like them. But did the jackass listen to her and keep his mouth shut? Hell, no.
The jackass had come while he was there—a big, handsome man with a ruddy face. He and his wife and Willie and Whit had come to spend Christmas with Betsy. He didn’t like Betsy and he didn’t like the house. Johnny had followed him everywhere, making him start nervously and look behind him. He and Betsy had laughed about it afterward.
He couldn’t remember his own grandmother, but he remembered Willie’s. He remembered, too, how much he’d loved her. So much that he’d wept when Betsy came back from Boston and couldn’t see him anymore. She’d tried to find him, kept talking to him and looking for him in shadowy corners and on moonlit nights on the beach. He’d tried everything he could think of to make Betsy see him; he’d stood in bright lights and waved his arms, but he hadn’t known about mirrors then and neither had Betsy.
He missed her so much his throat clenched as he sank to his knees—his forearms folded on the back of the couch, his chin on his wrists—and gazed at Willie. She made a soft little snort in her sleep that made him smile, rolled her head away on the pillow and flung one arm over her head.
The movement caused the front of her pajama top to gape, giving him a moon-silvered glimpse of soft, sweet curves. He ached to touch her, to feel flesh warmed by a beating heart. She looked so lovely and so vulnerable. And no match for Raven.
He could leave if he wanted. He wasn’t tied to this place. For the time he spent here, his will was his own. He knew that, though he didn’t know how. He’d fled Raven before, though he couldn’t remember where he’d gone or when. He could only remember that Raven had pursued him and that Raven had been angry. Very, very angry.
If he thought Raven would follow him without wreaking vengeance on Willie first, he’d run as far and as fast as he could from Stonebridge. But Raven’s temper was too capricious, too swift and too terrible to even think about doing that.
It was best if he stayed. Better yet if he found a way to warn Willie. He had no idea how, but he’d think of something. In the meantime, he’d protect her from Raven.
Somehow. Some way. God willing.
Chapter 7
Willie thought she was still dreaming when she woke up rubbing her nose, but she wasn’t a little girl crying on the beach because a starfish had stung her. She was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a calico tail twitching in her face, her neck scrunched beneath the purring weight on her head. The oldest wake-up-and-feed-me cat trick in the book.
“Get off, goofy,” she mumbled, giving Callie a poke.
The cat stretched onto Willie’s chest, giving her a faceful of bony little behind. Willie swept her onto the floor and struggled up on her elbows, blinking and spitting cat hair.
Bright morning sun flooded the porch and slanted through the windows in broad, dusty beams across the floor. Willie yawned, scratched her head and saw that her left foot was on the floor and her right was still propped on the doubled-up pillow.
She pushed herself all the way up, wincing in anticipation, but felt only a twinge of stiffness as she lifted her ankle off the pillow. It took most of her weight when she swung it to the floor and stood.
“Look, Ma, no hands,” she said, flinging her arms out.
Callie sat on the coffee table looking at her nonplussed, then jumped down and trotted ahead of Willie as she made her way into the kitchen. Getting there and into the bathroom wasn’t half bad. There was no pain, only weakness in her ankle, and the swelling was nearly gone. The bone was sore, and so was her fanny—Willie felt the bruises there—but on the whole she felt great. Raven was some kind of doctor.
The microwave said it was 7:32. Callie said feed me, meowing petulantly around Willie’s legs when she came out of the bathroom. Willie gave her half a can of tuna with fresh water, made coffee and
The jackass had come while he was there—a big, handsome man with a ruddy face. He and his wife and Willie and Whit had come to spend Christmas with Betsy. He didn’t like Betsy and he didn’t like the house. Johnny had followed him everywhere, making him start nervously and look behind him. He and Betsy had laughed about it afterward.
He couldn’t remember his own grandmother, but he remembered Willie’s. He remembered, too, how much he’d loved her. So much that he’d wept when Betsy came back from Boston and couldn’t see him anymore. She’d tried to find him, kept talking to him and looking for him in shadowy corners and on moonlit nights on the beach. He’d tried everything he could think of to make Betsy see him; he’d stood in bright lights and waved his arms, but he hadn’t known about mirrors then and neither had Betsy.
He missed her so much his throat clenched as he sank to his knees—his forearms folded on the back of the couch, his chin on his wrists—and gazed at Willie. She made a soft little snort in her sleep that made him smile, rolled her head away on the pillow and flung one arm over her head.
The movement caused the front of her pajama top to gape, giving him a moon-silvered glimpse of soft, sweet curves. He ached to touch her, to feel flesh warmed by a beating heart. She looked so lovely and so vulnerable. And no match for Raven.
He could leave if he wanted. He wasn’t tied to this place. For the time he spent here, his will was his own. He knew that, though he didn’t know how. He’d fled Raven before, though he couldn’t remember where he’d gone or when. He could only remember that Raven had pursued him and that Raven had been angry. Very, very angry.
If he thought Raven would follow him without wreaking vengeance on Willie first, he’d run as far and as fast as he could from Stonebridge. But Raven’s temper was too capricious, too swift and too terrible to even think about doing that.
It was best if he stayed. Better yet if he found a way to warn Willie. He had no idea how, but he’d think of something. In the meantime, he’d protect her from Raven.
Somehow. Some way. God willing.
Chapter 7
Willie thought she was still dreaming when she woke up rubbing her nose, but she wasn’t a little girl crying on the beach because a starfish had stung her. She was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a calico tail twitching in her face, her neck scrunched beneath the purring weight on her head. The oldest wake-up-and-feed-me cat trick in the book.
“Get off, goofy,” she mumbled, giving Callie a poke.
The cat stretched onto Willie’s chest, giving her a faceful of bony little behind. Willie swept her onto the floor and struggled up on her elbows, blinking and spitting cat hair.
Bright morning sun flooded the porch and slanted through the windows in broad, dusty beams across the floor. Willie yawned, scratched her head and saw that her left foot was on the floor and her right was still propped on the doubled-up pillow.
She pushed herself all the way up, wincing in anticipation, but felt only a twinge of stiffness as she lifted her ankle off the pillow. It took most of her weight when she swung it to the floor and stood.
“Look, Ma, no hands,” she said, flinging her arms out.
Callie sat on the coffee table looking at her nonplussed, then jumped down and trotted ahead of Willie as she made her way into the kitchen. Getting there and into the bathroom wasn’t half bad. There was no pain, only weakness in her ankle, and the swelling was nearly gone. The bone was sore, and so was her fanny—Willie felt the bruises there—but on the whole she felt great. Raven was some kind of doctor.
The microwave said it was 7:32. Callie said feed me, meowing petulantly around Willie’s legs when she came out of the bathroom. Willie gave her half a can of tuna with fresh water, made coffee and
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