Under the Northern Lights(70)

Her dark-as-midnight eyes were pleading with me to believe her and listen to her. I didn’t want to let one bad incident shape my entire future . . . but for now, I didn’t have a choice. “My plane is gone, my camera is gone, and most of my equipment is gone. I’m not going anywhere for a long, long time.”

Patricia shook her head of dark curls, then pulled me tight again. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” I wasn’t. It meant I had absolutely no way of seeing Michael again for a long, long time, but I understood where my sister was coming from, so I didn’t mention my heartache.

After my sister, I was welcomed and hugged by everyone who’d come out to see me. The outpouring of love was overwhelming, and I was exhausted long before I got to the last person . . . Shawn. My ex was almost the opposite of me, with sandy hair, pale eyes, and an almost constant smile on his face. He wasn’t smiling now, though. He looked like he’d been torn apart piece by piece, then raggedly sewn back together.

“Jesus, Mallory . . . I thought you died.” He pulled me into him, wrapping his arms around me so tight I could barely breathe. “I thought you died,” he repeated.

Feeling erratic waves of desolation and grief radiating from him, I rubbed tiny circles into his back. “I’m fine, Shawn. I’m completely fine.”

He ran a hand down my hair, holding my head against him. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, Mallory. I can’t . . . I can’t lose you.”

His voice warbled as he spoke, and I knew he was barely holding on. Shawn had always been emotional—some of our fights were legendary in town. He wore his heart on his sleeve, though, and I never had any doubts about how he felt. The nakedness was refreshing after dealing with Michael’s walls. God, Michael . . . he was home by now, alone in his little cabin. Was he thinking of me? Probably. There wasn’t much else to do there but think.

Burying that pain deep inside, I told Shawn, “I’m so sorry. If I could have let you know I was okay—let everyone know I was okay—I would have. There just wasn’t a way.”

Pulling back, Shawn’s glossy eyes studied my face. “What the hell happened to you?”

A tired smile on my face, I told him, “Can I tell you in the car? I want to go home.”

Shawn immediately nodded, then scooped me up like he was sure my fatigue had suddenly made me an invalid. “I can walk, Shawn,” I told him.

Giving me a half smile, he said, “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” I’d heard that argument a time or two before. In our marriage, Shawn often thought I should just sit and relax while he did everything. It drove me crazy.

But just this once, I caved to his chivalrous nature . . . because I really was tired. In fact, I fell asleep on the way home. Or I’m assuming I did. When I woke up, I was in my own comfortable, spacious, pillow-top bed, surrounded by my three little pugs: Frodo, Pippin, and Samwise. Soft morning light was streaming through my windows, and the smell of bacon was thick in the air. God, it was good to be home.

Like they could sense I was awake, my dogs began licking every part of me they could reach, grunting and snorting like little excited pigs. Their curled tails were furiously beating back and forth, almost fast enough to create a current in the room. Wrapping my arms around all three of them, I pulled them in to me for a hug. “I missed you guys so much!”

Little barks met my ears, little tongues flicked my cheeks . . . all was right in the world. Sort of.

Feeling melancholy beginning to weigh down my heart, I pushed my pups away and climbed out of bed. That was when I noticed I was in my pajamas. When had that happened? Wow, I must have really been out of it. As I wondered just who had dressed me, I shuffled off to the kitchen; my dogs followed me, trailing so close to my feet they tripped me a few times. “Mom, did you . . . ?” My voice trailed off as I stared speechless at Shawn, standing in my kitchen making breakfast.

“Oh good, you’re awake. How many eggs would you like?”

“Shawn? What are you doing here? And did you undress me?” I reflexively crossed my arms over my chest, even though it was too late. He’d already seen everything. Several times.

Shawn rolled his eyes at my question. “Was I supposed to put you to bed in those filthy clothes? And besides, you thanked me as I was doing it. Although you called me Michael . . .” He frowned, and my cheeks suddenly felt red hot. I didn’t remember any of that. God . . . I’d called him Michael. Michael . . . he’d be well into his day by now. Sunlight was precious up north. Was he hunting? Gathering water? Splitting wood? Was he okay?

“Why are you still here?” I asked, changing the subject and redirecting my thoughts. “You could have gone home. I’m fine.”

Shawn suddenly looked very sheepish. “Well, actually . . . I’ve been living here.”

My jaw dropped at that news. Seeing my surprised expression, Shawn shrugged. “I knew you’d want someone to take care of your house and stuff.” He pointed a spatula at Frodo, Pippin, and Samwise. “And them. I knew you’d want them to have constant companionship, not just your sister’s daily drop-ins, so after it was clear something went wrong, I moved in . . . to take care of them. To take care of everything.”

I was stunned that he’d done all that for me . . . basically put his own life on hold for me. “Oh, wow . . . thank you, Shawn. That means a lot to me.” I’d hoped someone had taken care of my life while I’d been gone—taken care of my dogs, my home—and my heart surged with relief to hear that someone had. That Shawn had.