Smoke on the Water (10 page)

He stepped back, and her hand slid away, hovered in the air for a minute before she curled her fingers inward as if holding on to the sensation of that touch.

God, he was tired.

“Let's get some coffee.”

Had he said that? Must have, because she headed for the cafeteria. He shouldn't have followed, but he did.

The early-riser patients had filled Styrofoam cups of coffee, tea, and juice, and sat either in small groups or alone. A few glanced Sebastian's way; one of his patients waved.

He stood behind Willow while she filled her cup, then moved to the side and dumped in milk and sugar. She smelled like institutional soap and shampoo, which shouldn't be appealing but was. Everything about her appealed to him.

Except the reason she was here. He had to remember that.

Compared to Sebastian, Willow seemed so tiny, so frail. In reality, she was tall for a woman—at least five seven in bare feet—though she was too thin. He was tempted to dump more milk and sugar into her coffee himself. He managed not to by pouring coffee of his own.

“Let's take these outside,” he said. She could use some sun, and he could use some air.

“Outside?” she repeated, as if he'd spoken in Dutch.

“There's a garden. I've been meaning to sit there.” He always meant to sit in gardens, never did get around to it. Not only did he not have the time, he had no one to sit there with. He shouldn't sit in one with her. He knew it, but he did it anyway.

He led Willow to the door that opened onto the walled inner courtyard at the center of the facility. He had to use a key to get inside—entry was a privilege accorded a certain few.

A picnic table sat in the center of the open area. Above loomed the sky. Around them, wildflowers, a few bees, even some birds.

In the old days, patients had been required to work on the acres that surrounded the facility. Farming, gardening, lawn care had been part of their therapy. Sebastian thought they might have been onto something with that plan. Not only did sunshine work wonders healthwise, but being busy rather than bored didn't hurt either.

Of course now that many of their patients were criminally insane, allowing them outside to plant posies was no longer an option. To be certain they wouldn't escape, they'd have to wear chains on their ankles like a chain gang and that was inhumane. But locking them up behind stone walls and tossing away the key was a-okay. However, he didn't make the rules, he just followed them.

Kind of.

“Have you been out here before?” Sebastian took a seat across from her at the table.

“No.”

“Never?” If Willow wasn't one of the “certain few,” who was? Certainly not Mary.

“Dr. Eversleigh was old school.”

“Meaning?”

“We didn't have sessions outside.”

And he'd been thinking “outside” was old school. All a matter of perspective, but what wasn't?

“Is this a session?” He took a sip of coffee.

“Do you want it to be?”

“You sound like me.”

She sipped her own coffee and smiled.

Since Sebastian wanted to taste that smile, he looked away, and the stone walls captured his attention. He disentangled himself from the picnic table—not an easy task for a man as big as he was—then walked over to one, lifted his arm, curled his fingers over the top. He could probably pull himself up. It wouldn't be easy, but he could do it. Could Mary?

First she would have had to get into the garden. Had someone let her out here and now didn't want to mention it, considering? Or perhaps a key had been lost, misplaced, even stolen—also not something that the loser might want to admit at this point.

Sebastian reached farther and encountered what he thought was a pebble, but when he drew it back down discovered it was a piece of broken glass. He stood there frowning at it so long Willow came over to see it too.

“Better than barbed wire,” she said.

“She didn't get out this way.” Sebastian put the glass back on top of the wall. If she had there would have been a blood trail, both on the ground and on Mary.

“Did you think she had?”

“I don't know what to think.”

“You need to stop thinking for a bit.”

“I'm not sure I can.”

“Try.” She started down the path that meandered through the grass and the wildflowers. Unable to stop himself, he followed.

They didn't talk, and that was all right. It was soothing for a man who spent most of his day listening to others, to not have to for a change. Willow remained just ahead of him; the trail was narrow. Though he could have crunched through the unmowed grass to walk at her side, he didn't. He liked the sight of her against the tall grass and flowers. If he just stared at her, at the path, it was as if the walls were gone.

Willow pointed to a monarch butterfly perched on a fluffy white flower that resembled a snowball. Sebastian caught a glimpse of a statue overturned and half hidden beneath a swath of bright orange wildflowers. He stepped off the path, pulled it free, held the angel up for her to see. Willow brushed her fingers over the jagged edge of one broken wing.

“I'll see if Justice can fix it,” Sebastian said.

“No.” She took the statue out of his hand, taking great care that their skin did not touch.

He was both glad and sad. Glad because whenever they did touch there was a snap of electricity—both static and sexual. The first couldn't be helped; the second had to end and the only way to make it do so was not to touch at all. But also sad, because he'd never had a reaction like that to any woman in his life, and he'd started to wonder if he ever would.

Certainly there hadn't been many women—lately there hadn't been any. As a psychiatrist he knew that he'd been subconsciously punishing himself. He didn't deserve love, a home and family when his sister would never have any of those things. But just because he knew what he was doing—and if he'd been his own patient he'd tell himself to forgive, if not forget, and move on—that didn't mean he could do it any more than most of the people he advised could.

“Not everything should be fixed.” Willow knelt and set the angel in front of the flowers, then glanced up at him. “Not everything can be.”

His eyebrows lifted. How many times had she spoken exactly what he was thinking? More than could be a coincidence, except the other options were mind reading and witchcraft.

He shook his head at the foolishness of his thoughts. “Doesn't hurt to try.”

She straightened and moved down the path again. “Sometimes it does.”

He felt compelled to follow. He'd thought her fey. Was she weaving a spell?

He was a lot more tired than he'd thought.

His mother had been of Irish descent, and she'd told stories of fairies and elves—the little people—that her gran had told to her. As a kid both he and his sister had begged for those stories.

His father had been Scottish—Frasier—as well as German and Norwegian. None of the three was a fanciful race and David Frasier, John Deere equipment salesman, had been the same.

Despite Sebastian's choice of occupation, his personality was more like his mother's. Not that he believed in fairies and such, but he had liked hearing about them. He missed his mother daily, but he missed her most at night when he had the strongest memories of her sitting close and telling tales. Perhaps if he'd taken the time to tell his sister those same tales she wouldn't have—

A startled yelp had him hurrying forward just as Willow came barreling back. She bounced off his chest. He grabbed her forearms before she could land on her ass. That dual spark—physical and mental—zapped him again. But one glance at her ashen face, and he pushed her behind him.

“No,” she said. “It's nothing.”

She caught at his clothes, but he wouldn't be stopped. He charged into the tall grass.

He'd slay whatever dragons she had.

*   *   *

Because Dr. Frasier was so tall, I could see him still, despite the wild overgrowth. His shoulders drooped on a sigh when he saw what I had, then he looked back. The disappointment in his eyes hurt, just as I'd known it would. He wanted to fix me.

But I wasn't broken. I'd been born like this.

“Come here, Willow.”

I shook my head.

“It'll be all right. I promise.”

It wouldn't be. That much I knew. But I went anyway, even though I wanted to flee in the other direction. What choice did I have? Not only had we needed a key to get in here, but I was pretty sure we'd need a key to get out, and I didn't have one.

My doctor stood in front of the stone birdbath. The storm of a few days past had filled it to the brim with water. The instant I'd seen the shimmery expanse of gray-blue I'd run.

He held out his hand, and like a fool I took it. It was so damn hard not to. In my mind I knew him. In my heart I loved him.

He smiled. I melted. Did he feel it too? This connection between us? At times he seemed to, and at other times he did not.

His eyes were so kind, so familiar. I focused on them as he drew me closer.

The sun was warm; the breeze was soft. He began to lower his head. I'd seen this before.

My eyes drifted closed. My mouth lifted. I waited for the first touch of his lips, and the world shimmied with that sense of déjà vu.

He smelled the same, like limes beneath the sun, or perhaps on ice. His hand in mine was so familiar I could rub my thumb along his index finger and feel the callus that had always been there every other time I'd envisioned his touch. The cadence of his breath was the cadence of my own. I knew exactly what he'd taste like when our lips touched.

Then his mouth brushed my temple. His free hand patted my shoulder. “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh.”

My eyes snapped open. That might work with Mary, but it wasn't going to work with me. “I'm not a dog.”

He stiffened as if he'd been poked. “Of course not.”

He seemed like he wanted to pat me again. I narrowed my gaze, and he stepped back.

Had everything I believed I knew about us—the kisses, the touches, the whispers, the love—been a lie? I didn't think so. Nothing else I'd ever seen was. As this—him, me, us—was the only thing I'd ever prophesied that was good, it had to come true. It just had to. Otherwise what was the point of going on?

“Willow?”

I refused to meet his gaze. I'd see pity in his eyes and that I couldn't bear. What kind of patient falls in love with her doctor?

The pathetic kind. I was already pathetic enough.

“Did you want to look into the water?” he asked.

“Hell, no.”

There was a reason I'd run from that still blue expanse. All I'd seen in it lately were death and destruction.

“The more you face what scares you the less frightening it will be.”

I was in no mood to be psychoanalyzed. Would I ever be?

I fled in the direction of the picnic table and my no doubt cold cup of coffee. Why had I thought he would kiss me here in the sun? Our kiss would take place beneath the moon.

I stepped free of the tall grass. Dr. Frasier's assistant, Zoe, stared at our two cups, which still sat on the picnic table. She flicked me a glance. “Where is he? What have you done?”

She seemed both frightened and furious; for an instant I wondered. Had I lost time? Had I done something I shouldn't?

No blood on my hands, my clothes. Why would there be? Certainly there had been once, there would be again. It would even be his. But it wouldn't be because of me.

Zoe stalked toward me, fists clenched. My own fingers curled. I knew better than to punch a nurse, but if she swung first the rules changed.

“Zoe?”

She stopped short a few feet away. Her fingers unfurled. The set of her jaw relaxed, though the flush of anger remained.

Dr. Frasier set his hand on my shoulder, and my own fingers loosened. I wanted to reach up and twine ours together, but I knew better.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

I kept quiet. I wasn't exactly sure.

Zoe's gaze fixed on his hand, which he kept on my shoulder, the heat of his skin warming the sudden odd chill. “Are you all right, Doctor?”

“Why wouldn't I be all right?” He urged me forward with light pressure. I didn't move.

There was something about Zoe right now that disturbed me. Not only didn't I want to get any closer to her, but I really, really didn't want her any closer to him. Maybe I
should
have looked into the water. There was a reason it had been there, and maybe this was it.

“Deux said the two of you came out here, but you didn't come back. I got worried so I decided to check.” She shot me a glance; her fury seemed magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. “Then you weren't here.”

“We were here,” he said. “We were admiring the birdbath.”

“What's in your hair?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Dr. Frasier had leaves in his hair.

“Huh,” I said, and he cast me a quizzical glance.

I reached up and pulled one out. Long and thin, I knew a willow leaf when I saw one.

“Huh,” he agreed.

We both peered back the way we'd been.

There wasn't a willow tree in the bunch.

Logically I knew that the leaves had blown over the wall and stuck in Dr. Frasier's hair. It was a coincidence that the leaves were those of a black willow. Though I was starting to wonder how many coincidences there really were in life. Especially in my life.

“Black widow,” Zoe muttered as she picked up the coffee cups and emptied the dregs into the grass.

“Willow,” I said.

She snorted. I was going to have to keep my eye on her. She didn't like me. I was pretty sure I knew why.

I glanced at Dr. Frasier and he smiled. I didn't smile back and his faltered.

We were meant for each other. I knew that too. But Zoe could make life difficult for me, and from the expression on her face she planned to.