Miracle in the Mist (11 page)

"Enough of this serious stuff," Frank declared, jumping to his feet and holding out his hand to her. "Let's walk."

Even as Carrie took it and joined him on the path they'd chosen to explore, deep down he doubted Carrie was right, yet at the same time, he prayed she was. He desperately hoped that seeing his dead wife last night marked the beginning of the healing process Steve had promised would take place here.

They had only covered a few yards when Carrie stopped. "Look!" she cried, pointing to a branch above them.

On the branch was a bird's nest, and sitting in the nest was a drab, olive-green female cardinal. As they watched, a bright red male came to perch on the edge of the nest. The male cardinal dropped the worm he had held in his beak into the female's mouth. In turn, she transferred it to the chirping baby birds waiting with their mouths open.

Suddenly, and without warning, the male cardinal attacked the female, nipping at her head and swiping at her with his claws. Her high-pitched chirps echoed through the trees.

"That's the oddest thing I've ever seen," Frank said. "I'm not really big on ornithology, but I've never heard of a male bird attacking a female before, and seemingly for no reason." He tuned to Carrie. "Have you?"

Carrie was frozen. Stark terror filled her eyes. She had her hand clamped tightly over her mouth, as though to stifle a scream, and was backing away from the scene, shaking her head.

"No. No." The whispered words were barely audible.

"Carrie? What is it?"

She continued to back away, all the time shaking her head , her lips forming the word
no
. Her eyes were wide with fright. Her hands trembled. Suddenly, she turned and ran back toward the village, leaving Frank standing there staring after her.

Chapter 9

Carrie lay in bed, her blank gaze centered on the ceiling. Late-afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows and across the pine floor, bringing out the rich colors in the wood like threads of gold. But Carrie only absently noted her surroundings.

She was deep in thought about the birds and why she'd reacted as she had. Why had she run away? Why had she felt the pain the female bird must have felt as the male pummeled her with his beak? No ready explanation came to mind.

This is silly. Good grief, they were only birds
. Why should it rattle her so much?

Though she tried to push it from her mind, it still continued to torture her thoughts. Obviously, Frank thought the bird's behavior odd. But for her it had been more than odd. It had been terrifying. Why had it sent such fear coursing through her? Fear strong enough to send her running back to the safety of the village and her room in Clara's loft. And poor Frank. What must he have thought about her crazy, frantic departure?

Then she remembered what she'd told Frank about accepting things that happened to them within Renaissance. Was this just another one of those things she
needed
to see and that would eventually come clear to her? Did this have something to do with the past that remained tantalizingly beyond her reach? The very thought that it did made her go cold all over.

Not for the first time, she wondered if she really wanted to remember any of her past life. If all she'd been shown so far was to remind her of all she'd forgotten, she must have led a truly frightening life.

Deciding she was giving far too much credence to a fight between two birds, she got up and grabbed her paint case. After propping a blank canvas up against the side of the window seat, she sat and opened the case. Without any prior thought, she began smearing paint over the canvas.

***

By the time Carrie set the paints aside, the sun had gone down, and the darkness of deep night had descended on the village. Light from the lampposts flickered over the deserted path winding between the cottages. The windows of the other cottages were black. An owl hooted in the distance, but no other noise was audible.

That night had fallen while she worked had gone unnoticed by Carrie. She'd only stopped long enough to light the candlestick Clara had left beside the bed; its flickering flame now spread a golden light over the room.

She stared at what she'd painted and smiled. A perfect likeness of Frank looked back at her from the painting. His black curly hair framed his face. His square chin was set in a stubborn line. High cheekbones that told of a smattering of Native American blood somewhere in his ancestral past added a hint of rugged mystery to his face.

Then she noted his expression. His normally lively gray eyes were clouded, troubled, sad. Her heart ached to remove that indefinable sadness from his face. Why hadn't she painted him with a smile? Then she knew. It was because Frank's soul didn't smile. Because he carried a burden so cumbersome and so debilitating that it couldn't smile. But what was it? Did it have something to do with his dead wife?

She sighed and rose, knowing that until Frank was ready to share what troubled him, she would have to be content with supporting him along his journey and being there for him when the time came for him to face his problems. It came as a bit of a surprise that she felt so protective of a man she had just met.

Silly girl
, she told herself.
You'd do the same for anyone
.

But it didn't gel. Frank wasn't just
anyone
. During the short time she'd known him, Frank had become special to her, very special.

Suddenly aware of how exhausted she was, she undressed and donned her simple cotton gown, then climbed into bed.

***

Someone was pursuing her. Carefully, she skirted the well-worn path and stumbled through the thick bushes. Thorns clawed at her clothes, and the muffled sound of tearing cloth sounded like a fire siren to her ears. She had to be quiet. If she wanted to live, she had to evade him. Her breath was coming in sharp, painful gasps.

Stopping behind a tree, she listened. Faint footsteps could be heard along with the breaking of twigs under heavily-booted feet. Her icy blood pounded through her veins. Clutching her hands together to stop their shaking, she held her breath, fearing that her labored breathing would give away her position.

Careful not to make any noise, she slipped into a dense thicket and plastered herself against the cold, moist ground. From there, through the lower branches of the thick bushes, she could see if anyone approached, but she was sure she would not be seen in turn. Minutes crawled by.

When she didn't hear anything, her fear began to subside. Still she remained as silent as death, crouched inside the protective, tangled undergrowth of the thicket. Waiting. Afraid to leave the cover of the bushes too soon. Afraid he lay in wait, watching, ready to pounce when she emerged.

It seemed she'd been there for hours. Her legs began to cramp. The cool, damp night air seeped into her clothes and skin, chilling her to the bone. Still she waited.

Then it came. The sound of those booted feet. First the sound came from her left, then in front of her, then to her right, then from behind. He was circling her like the predatory beast that she instinctively knew he was. Circling, waiting for his chance to capture his prey.

She peeked through the lower branches. The heavy hunting boots were directly in line with her vision. Carefully, she tilted her head up. Pale gray beams of moonlight streaked his face. Or the place where his face should have been. What she could see was like a camera gone out of focus. She knew he should have features, but she couldn't see them through the blur of colors.

He drew himself up to his full imposing height, and then cupped his hands around his mouth. "I know you're out there, and I'll find you, Carrie. When I do, I'll kill you. Have no doubt about that."

***

Eyes wide, Carrie bolted upright in the bed. She was bathed in perspiration from head to toe. Her fingers clutched the bedclothes. She was shaking so hard, the bed vibrated beneath her.
He knew her name
.

Fear unlike anything she could imagine gripped her mind and body. Without thinking, she jumped from the bed and flew down the ladder and out into the inky night.

From the deep shadows of the trees, Alvin watched Carrie run across the front of Clara's cottage and down the lamp-lit path. For a moment he considered going after her, but then, when he saw the direction of her flight, decided against it. He hated it that she also had demons haunting her sleep.

***

Frank had just started to drift off to sleep when his bedroom door burst open. At first he thought it might be Alvin. But the moonlight that backlit the silhouette filling the doorway revealed it was a woman in a flowing gown of some kind.

Sandy
?

Then she moved closer, and the moonlight bounced off her fiery auburn hair. He pushed himself to a sitting position.

"Carrie?"

Her name had barely crossed his lips before she had dashed across the floor and launched herself into his arms. Her skin was moist and icy cold, and she was trembling uncontrollably.

Not until he felt the moisture on his face did he realize she was crying.

"What is it?"

She hiccupped and burrowed deeper against his shoulder. "He came… back… in my dreams. The man… with no… face. He came… back." She took a deep breath. "He said… he'd find me… and… kill me." She leaned back and looked at Frank. "He knew… my name."

Frank had never seen such terror in another human being's eyes. He enveloped her in his arms and held her as tightly as he could. "No one is going to hurt you as long as I'm around. No one."

"But—"

"No one," he repeated more firmly. He moved her away so he could look into her tear-stained, ghost-white face. "Listen to me. It was a dream, Carrie, just a dream. He can't hurt you."

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and the terror in her eyes made him want to fight this damned dream man who was doing this to Carrie, whoever the hell he was. But he couldn't fight dreams. He could only hold the dreamer and help her understand there was nothing to fear—and pray that he was right. After all, strange things did happen here.

"But he said he'd—"

"I know. I know what he said, but it was a dream, Carrie. Dreams can't hurt you."

He'd had to interrupt her. He couldn't bear the thought of hearing those words again. Carrie dead? My God, the thought tore through him like a freight train hurtling off its tracks. Desperately, he pushed the idea from his mind.

Gently, he kissed her forehead. "Trust me to take care of you, Carrie," he whispered into her hair. "I will not let anything hurt you." When her body relaxed, he knew before she spoke that he'd finally managed to ease her mind.

"All right." She snuggled closer. "I'll trust you, Frank."

Though her body had relaxed and her tears had slowed, her fingers still curled into his shoulders. Gently, he stroked her back until her sobs subsided and only a faint occasional hiccup emerged. Her body stopped shaking, and her grip on him eased, but she remained plastered tightly against him.

"Please let me stay with you."

Her plea reminded him of a child begging for protection from a nightmare. Not having the heart to send her back to Clara's, he slipped lower in the bed and drew her down with him, then pulled the blankets over both of them. Moments later, her even breathing told him she was asleep.

As he lay there trying to make sense of the dream man who kept haunting Carrie, his anger at this faceless entity escalated. When he was almost unable to control it, he tamped it down and centered his thoughts on finding sleep.

But sleep remained elusive, and it grew more and more so as he became increasingly aware of the slight curves pressed against him with only a thin, cotton nightgown preventing them from lying skin to skin.

His body stirred to life. With superhuman effort, he denied it what it craved. She had just experienced a trauma the likes of which he'd never before seen. This was no time to be thinking from his waist down.

But what he knew to be gentlemanly consideration for Carrie's plight and what his body wanted were two totally different things. By exercising more self-control than he dreamed himself capable of, consideration won out. He sighed and decided this night had suddenly acquired all the earmarks of being one of the most endless he'd ever endured.

***

The sun had not yet come up when Carrie awoke to find herself snuggled tightly against Frank's warm body. Shocked to find herself in Frank's bed, she extracted herself from the circle of his arms, and then slipped quietly from beneath the covers. As she stood there, the cool floor chilling her bare feet, she stared down at him and the imprint left by her head on the pillow beside him.

She'd spent the night in this man's bed, in this man's arms. Had anything happened? Color heated her cheeks. She didn't think anything had. Surely she would have remembered.

Carrie expected shame to overcome her, and was surprised when it didn't. Instead she experienced a rush of sensation completely foreign to her, that warmed her straight through and made her heart flutter. She recalled vividly his strong arms holding her and her face pressed against his broad, bare chest, his strong heartbeat echoing in her ear.

Frank remained deep asleep and oblivious to her having left his side. Contrarily, she wished he were awake so she could see how the past night had affected him. Was he angry that she'd thrown herself at him? Disgusted that she'd fallen into his bed?

Then she remembered how understanding and protective Frank had been when she'd come to him with her foolish fears of a nightmare that couldn't harm her. He would not judge her on this. This man was a good person who deserved to have his sadness lifted from his soul, and she swore, as she stood there, that just as he'd been there for her when she needed him, she would do whatever it took to free him.

Smiling, she leaned down, lightly kissed his lips and then slipped from the room.