Magnolia Dawn (16 page)

Anna sighed. She'd spent many of her childhood mornings this way, sometimes alone, but usually with her mother. They'd laughed and talked and collected wildflowers. And she'd known, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was loved.

She shifted her gaze from the river to Ashland. Her home. Home to dozens of Ameses before her. Her safety net, the thing that kept her grounded.

She belonged here.

Tell me what it feels like to belong.

Rush's words from a conversation weeks ago came barreling back into her head and tears pricked at her eyes. The thing she cherished most in the world, Rush had never known.

What must that feel like? she wondered, digging her fingers into the soft mat of grass. Her sense of belonging was so deeply ingrained in who she was, she couldn't imagine not having it.

Just as she couldn't imagine not knowing who she was.

Another thing that Rush had never had.

I want to know who I am. There's a difference.

She remembered the expression in his eyes when he'd said those words, remembered the grim line of his jaw. It had tugged at her heartstrings then, it tore at them now.

She plucked a blade of grass and trailed it thoughtfully across her bottom lip. What had happened to Rush in those five missing years of his life? she wondered. Who were his parents? And how could they have discarded him?

Anna thought of the music box, of his happening upon it in some shop. It was a one-of-a-kind piece. How had he recognized it?
Could
his past somehow be connected to Ashland? To her?

She tried to put herself in his place. Tried to imagine his shock, his wonder, when he put his hands on the box and almost remembered. He'd described it as a brilliant light penetrating darkness.

Her heart began to pound. How excited he must have been. How stunned. It must have been like a miracle for him.

And so he had come to Ashland, searching for answers.

And had changed her life.

Anna sucked in a shaky breath, collected the remains of her breakfast and stood. Rush wasn't like Lowell. He wasn't like any man she'd ever known. He was kind. And gentle.

But most of all, he was strong. She started down the levee, going toward the overseer's house. Rush had overcome impossible odds and made something out of himself. Yet still he managed to have kindness in him.

She crossed the road and stepped into the shade of the magnolia grove. The scent of the blossoms hit her in a sweet, potent wave. He'd asked her for so little. He'd given her so much.

And when he had asked for something, she'd refused. Refused him the courtesy of listening to him, of listening and really hearing what he was telling her. She'd been too wrapped up in feeling sorry for herself. Too busy being certain she was being rejected to have empathy for anyone outside herself.

Anna began to run. She understood why Rush hadn't told her the truth when he'd first come to Ashland. She understood why he'd gotten angry with her last night.

Rush couldn't lay his heart or his hope out; he'd had both crushed too many times as a child. He'd learned to guard them. To protect them.

And he hadn't
planned
to get involved with her—just as she hadn't planned to get involved with him.

It had just happened.

It had been wonderful.

She loved him—everything he was. How could she be angry with him? How could she refuse to help him?

She couldn't.

Anna ducked out of the grove and cut across the lawn, heading straight for the overseer's house. She ran by a small clump of magnolias, dodging some low-hanging branches, heavy with blossoms.

A few feet past them, she stopped and went back. Breathing hard, she plucked one of the huge, snowy flowers to take to Rush, careful not to touch its petals. She brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply.
Maybe, she thought, he would learn to love her. Maybe he would begin to feel he belonged here. And then he would want to stay.

Turning, she started to run again, closing the distance between her and the overseer's cottage in moments. She raced up the porch steps and pounded on his door.

When he didn't answer, she opened the door and looked inside. “Rush? It's Anna.” Her voice echoed back to her.

Gone. He was gone. Panic rocketed through her, and she dragged in a ragged breath. Had he left for good? Without saying goodbye? Without giving her a chance to…

He hadn't. His duffel bag, obviously empty, lay across the old armchair. She brought a hand to her chest, making a sound of relief. Thank God.

Closing the door, she turned and went back to the porch, the blossom cradled in her trembling hands. As she sank onto a step to wait, she heard a pounding, like a hammer striking a nail. Standing, she followed the sound.

It led her to the gazebo. And Rush.

He'd ripped away the rotted ceiling boards and had begun replacing them with new ones. She tipped her head back and stared at him in surprise. “What are you doing?”

He looked down at her,
his expression anything but pleased. “What does it look like I'm doing?”

She held a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun. “Today is Sunday. Your day off.”

“I took yesterday off.” He slammed the hammer onto a nail.

“But only because I insisted.”

He grunted in reply and reached for another nail.

She frowned as it finally registered what he was doing. “Rush…the gazebo wasn't on the repair list.”

“I do know how to read.”

“But—”

He looked at her. “You have a point here, Anna? I'm trying to work.”

Realization dawned and her heart turned over. She lowered her eyes to the blossom, then lifted them back up at Rush.
For her. He was repairing the gazebo because she loved it.

Warmth rushed over her. As did love. “I'll help you, Rush.”

“Forget it. This is my project.” He popped a couple of nails into his mouth and reached for another board.

“I'm not talking about helping with the gazebo. I want to help…you. I want to help with your search.”

He stopped hammering and looked down at her, his eyes narrowed, his expression wary.

“Last night I was so wrapped up in my own feelings that I wasn't…sensitive to yours. Or to what you were telling me. I'm sorry. Of course, I'll help you. I'll do whatever I can.”

For a full ten seconds, he stared at her. Then he set aside the hammer, climbed down the ladder and crossed over to her. Stopping in front of her, he searched her expression. A smile pulled at his mouth, and he motioned to the flower. “Is that for me?”

“Yes.” Blushing, she held it out.

He took it and brought it to his nose, drawing in its fragrance as she had only minutes ago. He met her eyes over the flower. “It smells like you.”

Her pulse stirred, and she looked away, uncomfortable and uncertain.

He touched her cheek, turning her face back to his. “I missed you, Anna.”

“Did you?”

“God, yes.”

He drew her against his chest, wet and musky-smelling with sweat. Her body responded to the scent, to his touch, with an almost frightening force.

She fought the urge to melt against him, and flattened her hands against his chest. “Look, Rush…you don't have to…thank me like this. I'm not a charity case.”

He laughed and pressed his mouth to her throat. “Are you kidding?”

She wedged her arms between them. “No. I'm serious. I don't want us to be lovers…if you're… Not unless you really want…”

He cupped her face in his palms, searching her gaze. “How could you think I wouldn't want us to be lovers?”

“How could I not?” She pulled away from him, moving to stand several feet from him. She lifted her chin and met his gaze defiantly. “Look at me, Rush.”

“I am. I have been.” He closed the distance between them, and drew her back into his arms. “And what I see is unbelievably exciting. Feel how exciting I think you are.”

He took her hand and placed it against him. Even through his denims she could feel the strength of his desire. She made an involuntary sound of pleasure and curled her fingers around him.

“See, Anna,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want you so much I'm crazy with it. All I have to do is look at you…think of you.”

She whimpered and pressed closer to him. “Make love to me, Rush. Now. Here.”

He kissed her—one long, drugging exchange after another. “Can't,” he managed, his breathing ragged. “Sawdust. Splinters.”

“I don't care.”

She fumbled with his zipper, and Rush tugged her hand away. “Yeah, but you'd probably demand to be on top.”

“You'll give me ideas,” she whispered, looking up at him through partially lowered lashes.

At her provocative glance, he caught his breath and swept her into his arms.

“Where are you taking me?” she asking kissing his neck, nipping.

“I don't know. Any place that looks soft enough.” He groaned as she stuck her tongue in his ear. “I swear, Annabelle Ames, if you don't stop that, I'm going to take you right now.”

She lowered her gaze to the ruddy path, then laughed softly. “You wouldn't.”

“Don't do it,” he playfully growled. “I'm warning you, I mean it.”

She ignored him, and tasted his ear again. Before she could even finish, he had her on the ground, lying on her back on the soft, petal-strewn path. He straddled her hips, and she looked up at him in surprise.

He laughed. “I told you before, I don't say what I don't mean.”

“I'm sorry, Rush.” She batted her eyelashes in exaggerated innocence. “I won't do it again.”

“Too late, lady.” He unfastened the first button of her shirt, then the next. And the next. He dipped his fingers under the gaping fabric and trailed it over the tops of her breasts.

Heat washed over her, and she curled her fingers into his damp T-shirt. “Your advances are most unseemly, sir.”

He laughed and lowered his mouth until it hovered a fraction from hers. “Pay the price, babe.”

“I demand to be on top,” she whispered against his mouth. “I have sensitive skin.”

“Do you?” His roving fingers brushed across a nipple. Anna caught her breath and arched. He laughed softly. “I guess you do. I'll take your request under advisement.”

He finished unbuttoning her cotton shirt and parted the fabric. The warm breeze whispered across her flesh, cool compared to the fevered temperature of her skin. He unclipped her bra and cupped her breasts, moving his thumbs across the erect peaks.

Again she arched and moaned. “More?” he whispered, leaning down to taste her mouth again.

“Yes.” She caught his mouth with her own. “More.”

He did as she asked and when the time came, she returned the favor. Rush peeled away her shorts and shirt; she tugged at his jeans, pushing the damp denim over his hips. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, so she straddled his hips.

His hands on her waist, he lifted her onto him. She arched her back as he guided her, the sensation incredible. Their skin grew slick with sweat; their breath came in short, ragged gasps. With a cry,
Anna collapsed against him.

After a moment, he sat up and cradled her in his arms. “I think there's a rock permanently embedded in my back.”

She reached around and stroked. “My hero.”

“Stallion, you mean.”

He grinned wickedly, and she blushed, thinking of how she had just ridden him. “That, too.”

His expression softened, his eyes filled with concern. “I didn't scare you, did I? I worried, after I started this, that—”

She laid a finger against his lips. “I never forgot, even for a moment, that it was you, Rush. And how could you frighten me?”

For long moments he gazed silently at her, then he smiled sadly. “My sweet, sweet Annabelle.”

His gaze told her things she didn't want to acknowledge—not this moment—not ever. She curved her arms around his back, holding him tightly.

Her eyes lighted on the magnolia she'd brought him. It lay crushed on the path beside them. Tears stung her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. She had today. She had the summer. As foolish as it was, she would not give up the hope that he would fall in love with her and decide to stay.

Chapter Eleven

T
he days that followed were brilliant and hot; the nights, star-strewn and full of magic. She and Rush continued to make repairs to Ashland during the day. At night they searched for Rush's connection to the music box.

And they made love. All it would take was for one to look at the other and they would be in each other's arms, clinging, out of control. As they had that day on the path, they sometimes made love outdoors, underneath Sweethearts' Magnolia, or standing up, pressed against one of Ashland's side walls, or in the gazebo.

The days and nights had taken on the quality of an erotic dream, steamy and potent with the scent of flowers. A dream full of laughter as well as lovemaking, one full of sharing and tenderness.

Anna had never been so happy. In truth, she'd been happier than she'd ever thought she would be.

She stopped in the foyer just outside the parlor, a photo album held to her chest, and listened to the sound of Rush's voice as he talked on the phone. She smiled. His deep voice resonated through the house, filling the empty spaces, warming it—as he'd filled the empty spaces of her heart; as he'd warmed her.

Anna's smile faltered. Even though the time they'd spent together had been wonderful, she couldn't stop herself from worrying about where their relationship was going. Worrying about how long he would stay.

She stepped into the parlor. His eyes met hers, dark with awareness, and her pulse fluttered. Blowing him a kiss as she walked past, she settled herself on the settee. In the past week, he'd been in constant contact with Boston, with his business manager and several of his contractors. She'd been forced to face the fact that he had a life somewhere else. That he had friends and former lovers; that he had obligations, ties to a business and a community.

A life that didn't include her.

Anna clutched the photo album more tightly to her chest. In their time together, he hadn't spoken one word of love, hadn't made even a vague reference to a future together. He hadn't made her one promise.

And it hurt.

Why should she have expected otherwise? He'd told her not to get attached. He'd told her he left everyone behind.

But she'd hoped for a miracle. In her secret heart of hearts, she'd hoped he would find his connection to Ashland and feel compelled to stay.

She looked down at the photo album, one she'd found by accident, stored at the bottom of a box of her mother's old clothes. It represented the last of the photos. They'd gone through boxes of others, through drawers of old paperwork. They'd unearthed and read her grandmother's diaries and years of plantation ledgers. She'd begun making a list of the old-timers—people who had lived in Ames all their lives or had been friends of her family and might have some pertinent information for Rush.

Nothing had seemed to have a thing to do with Rush. It hurt to see his disappointment each time another avenue of their search didn't pan out.

She drew in a deep, painful breath. If he didn't find something, she knew, he would leave at summer's end as originally planned.

He didn't love her. There was no reason for him to stay.

Tears choked her, and she swallowed against them, scolding herself for her ridiculous hopes. She'd understood going in what a relationship with Rush would be. Whatever happened, it would be worth the pain.

She looked at him again, skimming her eyes over him. Arousal curled through her, a quickening of her pulse, a warmth that bloomed at the apex of her thighs and spread until she was aglow with it.

She flushed and jerked her gaze away from him. What was happening to her? They'd made love not two hours ago, and already she longed for him. She'd become like a junkie, craving his touch; she thought about making love all the time.

This power he had over her, frightened her. How would she go back to her old life? How would she go back to being Annabelle Ames, aging spinster?

How would she go on without Rush?

He hung up the phone and started toward her. Before he'd taken two steps, it rang again. He made an apologetic face, turned and picked it up.

Anna held her breath, wondering, as she did every time the phone rang, if it would be Lowell. She had expected him to call. She had waited, a knot of worry in the pit of her stomach. But she hadn't heard a word from her brother since the night he had come to see her. Neither had Macy or Travis.

Anna let out her pent-up breath as Rush began a conversation with the person on the other end of the line. It clearly wasn't her brother calling.

She shifted her gaze to one of the dark windows. What was her brother doing? Was he all right? She'd considered calling the police; had considered it many times over the past days. And more often than that, she'd wondered if she'd done the right thing when she'd turned him away. She didn't know.

“Dammit.” Rush dropped the phone into its cradle.

She looked at him. “What's wrong?”

“That was Pete Garner. His father had a stroke.”

“Hayward? Oh, no.” Anna sat up straighter. “How is he?”

“Critical. But his doctor thinks his chances of pulling through are good.”

“Thank God.”

Rush rubbed a hand wearily across his forehead. “But he's not coming to Ames. Obviously. I won't even be able to talk to him, probably for months. If then.”

Anna stood and went to him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck. She ached for him; ached seeing his hopes dashed yet again.

She tipped her face up to his. “I'm sorry, Rush.”

For long moments he gazed at her, then he bent his head and kissed her. Slowly, deeply. And with a wealth of emotion that left her breathless.

He lifted his head; tears choked her. His kiss, the emotion behind it, had touched the core of her. She felt as if he'd shared the most special and private part of himself with her. Something he would never consciously do.

“Thanks for understanding.”

She smiled. “My pleasure.”

He motioned to the settee. “Found another album?”

“Mmm.” She dropped her arms and took a step away from him. “With some of Mama's things.”

“No diary, though?”

Anna shook her head. “She must not have kept one.”

Rush made a sound of frustration and dragged his hands through his hair. “Another brick wall. Maybe I'm not supposed to know. Or maybe this whole thing has been a ridiculous figment of my imagination.”

“I don't believe that. Neither do you.”

“No?” He met her eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because you were so sure, Rush. Because you not only recognized the music box, you knew the tune before it played.” She grinned. “You're not a man given to flights of fancy or wild imaginings.”

A smile pulled at his mouth. “You know that about me, do you?”

She laughed. “Yeah, I do.”

She went to the settee and sank onto it. She patted the place next to her. “Let's take a look. You never know, this may be the one.”

He crossed the room, bent down and kissed her, then took a seat beside her. Anna snuggled closer against his side, and laid the album across their laps. She opened it and they began leafing through. Anna recognized pictures of her father as a young man. She recognized her grandparents, some friends of the family. She pointed out who was who as they turned the pages.

“Who's this?” Rush asked, stopping at a photo of two young men. They were mugging for the camera, each with an arm thrown around the other's shoulders.

Anna squinted at the grainy photo. “That's Daddy, on the right.” She tilted her head, considering the other young man. He was considerably bigger than her father, very good-looking. “I don't know who the other guy is. There's something familiar about him, but I'm not sure.”

“Maybe it's labeled.” Carefully they loosened the photo from its paper mount, then turned it over.

Joshua and Robert. July, 1939.

“Robert who?” Rush muttered, frustrated.

Anna frowned. “I don't know. Let's look some more. Maybe there are some other pictures of the same guy.”

They continued to thumb through the half-full album, finding a handful more photos of people Anna didn't recognize. She carefully extracted those, as well. The last photos in the album depicted her father and mother after they were first married.

They found no more photos of the unidentified Robert.

Rush picked up the bunch of photographs they'd taken out of the album, and studied them. He narrowed his eyes, looking at the blurry images in the photos. Could one of these unidentified men be his father?
One of the women his mother?

He tossed the photos down, stood and strode to one of the windows. He'd never encountered anything so frustrating in his entire life. He felt like he was looking for the needle in the proverbial haystack. He was surrounded by bits and pieces of things that could be clues, but how the hell was he supposed to recognize them?

“Funny,” Anna murmured suddenly.

Rush turned from the window and looked at her. Head bent, she stared down at the open album.

“What's funny?”

She looked up. “These are pictures of Mama and Daddy when they were first married.”

“So?”

“So, there are no pictures of her.”

“Who?”

“Daddy's first wife.”

He couldn't have heard right.
Rush took a step toward Anna. “Your father was married before?”

“I wouldn't even know about her except I overheard Macy and Mama talking about her once. I don't even know what her name was. They weren't married very long. A couple of years.”

Rush's heart began to pound. And he was a couple of years older than Anna. “What happened to her?”

Anna lifted her shoulders. “She died. I don't know how. Daddy remarried soon after.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

She stiffened, and he could see by her expression that he'd offended her. “I wasn't trying to keep anything from you. It never crossed my mind.” She glanced down at the album once more. “Until I saw these early pictures of Mama and Daddy.”

Joshua Ames had been married once before. Good God, this could mean…

His palms began to sweat, the blood to thrum in his head. Rush crossed to the settee. “Anna?”

Something in his voice must have alarmed her, because her head snapped up, her eyes on his wide with concern. “What?”

“Could your father's first wife have died in childbirth? Could she have borne him a child?”

Anna caught her breath. “A son?”

“Could she have?”

“No.” She shook her head, eyes widening in shock. “No, she couldn't have.”

“How can you be sure? Isn't it feasible?”

“I would have heard about it. I would know… that.”

“Would you?
Don't you think it's a little strange that you had to
overhear
your mother and Macy talking about your father's first wife? Why would it be such a big secret? And don't you think it's strange that there are no pictures of her?”

“No.” Anna cocked her chin. “I don't think it's strange at all. Daddy was probably brokenhearted when she died. Mama probably didn't like being reminded of Daddy's first love. It makes perfect sense.”

“Very romantic interpretation, Annabelle. Especially considering what you've told me about your parents.”

She balled her hands into fists. “I don't know how you can even consider this a possibility! That would make me…it would make us—”

She bit the words back and lifted her chin. “Why would Daddy discard his own son, Rush? Why?”

Rush swore. “You're right. I'm sorry. This whole thing is making me crazy.”

“I know.” She reached up and caught his fingers. He squeezed them, then swung away from her, going back to the window and the night beyond.

He stared out at the dark. Something was nagging him, something just beyond his reach. Turning, he crossed to the drawing of Lowell and Anna picnicking under the magnolia. He gazed at it, frowning. They were missing something, something right under their noses. Something obvious.

He blinked, his vision clearing. He saw his own face reflected back at him in the drawing's protective glass.

The drawings! Of course!

He swung to face Anna once more, his heart thundering. “Didn't you say your mother recorded your lives in her sketches?”

“Yes. For as long as I can remember, she…”

Rush saw the realization dawn in Anna's eyes. “Of course your mother didn't keep a written diary, Anna. She kept a visual one instead.”

Anna pressed a hand to her chest, to her runaway heart. “My God. How could we have missed that?”

“Are these framed pieces the only drawings there are?”

Anna shook her head and jumped up. “No. There are at least a dozen sketch pads in storage up on the third floor.”

Their eyes met. Without speaking, they raced up the two and a half flights of stairs to the third-floor storage area.

Anna had been wrong. There weren't a dozen tablets, there were nearly fifty of one kind or another. They were dusty, some of them mildewing.

“Let's take them downstairs,” Rush said, gathering up an armload. “It's too hot to breathe up here.”

It took three trips for them to transport all the pads to the parlor. After they had, they sat on the floor, with the tablets scattered out around them.

Anna glanced at Rush. He looked nervous, his features drawn, his jaw tight. He met her eyes, then reached for one of the tablets. He opened it. The pages were fragile with age. Carefully, he flipped them.

As he did, Anna narrated. She recognized her father. Brady and Macy. The plantation as it had been in the old days. The images brought tears to her eyes.

“Who's this?” Rush asked, stopping on a lovingly rendered drawing of a little boy with huge eyes and a solemn expression. The boy looked to be about two.