The Night Mark(92)

“That’s today,” Faye said.

“That’s what I was afraid of. I waded into the water, and next thing I knew, there you were, drowning.”

Faye stared at him, aghast, speechless. If Pat hadn’t come back...she would have died in this time? Marshall would have shot her? It would have happened today, right now, but for Pat. She could almost see it happening, as if it had happened and she’d witnessed it with her own eyes. Marshall reaching over the side of the boat, fishing her out of the water before she could drown and return to her own time. They would have struggled over the gun, but it would have gone off in the struggle, shooting Faye in the stomach. It hadn’t happened, and all because Pat had come back for her. They’d changed history again.

“Pat,” Faye breathed. “Why am I here?”

“I don’t know,” Pat said. “But at least you’re here a little longer.”

Faye wrapped her arms around him, around this old priest in a young man’s body who had traveled almost a century back in time to rescue her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, patting her back. “Truth is, I just really missed being in this body.”

Faye laughed and wiped the tears off her face.

“You look good,” she said.

“You look a little different,” he said, smiling. “But I’d know those violet eyes anywhere.”

“Faith!”

Faye looked up. She could see Carrick down the beach jogging toward them. Pat turned his head to look.

“My God,” Pat breathed. “Carrick. He’s a baby.”

“He’s thirty-five,” Faye said. “Big baby.”

“He was my age when I saw him last. And I was... How old do I look?”

“Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight,” she said.

“Twenty-seven. That’s how old I was when I met Carrick the first time. How does this keep happening to us?” Pat asked.

“What?”

“Time.”

“If I knew, I would tell you,” Faye said. “Carrick’s going to ask who you are. What do I tell him?”

“I’ll tell him the truth,” Pat said. “If you want me to.”

“Why you?”

“Because he’ll believe me.”

Pat looked at her, and she understood. He’d been Carrick’s confessor—he knew the secrets Carrick hadn’t even told her yet and perhaps never would. If anyone could make Carrick believe the truth of this story, it was Pat. But that didn’t mean Carrick would like what he heard.

“He thinks I’m a twenty-year-old girl who was a virgin until I married Marshall, not a woman of thirty who’s been married twice, widowed and divorced. God, I’m divorced, Pat. Carrick will never forgive me.”

“He’ll forgive you,” Pat said. “Carrick’s more open-minded than you’re giving him credit for. Have faith, Faith.”

Faye set off running down the beach to meet Carrick. He grabbed her as soon as she was within grabbing distance.

“Oh, God,” Carrick said, holding her so tightly it hurt. “I thought you were a goner. I thought Marshall did you in for good. I’ll kill him. Where is he—”

“Dead,” she said, looking up at Carrick’s face. “He drowned when the boat turned over.”

“Jesus...” Carrick pulled her even tighter to him. Faye rested her head on his chest and tried to make an impression of this moment deep in her mind in case this was the last time he held her. He was a wall to her, a warm wall of masculine strength and love. And that wall had a door and that was why she never got hurt running into the wall, because he always opened the door for her when she ran to him. “You’re safe, sweet girl. That’s all that matters.”

But it wasn’t all that mattered, no matter how much she wanted to believe that.

“Carrick, let me go.”

“Never.”

She laughed through her tears.

“I need you to meet someone,” she said. “He saved me when I jumped out of the boat.”

She pulled away from his rough embrace as Pat walked toward them.

“Chief Morgan,” Pat said, extending his hand. “Pat.”

Carrick shook it heartily. “I’m grateful to you, sir,” he said. “Grateful beyond words. Pat, you said?”

The priest nodded. “Patrick Cahill.”

Carrick’s brow furrowed. He looked at Faye. “Patrick Cahill,” he said to her. “Your...fiancé? I thought that was just a story.”

“My...” Her voice trailed off. Of course. The fake fiancé she’d invented to keep Hartwell from sniffing around her.

“Carrick,” Pat said, cutting in. “Forgive me for calling you by your first name, but we’ve actually met before.”

“We have?” Carrick looked more confused than ever. “When? The war?”

“No, I’m not a sailor or a military man,” Pat said. “I’m a priest. Your priest, actually.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. A priest as young as you, I’d remember.”

“I’m not your priest yet,” Pat said. “I will be. We’ll meet in 1965. So take a good look at me. This is exactly what I’ll look like when we meet someday.”