The Night Mark(33)

Hot tears flooded her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. It struck her then and struck her hard, the sudden certainty that she did not, absolutely did not, want to die.

“I don’t want to die,” she said. Even as she said it, she realized it was possibly the first time in four years she could say that with 100 percent honesty. Maybe she was experiencing a severe head injury. Surely that was the only explanation. Death stared her in the face. Death called her name. Death held out his hand to her. Over the past four years she’d been tempted to take Death by his outstretched hand, but there on that crazy quilt in that lamp-lit room with the lighthouse blinking behind her, Faye knew she did not want to die.

She heard footsteps in the house. Impossible not to when it was so eerily quiet. No air conditioner kicked on and off. No fluorescent lights buzzed. No traffic rumbled in the distance. Faye closed her eyes tight, pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead and rocked back and forth again. It was in that position the man found her. She heard him enter the room, and felt him sink onto the bed beside her and gather her into his bare arms and against his bare chest. His body was hot from exertion.

“Breathe, sweet girl. In and out,” he said, his voice strong and calm as she gasped and swallowed air. “In and out...”

“Am I dying?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. Not on my watch.”

Faye wept openly then, shaking and shivering in his arms. She wept because he had Will’s face and because he spoke Will’s words. But he wasn’t Will. And if he wasn’t Will, why did she want to love him?

Slowly, breath by breath, Faye’s shaking subsided. Fear still held her by the heart, and its iron fingers would not let go, but she could breathe again. A small victory.

“I must have hit my head,” she whispered against the man’s chest. Carrick’s chest. “Something’s not right.”

“I can call over to Hunting for help. We’ll go into town, take you to the doctor.”

She shook her head. “No. No doctors.”

If it was 1921, then a doctor would do more harm than good. Who knew what dangerous drug he’d prescribe, what unnecessary surgery he’d perform and in what sort of unsanitary conditions? And if she had no visible injuries and was still hallucinating, she could easily end up in an insane asylum.

“If you’re hurt...”

“No doctors,” she said again. “I won’t go.”

“All right, then. I can’t make you.”

“Why can’t you make me?” Faye asked. “Aren’t I your daughter?”

He laughed softly, a sort of ironic-sounding chuckle.

“That’s what we tell them,” he said. “Come on now. Look at me, love.”

She slowly lifted her head and met his eyes. Once more she started, stunned nearly senseless by his resemblance to Will. How could it not be him?

“Hold still,” he said, and he raised his hands to her head and gently rubbed his fingertips through her hair, over her scalp. His brow furrowed. “I don’t feel a bump or a knot. The skin’s not broken. Does it hurt anywhere?”

“No. How long was I under water?”

“Too long.”

“Maybe I’m... Maybe I have oxygen deprivation?”

“Oxygen deprivation?” He smiled as he said it, as if she’d suddenly broken into a foreign language. “I suppose that could be why you’re so out of sorts.”

“I kissed you.”

“We’ll blame the oxygen deprivation,” he said, letting his hands drop from her hair.

“You kissed me back.”

He exhaled heavily.

“Don’t know what to blame for that. Wish I did.”

She laughed despite herself. It sounded just like something Will would have said.

“I’m not... I’m not your daughter.”

He raised a finger to his lips, shushing her.

“Our little secret.”





9


What was the secret? She wasn’t his daughter. But if she wasn’t his daughter, who the hell was she?

“I should sleep,” Faye said, suddenly needing to be alone. She had to think, to figure things out, and she couldn’t do that with Carrick here. He’d ask her questions she wouldn’t be able to answer. If she told him the truth, that she was either hallucinating or had somehow traveled ninety-four years back in time, she would end up in a padded cell. There were no high quality mental hospitals in 1921. It was the cuckoo’s nest—water cures that were water torture, brain surgeries and straitjackets.

“That sounds like a fine idea. You want me to stay?”

“No.” Faye shook her head. “You can go. I’ll go to sleep right now.”

“I’ll check on you in an hour or two. I won’t wake you unless I think I oughta.”

He kissed her forehead again, and Faye closed her eyes as his lips met her skin. For one second she allowed herself to pretend it was Will, her beautiful Will, and he’d come to her in a dream and now he’d leave again, but not without kissing her goodbye first. Will would never leave her without kissing her goodbye. The only time he ever had was the day he died.

“Sleep well, sweet girl,” he whispered. He stood up as she lay back in the bed. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”