.” John took umbrage. “Didn’t touch her! Wouldn’t do that under your roof, Edgar. I swear.”

He saw Laura’s mouth open, an eyebrow lift.

“Well, maybe a little touching,” he conceded, “but that’s all. In a nutshell, she is
not
your woman. Never was. Never could be. She’s mine.”

Laura nodded in agreement. “Don’t you try to shoot him, Edgar. Now or ever. You’re too young to die. I’ve seen John shoot hundreds of times. He never misses. Ever. And that shotgun you’re holding? It’s not loaded.”

“I always keep it loaded.” Edgar smirked like a card shark with the winning hand and slunk closer to his target.

“Not since this mornin’,” Laura said, one hand on her hip. “Your rifle ain’t loaded either. I threw the shells in the pond. Every last one.” She proceeded calmly to the door. “We’ll be going now. Please do not act up and frighten the children.”

With a howl of rage, Edgar charged John, who caught the shotgun in both hands, wrestled it away, and sent him sprawling to the floor.

“You ain’t getting away with this! Neither one a you!” Edgar scrabbled up onto his hands and knees and dove at John’s ankles.

Laura hustled the children out onto the front porch so they wouldn’t see.

“Laura!” Edgar screamed like a woman. “Don’t go!”

Laura closed the door behind her, took a deep breath, and marveled at the brilliant and beautiful day. A great blue heron soared. She pointed it out to the children, whose big eyes followed its flight until they heard a crash in the kitchen. It sounded as though the table had been overturned. Scuffling sounds followed.