Read Online Wild Heart by Patricia Gaffney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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ain't safe, miss. I can't be lettin' you go in there, not on yer own."
"I'll be perfectly safe," she snapped. "I'm going inside, Mr. O'Fallon. You can rush in and save me if you hear me scream." She sidled inside and closed the door in his face.
The small room lay in semidarkness. A movement by the window terrified her for an irrational split second—until the figure coming toward her materialized into Michael. Her heart rate slowed almost to normal. Almost. He was wearing a pair of clean, dry trousers. And nothing else.
"I, um ... I ..." She swallowed, feeling silly, and leaned back against the door. "I've come to apologize to you." He looked very beautiful in the half-light; if his body bore scars, she couldn't see them now. He looked perfect. "I've come to tell you I'm sorry. It was wrong of us. We—Sam and I—we pretended we couldn't swim so that . . ." Oh, how to explain this? "My father wanted to see if you would try to save Sam. He's a scientist—you know that. They've been studying you. You're the 'lost man,' and they want to find out how men are, how they act before they're civ—before they've been with other people." She rested the back of her head against the door. "Do you understand any of this?" she asked hopelessly.
Silence.
"Well. Anyway, I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. For the part I played in their little experiment. So's Sam. He feels terrible, in fact."
He had an unnerving stare, as if he saw things other people couldn't see. His nostrils flared slightly, and she knew he was scenting her. It made her blush. She didn't think he was angry or hurt any longer, though. That was something.
"Well," she said a second time. She had her hand on the doorknob when the invitation popped out of her mouth. "Would you like to go for a walk with me?"
He moved toward her, straight to her. She froze, stupidly afraid again, until she realized what he wanted. His shirt, hanging on the door behind her.
* * * * *
O'Fallon followed them. Michael shut him out of his mind and tried to make his steps small, like Sydney's, but it was strange to be walking beside her and he kept forgetting. Then he would have to stop, feeling stupid and awkward, and wait for her.
They came to some big rocks in the sand and she said, "Shall we sit for a while?" and they sat down on a rock, next to each other but not touching. She talked about her brothers and the summer and sailing their boat on the water, safe and calm things, but under her voice he could hear that she wasn't calm. Then she stopped talking and there was stillness between them, not easy but tight, and she turned her body toward him. Their knees bumped. She put up her hand, the way Sam had that first time on the beach.
"I'm Sydney Darrow," she said. "Are you Michael?"
He looked at her hand, small and white, and at her face, so pretty. Her smile tight and kind, full of hope. His hand swallowed hers up when he took it. He was careful with it, not squeezing too hard. He knew she was waiting for him to say words to her. He had before—one word, anyway. Why was it harder now?
But he did it. He said, "I am Michael MacNeil."
Her eyes filled up with water. She was crying. She took her hand out of his and turned her head so he couldn't see her face. "I'm sorry," she said with a funny laugh. "It's not sad. I'm just .. ." She put her fingers under her eyes and flicked tears away. "Michael MacNeil," she said softly and looked back into his face. He could see she wasn't sad, but she was . . . something. She said, "What happened to you, Michael?"
All he could do was look at her.
She could see the question was too big. She changed it. "Do you remember when you got lost?"
He remembered last winter when he was starving and he walked too far from home. He lost his way, and then he stole food from the humans to save himself.
But he didn't think she meant that. She meant before; the beginning.
"I remember a boat in the water." So many words. He hid his fear by looking at the lake
"I'll be perfectly safe," she snapped. "I'm going inside, Mr. O'Fallon. You can rush in and save me if you hear me scream." She sidled inside and closed the door in his face.
The small room lay in semidarkness. A movement by the window terrified her for an irrational split second—until the figure coming toward her materialized into Michael. Her heart rate slowed almost to normal. Almost. He was wearing a pair of clean, dry trousers. And nothing else.
"I, um ... I ..." She swallowed, feeling silly, and leaned back against the door. "I've come to apologize to you." He looked very beautiful in the half-light; if his body bore scars, she couldn't see them now. He looked perfect. "I've come to tell you I'm sorry. It was wrong of us. We—Sam and I—we pretended we couldn't swim so that . . ." Oh, how to explain this? "My father wanted to see if you would try to save Sam. He's a scientist—you know that. They've been studying you. You're the 'lost man,' and they want to find out how men are, how they act before they're civ—before they've been with other people." She rested the back of her head against the door. "Do you understand any of this?" she asked hopelessly.
Silence.
"Well. Anyway, I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. For the part I played in their little experiment. So's Sam. He feels terrible, in fact."
He had an unnerving stare, as if he saw things other people couldn't see. His nostrils flared slightly, and she knew he was scenting her. It made her blush. She didn't think he was angry or hurt any longer, though. That was something.
"Well," she said a second time. She had her hand on the doorknob when the invitation popped out of her mouth. "Would you like to go for a walk with me?"
He moved toward her, straight to her. She froze, stupidly afraid again, until she realized what he wanted. His shirt, hanging on the door behind her.
* * * * *
O'Fallon followed them. Michael shut him out of his mind and tried to make his steps small, like Sydney's, but it was strange to be walking beside her and he kept forgetting. Then he would have to stop, feeling stupid and awkward, and wait for her.
They came to some big rocks in the sand and she said, "Shall we sit for a while?" and they sat down on a rock, next to each other but not touching. She talked about her brothers and the summer and sailing their boat on the water, safe and calm things, but under her voice he could hear that she wasn't calm. Then she stopped talking and there was stillness between them, not easy but tight, and she turned her body toward him. Their knees bumped. She put up her hand, the way Sam had that first time on the beach.
"I'm Sydney Darrow," she said. "Are you Michael?"
He looked at her hand, small and white, and at her face, so pretty. Her smile tight and kind, full of hope. His hand swallowed hers up when he took it. He was careful with it, not squeezing too hard. He knew she was waiting for him to say words to her. He had before—one word, anyway. Why was it harder now?
But he did it. He said, "I am Michael MacNeil."
Her eyes filled up with water. She was crying. She took her hand out of his and turned her head so he couldn't see her face. "I'm sorry," she said with a funny laugh. "It's not sad. I'm just .. ." She put her fingers under her eyes and flicked tears away. "Michael MacNeil," she said softly and looked back into his face. He could see she wasn't sad, but she was . . . something. She said, "What happened to you, Michael?"
All he could do was look at her.
She could see the question was too big. She changed it. "Do you remember when you got lost?"
He remembered last winter when he was starving and he walked too far from home. He lost his way, and then he stole food from the humans to save himself.
But he didn't think she meant that. She meant before; the beginning.
"I remember a boat in the water." So many words. He hid his fear by looking at the lake
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