Midnight Exposure (Midnight #1)(43)
The scene was extinguished as quickly as a struck match in the rain, leaving behind a lingering scent of evil as distinct as burnt sulfur.
Reality returned with the feel of flannel sheets against her cheek, the softness of the pillow under her head. Jayne turned her head toward the nightstand. Large orange digits on the clock read three fifty. She shuddered under the pile of thick covers. The room felt cold and empty, and she was alone in Reed’s guest room.
She was safe.
For the moment.
But tomorrow—no, today—she’d leave Reed’s house and the security it represented. Helplessness clawed at her throat. There’d be no more sleep for her tonight.
She flipped back the comforter and rose into the chill of the bedroom fully dressed. The woodstove’s warmth didn’t penetrate the back of the house as efficiently as the front rooms, but the guest bed was more comfortable than the couch. Jayne drew a second pair of socks onto her feet and sought the warmth of the living room. The fire burned brightly, and Jayne held her hands out to absorb its dry heat. She peered in the stove’s small glass window. Someone had added fresh logs recently.
She paced to the bookcase, stuffed with dog-eared bestsellers. None of the many titles appealed. She was too tense to read. She perched on the edge of a chair, closed her eyes, and attempted a few deep breaths. The nightmare had imprinted images and sensations on her mind. Even after she opened her lids to the reassuring sight of Reed’s living room, her chest constricted and her heart pounded relentlessly.
Rubbing the knot beneath her sternum, Jayne crossed to the wide window and looked over the yard. Light glowed in the windows of Reed’s workshop. The electricity must have been restored during the night. But why was he working at three o’clock in the morning?
Maybe he couldn’t sleep either.
The possibility of companionship pulled at her. There were several hours still until dawn, hours that would drag if she passed them alone. She stepped into a pair of boots and donned Scott’s parka. A shoveled path led to the old converted barn that housed Reed’s workshop.
Jayne stepped out into the cold.
Reed turned off the carving saw. The whirring ceased and silence descended on the small back room of his workshop. He circled his project. She was long and lean, the birch trunk straighter than his typical sculpture. The last piece had been thin as well, but huddling inward, sinking, in the process of collapsing in despair, a typical emotion for his carvings.
But not this time.
He set down the saw and reached for a leather-covered photo album on the shelf behind him. Opening it, he flipped through pictures of his previous pieces. All the sculptures had names like Misery, Anguish, or Despair. As their names suggested, the figures stared back at him with desolation—and accusation.
He returned his attention to the new piece. One hand swept out to caress the rough wood. He’d seen strength and resilience in the pale birch from the very first time he’d touched it. Raw power emanated from the wood, yet he was not tempted to make the subject masculine. The lines remained wholly feminine, with fertile curves despite her ample musculature.
This project would be different, the beginning of something new.
Closing the book, he picked up a marker and began to map details. He fine-tuned the length of her hair and the angle of her chin. This woman would stand tall, with her face turned to the sky in challenge. Her cheekbones would be sharper, more angular than the almost childish figure of Despair.
The scrape of a branch on the skylight broke his concentration, and his gaze swept to the clock. Only a couple of hours remained until dawn. As usual, he’d lost track of time while absorbed in his work. He’d intended to spend an hour or so out here once he was sure Jayne was asleep. He couldn’t work on his sculpture while she was awake. She didn’t miss a trick, and he couldn’t risk anyone seeing his work in process, especially a woman who’d been reading an article on R. S. Morgan.
One look at this roughed-out piece and Jayne might well realize he was the famous sculptor. His cover would be blown. As long as she was in his house, he’d limit his carving to the hours when she slept.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Was it worth going to bed at this point or should he work another hour or two?
The long section of bare wood begged for him to give it life.
Jayne knocked lightly on the door. The latch must not have caught completely because the door swung open, revealing a neat workshop. Reed was emerging from a back room. He started and quickly pulled the door closed behind him. His face registered surprise and a trace of alarm before he neutralized his features.
Storage room? Or was something hidden behind that closed door?
“I’m sorry. Am I interrupting you?”
“No,” he answered. “It’s OK. Come on in.”
Jayne walked toward a table in the center of the small space. A small antique chest sat in the center, its top sanded smooth. Scott’s boots, loose on Jayne’s narrow feet, scuffed across the floor as she moved toward the piece. “This is nice.”
Reed avoided her gaze by focusing on the furniture. “It’s Mae’s. Some guest’s kid gouged the top.”
Sheba rose from a dog bed in the corner farthest from the kerosene heater. After a full-body stretch, the dog trotted over to Jayne, sat, and presented her with a large paw. Jayne scratched the dog’s chest.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked.