Hunter's Bride and A Mother's Wish (24 page)

“Sure you are.” She frowned at the door. “But Matt's not.”

She didn't know why, but the small incident with Amy had upset him way out of proportion to the cause. She'd thought she was beginning to know him, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe she didn't understand him at all.

 

He'd let himself be responsible, and a child had gotten hurt. Matt stared at his reflection in the baroque mirror that graced the center hallway of the Caldwell mansion. Guilt seemed to look back at him.

The nightmares he'd hoped were gone would be back tonight. He could be sure of that.

The doorbell chimed, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced at the grandfather clock against the wall. Nearly nine. They weren't expecting anyone tonight, as far as he knew.

He pulled the door open. Sarah stood there.

For a moment he just looked at her, caught by the way the fanlight put gold highlights in her hair. Then reality hit.

“What's wrong? Is it Amy? Was it worse than you thought?” A dozen frightening possibilities chased each other through his mind.

“Amy's fine.” Sarah reached toward him with that warm reassurance he'd seen her extend to the children. “Matt, she's okay, really. Just a bit of a fat lip to show for her tumble.” She shook her head. “It probably won't be the last one, unfortunately.”

Relief flooded him. “Then what?” He realized how brusque that sounded. “Please, come in. I'm just surprised to see you.”

She stepped into the hallway, her sandals clicking on the black-and-white-tile floor. She'd traded the slacks she'd worn earlier for a skirt of some soft material that moved when she did. She looked around with frank curiosity.

“So this is how the other half lives.”

He grimaced. “Just a tad ostentatious, isn't it?”

Before she could make what would have to be an awkward reply to that, Jennifer came bouncing down the steps.

“Hey, Miz Sarah. Is Andi with you?”

“Andi's home getting ready for bed.” Sarah smiled at his niece.

Jennifer pouted. “I wish you'd brought her with you. We could have played. I want to show her my new dollhouse.”

“I'm sure she'd like that,” Sarah said gently. “Another time.”

An idea tickled his mind, and he put it away to be considered later. “Mrs. Reed and I have to talk, Jenny-girl. I'll see you later.”

When Jenny looked mutinous at being dismissed, he took Sarah's arm. “Let's go out to the veranda. It'll be quiet there.”

She nodded, letting him guide her through the door. She probably thought he didn't want her in his home. That couldn't be further from the truth.

The reality was that nothing about the mansion felt like home to him any longer, if it ever had. And he had no desire to discuss business with Sarah while they chanced being interrupted by his father.

Business must have brought her here, since Amy was all right. His father already thought him crazy to have bought into such a poor investment as the
Caldwell Cove Gazette.
He'd undoubtedly have some caustic advice about holding on to advertisers, if he knew about Jason Sanders.

They walked to the end of the veranda and sat in the wicker swing, piled high with cushions, that had always been his favorite spot for thinking. Sarah's skirt draped over the print pillows as she settled.

Her gaze seemed to trace the length of the veranda, and he wondered what she thought of it all. Did she see the showplace his father wanted it to be?

“Jenny's a sweet child.” Her comment, when it came, surprised him. “It was nice of her to invite Andi over.”

“She's quite a little person. I feel as if I've just finally gotten to know her.”

“Maybe you were never here long enough.” Sarah tilted her head to look at him, and moonlight touched her face, turning it silver.

“Maybe not.” Maybe he shouldn't be here now. He didn't seem to belong after all this time. “Jenny really warms up this cold house.” He gestured toward the Tara-like mansion that loomed over them.

“Cold?”

He couldn't see her eyes clearly in the moonlight, but he could hear the caring in her voice. He shrugged.

“Sounds like I'm whining, doesn't it? But this house has always been more showplace than home. After our mother died, the only really comfortable spot was the kitchen. Miz Becky always made sure we had plenty of loving.”

“Who was Miz Becky?” Her voice was so soft it prompted the feelings he'd often thought but seldom expressed.

“Is, not was. Miz Becky takes care of us all. She raised four kids of her own, then took on the two motherless Caldwell boys. I'm not sure what we'd have done without her.” He took a deep breath, clenching his fist on his knee. “Okay, enough small talk. You can let me have it.”

A frown wrinkled her brow. “What do you mean?”

“You must be unhappy to go to the trouble of hiring a sitter so you could come here tonight. I figure that means you want to speak your mind about the paper without anyone around to overhear. I caused you enough trouble today. The least I can do is take the heat.”

She shook her head, her hair moving like silk. “That's not why I'm here.”

He resisted the impulse to touch her. “Why then?”

“Because I'm worried about you.” The caring in her voice seemed to cross the inches between them and wrap around his heart. “You really overreacted to Amy's little mishap today.” She put her hand on his. “Please, Matt. Tell me. What happened to you?”

S
arah held her breath, waiting for Matt's anger to spike, waiting for him to tell her to mind her own business. Or, worse, waiting for him to laugh at her presumption.

He didn't seem to be laughing. A shaft of moonlight cast his face in light and shadow—all bone and muscle without daytime's color to soften the effect. It was a study in determination, a warrior's face.

“I don't know what you mean.” He said the words stiffly, without any emphasis at all. “If that's why you've come, I'm afraid you've wasted a perfectly good baby-sitter.”

She wouldn't be put off. She'd spent too much energy arguing with God about coming at all, and she'd lost.

“I don't think so.” She chose her words carefully, trying to find the ones that would unlock the riddle that was Matthew Caldwell. “I saw your face this morning when Amy was hurt.”

He shrugged, but the attempt at casualness wasn't convincing. “I'm sure there are plenty of men who get queasy when they see a baby bleeding.”

“Matt, that wasn't queasiness. Believe me, I've seen enough sick kids to know the difference.”

“Fine, have it your way. Whatever you think you saw in me—”

He started to get up, and the swing lurched beneath her. In a moment he'd be gone.

“Grief,” she said. “Overwhelming grief and remorse, just because the baby fell.”

He turned toward her, the swing's chains creaking in protest at the abrupt movement. Now the anger she'd been expecting flared in his face. “All right, have it your way. I overreacted. That's all. I overreacted.”

“Because of something that happened to you while you were overseas.” She didn't know why she was so sure. She simply knew.

Matt's face hardened to a bleak mask. “What happened is none of your business.”

At least he'd admitted that there was something. “Matt, it doesn't help to keep things bottled up inside. You need to talk about it.”

His hands moved, as if pushing that away. “Trust me, Sarah. If I felt the need to unburden myself to someone, I have plenty of family to choose from.”

Yes, he did. She had none, except the kids, so she couldn't understand what that was like.

“I know you do. Have you talked to any of them?”

“No.” He bit off the word.

Please, Lord. You put this burden on my heart for him. You made me see I had to come here tonight. Please show me the words that will help him.

“Matt—” She couldn't tell him she'd begun to care. She didn't want to admit that even to herself. “I realize we haven't known each other very long. But we're partners. If something affects you, it affects me.”

“Does it?” He almost sounded as if he wanted to believe that.

“Yes.” She spoke firmly. He'd never know that she had feelings for him, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was hurting, and she wanted to help. “Please. Tell me what's going on with you.”

“You won't like hearing it, Sarah. You might not be strong enough to hear it.”

She sensed the longing beneath his bitterness. He wanted someone to listen and to care. He couldn't ask, but he wanted that. She reached out to clasp both his hands in hers.

“Tell me.” The words came out a little breathlessly, but not because she was afraid he'd turn back now. She could feel the current running between them through their clasped hands. They were linked in a way she didn't quite understand, as if they'd known each other a long time ago and had just come together again.

Hearing what was burdening his heart would bring them even closer, and that closeness would eventually bring her more hurt. But Matt needed her right now, probably more than he realized. She couldn't let him down.

“I haven't talked to anyone about this since I got home.”

She could hear something rustle out in the marsh beyond the veranda, but Matt's need kept her attention pinned to him.

“They haven't asked?” She gripped his hands more tightly, as if she could send comfort through them. Hadn't his family seen the pain in his eyes?

He shrugged. “I think my grandmother knows something's wrong. That's why she keeps reminding me of my verse.”

“Your verse?”

His mouth twisted in what might have been an attempt at a smile. “It's another one of those Caldwell family traditions, like the dolphin. We all have a Bible verse we were given when we were baptized. Gran picked them for each of her grandchildren, the way her mother and grandmother did before her.”

“A family tradition.” It sounded like a good, comforting thing, like the swing rocking gently under them. “What is your verse?”

“Romans 8, 28.” He stopped there, as if he didn't want to say the words.

But she knew them. “'And we know that in all things, God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.'”

“That's the one.”

“It's a good promise to live by,” she said softly.

“That's what James used to say.” His voice roughened.

He looked down at their clasped hands, and the lines in his face seemed to deepen, as if she saw him growing older right in front of her.

“James?”

“James Whitman. He ran a mission station in Indonesia. I'd known him in college, so I looked him up when I was sent there to report on the Timorese situation.”

Scattered memories flickered through her mind—images of bombed streets, frightened civilians, gangs of soldiers and militia. “That was a dangerous place to be.”

“James used to laugh about that. It had been so quiet since he'd arrived it was almost boring, he said. Then the political situation changed, and nothing was quiet anymore.” He shook his head. “That didn't stop him. He went right on doing his job, running his school, feeding anyone who came to his door in need, even if they turned around and robbed him.”

“He sounds like a good person.”

“He was.”

Matt's grip tightened on her hands until it was painful, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't.

“I wanted to do a story on him, to showcase the good he was doing in the middle of chaos. He said no, but I kept after him. Finally he agreed. He should have kicked me out the first time I mentioned it.”

“It didn't go well?” This had to be worse than a botched story.

“Actually the interview went very well. James was articulate, the kids were photogenic, everyone at the network was pleased.”

A night bird cried somewhere out in the marsh, and Matt jerked as if it had been a shot. She tried to soothe him with the firm clasp of her hands.

“What went wrong?”

He grimaced, as if in pain. “Unfortunately it hadn't occurred to us that the terrorists watched television, too. The night after my report aired, I heard a rumor they planned to attack the mission station. I tried to get there to warn James and the others. I was running toward the gate when the bomb went off.”

She made an inarticulate sound of grief. His hands jerked spasmodically. He might want to stop, but he wouldn't be able to now.

“We found James and a co-worker in the rubble. Dead.” The words rolled out inexorably. “Seven of the children were seriously injured. We had to dig them out. I can still hear them crying.”

Her throat was so tight it seemed impossible to speak, but she had to. “Matt, it wasn't your fault. It was a terrible thing, but it wasn't your fault.”

“Tell that to the people who died.” His mouth twisted bitterly.

“You couldn't have known. James must have been more familiar with the situation than you were, and he didn't suspect that would happen.”

“That doesn't make me any less guilty.” He sounded as if he were passing judgment on himself.

“The people at the network didn't blame you, did they?”

“Blame me? No. I'm sure they regretted the bombing, but it certainly made quite a story for my next broadcast.” His bitterness ran so bone-deep that she didn't know how it ever could be relieved.

“They didn't expect you to—”

“Report my friend's death?” His tone mocked her. “Of course they expected it.”

Her heart seemed to be crying. “How could you possibly do that?”

“Not very well. I nearly broke down on the air. Funny, but that's the one thing they couldn't forgive. That's why I'm in exile. Not because I did an interview that led to a good man's death, but because I nearly broke down on the air.”

Sarah felt as if she hadn't breathed in a long time. She took a breath, steadying herself. “So you decided to take a leave of absence to get over it.”

“I didn't decide. My bosses decided. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Caldwell. You're no good to us like this. Go back to your island until you learn to cope out here in the real world.'”

She struggled to get her mind around that. She'd assumed that this leave of absence was his idea. Now it turned out it hadn't been. He was here under protest, trying to put himself back together.

“So you'll go back, once you've come to terms with this. Your job will be waiting for you.”

She tried to sound reassuring. He'd go back. Odd, that his presence could have come to mean so much to her in such a short period of time.

“That's my life. Ugly as it can be, it's my life. I want it back.” His voice roughened. “When I get it back, believe me, there won't be a repeat performance. I won't ever let myself get that close to anyone again.”

 

Matt couldn't believe those words had come out of his mouth. Shock rippled through him. How could he be saying these things to anyone, especially to Sarah?

He'd told her things he hadn't told anyone else. Not even his brother knew the whole story behind his return. And he'd just spilled it all to a woman he'd only known a couple of weeks.

“Matt—” Sarah's voice was troubled. “You can't live detached. No one can.”

“I can try.” He wanted to pull his hands free of hers, wanted to cut this short and walk away.

But he couldn't. Talking to Sarah, feeling her caring, had begun to melt something that had been frozen inside him. Like thawing cold hands, it hurt, but he knew it was doing him good.

“Is that really what you want for yourself?” She shifted a little, and the swing moved beneath them as she turned toward him more fully.

He wanted to say something light, something that set them at a safe distance. But Sarah was looking at him with her generous caring heart shining in her eyes, and he couldn't do that.

“Want?” He should let go of her hands. He should get up and walk away. “I don't know that
want
is the right word. It's what I
need
to survive out there.” He jerked his head toward the mainland. She'd know he meant everything out there, beyond Caldwell Island.

“Maybe you don't belong out there any longer.” Her voice was so soft, he leaned closer to hear it. “Maybe your life is meant to be here.”

“No. My life is waiting for me.” He tried to sound sure of that. He
was
sure of that.

But the moonlight tangled in Sarah's hair, etching it with silver, and the soft lowcountry night closed around them, cradling them in its warmth. Warm—almost as warm as Sarah, leaning toward him, longing to make him better.

“Sarah Reed.” He touched her hair, feeling the springy curls wind around his fingers. “Sympathy her specialty, given to anyone and everyone, regardless of whether they deserve it or not.”

“It's not a question of deserving.”

“No?” He said it softly, prolonging the moment.

Her eyes, soft in the moonlight, met his. Her lips parted, as if she were about to say something, and then she seemed to forget whatever it was. He heard the soft sound of her breath, felt her hand tremble under his.

“Sarah.” Her name was gentle on his lips, as gentle as she was, with her combination of softness and strength. She'd gotten under his guard in a way he'd never expected anyone would, ever again.

“Matt, I—”

He touched her cheek, smooth and sweet as the skin of a fresh peach. Stroked the line of her jaw. Cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward his. Found her mouth with his.

Longing surfaced within him. He drew her closer, feeling her respond as if she, too, had been waiting for this moment. As if this kiss had been predetermined from the first time they saw each other.

Maybe it had. He held her close. Maybe it had.

Sarah drew back, too soon, with a small sound that might have been protest. He trailed a line of gentle kisses across her cheek. Sarah was everything he needed now—warmth, caring, peace. This might be a mistake, but he couldn't let her go.