Reunion

When Gabriel opened his eyes, he found himself standing in the dark at the edge of his mother’s garden with a long-stemmed rosebud in his hand. Its leaves were covered with some of the same dew that had dampened the hems of his jeans.

All he could hear was his own heartbeat, hammering in his ears. Images began to flash in his mind. Images of a dark, ugly place and a black-haired woman lying on a dust-covered floor.

He looked down at the rose and then suddenly tossed it away, wiping his damp fingers on his jeans as if he were wiping off something foul. At the same time he felt something wet and sticky, and he stared intently, trying to make out what it was. Whatever it was looked black in this light.

Blood?

He looked down at his hands, searching for injury, but it was too dark to see what he’d done.

“What the hell is happening to me?”

“Well-developed secondary characters and a surprising ending spice up Sala’s latest romantic intrigue.”

—Publishers Weekly
on
Snowfall

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

G
abriel Connor’s chest rose and fell with each slow breath he took. The woman beside him paused in her duties to stare in mute fascination as a tiny rivulet of water ran between the bands of muscles across his belly. Just before it fell onto the covers, she leaned across the bed and caught it with the cloth in her hand.

“Sorry about that,” she said softly, and then dipped her washcloth into the basin at the side of the bed and sloshed it around.

She was a nurse—a professional health care worker who was pulling a double shift this day. She’d spent many long hours on the floor and it would seem that they weren’t over yet.

With a deft twist, she wrung the excess water from the cloth and then laid it on the side of his cheek, following the contours of his face as she continued to wash him clean.

At the moment of contact, his eyebrows knitted and a muscle twitched along the side of his jaw, but he didn’t move or speak. Sometimes she wondered if he ever would again. Her eyes darkened with compassion. Such a magnificent man, and he was so hurt. She’d seen his chart. She’d heard the doctors talking in the halls. They were hedging their bets with this one’s recovery, and she understood why.

She knew the story, and in her occupation, it was all too common. A family…his family…had been decimated because someone else had chosen to drink and drive.

A frown ran across her forehead as she scrubbed at the length of one leg and then back up the other. The poor man. It was so sad. Lost in a subconscious world somewhere between life and death, unaware that there had even been an accident, or that he’d survived when his parents had not.

More than two weeks had passed since he’d been admitted to the hospital, and he had yet to come out of this coma. And even though he was virtually motionless, there was something remarkably alive about him.

Part of it was his size. In a way, it was an odd sort of proof that he still existed, if by nothing more than power alone. The hospital bed in which he was lying was one of their largest, and they’d still had to angle him slightly so that his feet would not be pressing against the footboard. His shoulders were wide, the muscles in his arms and chest impressive. His legs were long and strong, and it took her twenty-five minutes each day to wash and dry all there was of Gabriel Connor.

Her gaze returned to his face—to the short black strands of his hair lying across his forehead. Having already shaved him, she took the washcloth and swiped the hair to one side, doing her best to keep his appearance neat, as well as clean. His eyelashes were thick, and there was a slight cast to the shape of his nose, as if it had once been broken and healed slightly off keel. The cut of his jaw looked as stubborn as the thrust of his chin. His lips were slack, but full and shapely. She could only imagine the life he exuded when awake.

Even after she had finished with his bath, she stood beside his bed, gazing down upon his face. Every now and then his nostrils would flare slightly, reacting to a stimulus only he could sense. Then, with the help of two other nurses, she made up his bed, turning his near-lifeless body to accommodate the fresh linens.

Adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, she glanced at the IV, reading the flow and adjusting the drip before gathering up her things to move on. At the door, she paused and looked back, as if by mere will alone she could wish him awake. But he was as quiet as he’d been when she entered. She left, knowing she’d done all she could do to make him comfortable. The rest was up to God.

Before cognizance came the voices. Bits and pieces of the life that he had refused to give up. Some of them were indistinct and faint, like a conversation that had come unraveled, leaving nothing but unconnected syllables behind. Some of the voices were close and taunting, reminding him of where he’d been and how far it was back to the land of the living.

One particular sound kept replaying in his mind like a video stuck in rewind. It was always the same: one loud shout and then two sharp screams. Sometimes he thought to wonder if he’d been the one shouting or screaming. The rest of the sounds were in a jumble, as if someone had tossed a conversation into a blender and then mixed it all up. The words were still there, but they were all out of context.

Shame…blood…buried.

Lift her…dead…move him…won’t live.

Head injury.

Help me…lost.

None of it made any sense, but when it was time, he would sort it all out. He had to. It was what kept him alive.

Time passed, and the voices were still with him, never leaving him alone, never giving him peace. One in particular would wake him as he slept, invariably with the same, persistent request for help. His struggles to come back to reality also persisted, if for no other reason than to tell whoever it was that kept talking to do it out of his presence. And now there was enough cognizance within Gabriel’s mind to resent the request.

Why did they keep asking him to help? Didn’t they know, couldn’t they see, that he was in no shape to help anyone? In fact, he was the one who needed help. It was taking everything he had just to come back from where he’d been. And God knows it would have been easier for him to quit—to give up on life and let himself go. More than once, he’d felt his parents’ presence nearby. Each time he’d tried to talk to them, to ask them what was wrong, but they kept leaving before he could speak.

He didn’t understand. It was almost as if they didn’t want him along. And each time he’d been at his weakest, that same persistent voice would intrude, begging to be found, pleading for help, refusing to let him go.

And so he waited for a sign, listening for the voice that would be strong enough to bring him home.

Roses. He smelled roses. Mother must be here. He struggled to open his eyes, but there was a thick shroud of darkness he couldn’t get past.
What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I wake myself up?

He lay without moving, trying to focus on what he could hear—what he could feel. Someone was laughing, but the shrill cackle seemed distant, as if the sound had been bottled and the bottle had just been uncorked. His arms and legs felt more than lethargic, almost immovable, like he’d been tied down. But that made no sense. Restraints were not a part of Gabriel Connor’s world.

The awareness of pain came slowly, and as it did, he realized its presence was old and familiar.
That explains it,
he thought.
I’ve been hurt!

He tried moving his arms and legs, then tried opening his eyes, and although he went through the motions in his mind, nothing worked—nothing moved. A small spurt of panic came quickly, and he wondered if this was what death was like. Was there an awareness of self without any control?
Am I dead?
he wondered. And then a door banged, and someone called out a name. Wherever he was, it was noisy.

His eyelids began to flutter. The stimulus of noise was keeping him focused. He struggled within himself, beginning to realize that all the while he’d been thinking, he’d also been moving toward a pinpoint of light.

Help me.

The voice was intrusive, but Gabriel recognized it. He’d been hearing it for days. He frowned, trying to find the impetus to speak—to tell whoever it was who kept talking that he would help if he could—if for no other reason than to shut them up.

Another scent suddenly overpowered the smell of roses and he wrinkled his nose at the strong, acrid odor of industrial-strength disinfectant.

Help…afraid.

Gabriel swallowed. Afraid? What did they have to be afraid of? He was the one who couldn’t move.

Too loud…too loud. Help me hide.

Gabriel’s fingers clutched the sheet, physically pulling himself closer and closer to the light. A faint sheen of perspiration broke out upon his body, and his heart rate began to increase. Muscles began to twitch, and his eyelids began to flutter as he moved through the tunnel in his mind. Ah, God, he was almost there!

After weeks of darkness, he opened his eyes. The sudden burst of illumination was blinding. He closed his eyes against the glare and then, moments later, opened them more slowly, letting himself adjust.

He saw pale blue walls and a window with blinds. There was a door to his left, and a television that had been mounted on the wall above his bed. Shock hit, coupled with a sudden understanding. Hospital! He was in a hospital! He wanted to move and, instead, found himself struggling for breath.

There were needles in his arms and tubes down his nose, as well as one down his throat. A dull but persistent pain pulsed between his eyebrows, moving from one temple to the other like the pendulum of a clock. Why? How? His hand curled into a fist, and he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate.

Angela, look out!

He jerked, then groaned, remembering the series of shrill screams that had come after his father’s warning shout, followed by the sound of crunching metal and the scent of burning rubber.

No…oh, no.
When he opened his eyes, they were filled with tears, and in that moment, he didn’t have to be told, he knew they were dead. There was an emptiness inside him that he wouldn’t have been able to explain, but he sensed that the energy that had been Brent and Angela Connor was far beyond the realm of this earth.

Ah, God, make me understand why I’m still alive.

But God wasn’t the one who answered. Instead, it was that same whiny voice that had kept plaguing his rest.

Help me. Help me.

He turned his head, expecting to see someone standing in the doorway; then he frowned. There was no one there. He looked to the right, and his heart skipped a beat.

Lost. Help me.

The room held nothing but shadows. His eyes widened, and his pulse began to hammer as the voice came closer, more persistent—even more intense.

Lost. Help me. Lost.

A sickly sweat broke out on his body as he closed his eyes against the truth. Except for him, the room was empty. All these days…all this time…and the voice he’d been hearing was inside his head.