Shifting Shadows (4 page)

Phillip draped a protective arm about her shoulders and smiled down at her. The only response his touch evoked in her was mild surprise that she could look almost directly into his eyes. She was only a
couple of inches shorter than he was. The feeling of looking at a man almost on a level was new, strange and a bit exhilarating. She’d always been so short, this sudden height gave her a feeling of power.

Appalled at the coldness of her thoughts, she lowered her gaze so he wouldn
’t be able to read her thoughts.

“
I’m not surprised something like this would happen,” Phillip said, his voice calm and reassuring.

“
You’re not?” She looked up at him in shock. Was she finally going to get some answers?

“
It’s this damned house.” He waved his free arm in an encompassing gesture. “She’s been acting strangely ever since she moved in here. She kept saying she felt as if she’d lived here before. She claimed to know where every piece of furniture should go. She let herself get obsessed with it. So now, a little bump on the head, and she’s invented a former resident for the house, taken on her name and personality—Elizabeth Dupard, a fictional woman who lived in 1911.”

She listened to his words in horror.
Fictional? She—Elizabeth—had never lived, was just a creation of Analise’s imagination? How was that possible?

But all the evidence told her it was.

Difficult as it might be to believe she had invented herself, it did make sense, and nothing else had so far. In fact, as Phillip had spoken, she’d found a slightly blurred memory of taking pieces of furniture from the attic, positioning them just so, replacing missing items as closely as possible.

But how could none of her life as Elizabeth have happened when she remembered it so
clearly? How could she recall a lifetime that didn’t exist and forget one that did? How could her heart ache with love for people who’d never lived?

“
Well,” Phillip said, extending one hand to Dylan as he continued to clutch Analise with the other, “I certainly appreciate your taking care of Analise. Let me know how much the doctor bill was, and I’ll reimburse you.”

Phillip was dismissing Dylan.
She didn’t want him to leave. She bit her lip as that odd need for him came over her again. But, she reasoned, even though she was unsure of him, uncomfortable with him, he was one of the few familiar parts of this world she’d awakened into. That explained why she didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t it?

One corner of Dylan
’s mouth quirked up as he accepted Phillip’s proffered hand and shook it once, then released it quickly. “That’s not necessary. I have a long-standing relationship with Dr. Watkins. In fact, I promised him I’d check on her every four hours until tomorrow morning. That’s the only reason he let her come home rather than go to a hospital, and I wouldn’t feel right breaking my word to an old friend.”

A part of her relaxed, glad that Dylan wasn
’t planning to leave her alone with Phillip. But another part was becoming irritated that the two men were talking about her as if she wasn’t there. Men did that, she knew, and women accepted it, but suddenly she didn’t like it.

Phillip tightened his arm about her.
“Under the circumstances, she won’t be spending the night here. We’ll be going to our home in Leawood.”

A vague impression of a large, rambling structure took shape in her mind, a beautiful place where she
’d never quite felt comfortable.

She twisted out of Phillip
’s embrace and stood facing both of them. “No. I don’t want to go to your house. This is my home, and I’m going to stay here.” She surprised herself with the firmness of her actions, but Papa had always said she was pure pig iron beneath the flounces and ruffles.

Phillip reached for her again. She stepped backward,
out of his reach.

“
Analise, don’t be silly. My house was
our
home until six months ago. It’ll be a lot more convenient for everybody if you stay with me until you’re completely recovered from this accident. You don’t want to impose on Mr. Forrest.”

She didn
’t like what he was saying, but it made sense. She was tired and scared and almost acquiesced, but she could find the answers only where she’d lost them—in her own home. And somehow she sensed that now, a hundred years later, she had the right to demand that she be allowed to do that, that she didn’t have to do what her husband ordered. It was a giddy, empowering feeling.

“
No,” she said boldly. “I’m staying here.”

Phillip
’s eyes blazed briefly with cold fire. She automatically took a step backward, away from the fury she anticipated from defying her husband. Ex-husband.

But he only smiled.
“Very well. Then I’ll spend the night here and set my alarm for every four hours. We don’t need to inconvenience your neighbor.”

She relaxed
then jumped when Dylan spoke. “Since you’ll be staying here, I’d better get my tools and fix that door. I’m the one who broke it.” He strode away through the broken door before Phillip could protest, as she felt certain he meant to do.

When he was gone
, leaving her alone in the house with Phillip, her anxiety returned in full force. That was absurd, she knew. Dylan was only Analise’s neighbor whereas Analise had trusted Phillip enough to marry him even if they were now divorced. Surely that counted for something. Why didn’t she want to be alone with him now? He’d shown that he didn’t have Blake’s harsh temper.

“
Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Your friend will be making a lot of noise with that door.” His hand touched the small of her back. “We can go get a late lunch.”

Why did he have to keep touching her?

“I’m not hungry. We stopped and had a sandwich on the way home.” It was the truth, but she’d have said it even if it hadn’t been. She moved away from him, headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like me to make something for your lunch?”

“
I could use a cup of coffee.” If he noticed the rebuff, he gave no indication.

In the kitchen she went to the stove and stood staring at it stupidly.
“I don’t know how to light the fire.”

Phillip came up behind, reached around her and turned a knob. Flame leapt from a front burner. She gasped, jerked backward,
then laughed nervously. “It’s a gas range with a pilot light, isn’t it?” she said, retrieving the memory. “It startled me.”

He gave her a long, searching look then picked up the kettle Dylan had used earlier to boil water for tea and held it under the faucet.

“Where’s the coffeepot?” she asked. “I thought you wanted coffee.’

Coffeepot
’s over here, sweetheart.” He indicated a white machine with a glass pot that didn’t looking anything like Mama’s old battered black pot. “I thought we could just have some instant right now.”

Instant coffee
. A picture came to mind. Bitter stuff with foam on top. “I prefer hot tea,” she said.

Light flared deep inside Phillip
’s pale, penetrating eyes. Slowly he turned off the faucet. “You remembered your preference for tea,” he said. 

Analise
realized with a start that her memory was important to him too. He was as dubious as Dylan about her loss, as anxious to know how much she recalled.

What did she know—what had
Analise known?—that concerned both these men?

She sank down in one of the chairs, decided not to tell him her memories of
hot tea came from sitting at Mama’s table, drinking tea and talking.

A gray sadness washed over her as she forced herself to face reality. Mama and Papa and Elizabeth had never existed, were just characters she
’d created the way she’d done when she was a little girl and played house with Rachel.

She clenched her hands in her lap, reminded herself sternly that Rache
l was part of the imagined life too. They’d never played with dolls or giggled about the way John Barker’s voice was changing or whispered about her approaching marriage to Blake.

She
’d made it all up.

Because her life
as Analise was so horrible she wanted to forget it? She was divorced from an attractive man who turned her blood to sawdust. She’d never known a divorced woman. Something horrible must have happened to cause Phillip to divorce her.

And somehow she was involved with Dylan. She couldn
’t deny that, though she had no idea of the nature or the extent of that involvement. Somehow he was a part of her life, apparently a secret part…and no matter how much she was drawn to him, that didn’t sound good. The more she learned about Analise, the more unsavory her life seemed. Elizabeth’s life was much more simple and appealing…and seemed much more real.

A loud pounding startled her from her reverie. Dylan, she realized.
Repairing the front door. The door he’d broken down to get to her that morning.

Phillip frowned, compressing his lips in irritation,
but he made no comment as he placed a steaming cup of tea in front of her and sat down across the table. “I’ve been worried about you, Analise. I need to know exactly what happened.” His voice was silky smooth, his expression veiled and expectant.

“
I don’t know.” She sipped her tea, another product of the paper squares. It didn’t taste like Mama’s, but it was palatable. “I woke up at the foot of the stairs early this morning and...didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.”

Phillip questioned her gently, skillfully probing. She
’d been right. Like Dylan, he showed a decided interest in the recent events of her life. She couldn’t answer most of his questions, could only keep repeating
I don’t know
.

S
he wasn’t sure she would have told him even if she could remember. Until she could figure out exactly what the two men wanted to know, why they wanted to know it, she might be wise to keep any returning memories to herself. Their prying irritated and frightened her.

Dylan burst into the room clutching a hammer.

Analise leapt up, shoving her chair back so fast it fell. She tripped over it, stumbled backward, and Dylan caught her, clutched her securely against him.

A brief rush of panic overwhelmed her
, and she grabbed his arms to pry them away. But the adrenaline that surged through her veins seemed to give her a preternatural awareness of every inch of Dylan that touched her—his chest against her back, his hand at her waist, his fingers on her arm. She made no move to get away from him.

He held her
a second too long and eternities too briefly.

“
You okay?” he asked, releasing her. Fortunately he didn’t wait for an answer. She wasn’t sure she could have given one. “I’m finished with the door. It’s not perfect, but it’ll keep the rain out.” He set her chair upright, and she sank into it, her legs shaky. Again she had to ask herself what was wrong with her that she thrilled to this stranger’s touch but cringed from that of a man to whom she’d been married.

“
Thanks.” Phillip spoke to Dylan, but his gaze was on her.

She looked down, lifting her cup to her lips in an effort to hide her face
which might betray her inappropriate feelings.

“
No problem. Can I talk you out of a cup of coffee?”

From the corn
er of her eye, she saw Phillip’s thin lips turn down in a scowl, sensed he was going to refuse. “Of course!” she exclaimed before he had a chance to speak.

Phillip glared at her, but she stood her ground. No matter what year it was, surely good manners hadn
’t changed that much.

Dylan went to the cupboard, took down a cup and poured in the water, then added crystals from a jar.
“Analise tells me you’re a lawyer,” he said, taking a seat at one end of the table.

Phillip
was an attorney. A successful businessman like Blake. A chill shivered through the room, surrounding her as a memory slid around the periphery of her mind, just out of reach.

“
Oh?” Phillip raised one eyebrow at Dylan’s statement. “When did she tell you that?”

Analise
recalled her earlier assumption that Phillip and Dylan knew each other. That didn’t seem to be the case, yet Dylan’s enmity toward Phillip was obvious, and Phillip seemed to be developing the same feeling for Dylan.

“
She told me before the accident and her memory loss,” Dylan answered.

“
How interesting,” Phillip said. “She didn’t tell me anything about you.”

Dylan shrugged, either ignoring or not hearing the challenge in Phillip
’s tone. “Not much to tell. I’m a commercial artist with a firm in Kansas City, and I live next door.”

Phillip nodded.
“Kansas City. So what brings you all the way up here to this little town?”

“
The uncommercial side of my art. I paint as a hobby. The corner bedroom upstairs has perfect light, the house has atmosphere and the town’s quiet. Suits my artistic needs. That’s why I heard Analise scream this morning. I was out on the front porch painting the approaching storm.”

Phillip leaned forward, hands wrapped around his cup.
“You must have moved in recently. That house was vacant when Analise bought this one. As I recall, the owner died intestate. The estate’s been tied up in probate for years.”

Dylan smiled tightly.
“You’re absolutely correct. I’m renting from the court-appointed trustee.”

Analise
averted her eyes from them and focused on the floral pattern on her cup. Was she the reason for the unexplained antagonism between the two men? If Dylan had moved in after Analise, had he moved there to be close to her? Did he feel the same tingle at her touch that she felt at his, the inexplicable, almost-tangible connection between them?

The possibility was getting stronger that she
’d forgotten Analise’s life because she wanted to, because there were elements of that life she didn’t want to remember. But even as the thought crossed her mind, an urgency to know filled her. However distasteful Analise’s life might have been, she had to remember it.

When she
’d walked into the house and stood looking up the stairs, she’d known there was something up there, something important, something her mind had almost grasped before Phillip startled her. She had to get up there and find…she wasn’t sure what, but she had to find out if it was still where she’d hidden it. If it wasn’t there, she’d have to—

“
Analise, what are you doing?” Phillip demanded, and she realized she had risen from the chair and was moving toward the stairs.

She
stopped and looked at him, at Dylan, at the way they watched her every movement. She was trapped—hemmed in by the two of them and locked out of her own mind. She had to get away, be alone with her thoughts and sort through them.

“
I’m very tired. I must ask you to excuse me.” As she said it, she realized she was totally exhausted. The day’s events had depleted her, drained her energy.

Dylan pushed back his chair and stood.
“I’ll be over to check on you in a couple of hours.”

“
There’s no need for that. I’ll be here.” Phillip moved to stand beside her, sliding his arm about her waist, establishing his claim to her, shutting out Dylan.

Dylan nodded curtly, turned on his hee
l and strode from the room. She and Phillip followed him to the front door. Phillip took down the key ring from the hook beside the door where she habitually hung it and locked up behind Dylan. She stared at the closed door, distressed and relieved that her enigmatic neighbor was gone.

“
He seems awfully interested in you,” Phillip observed.

The idea sent a ridiculous thrill through her. But she quelled it, unsure if Dylan
’s interest was personal or something else—unsure whether she should be happy or frightened if it was personal. “He’s been very helpful,” she replied.

Wishing desperately that
Phillip would leave too, she turned and started up the stairs. He followed close behind.

“
I know you never take tub baths because of your water phobia,” he said, “but I think a good, hot soak might be just the thing, relax your sore muscles.”

The breath froze in her lungs at the picture he painted.

She tried to gasp, to breathe, couldn’t. Then, as suddenly as the discomforting sensation had come, it vanished.

How strange. Why would the idea of being in a tub of water terrify her? Of cour
se she took baths in a tub. She and her family weren’t uncivilized folks who went down to the river to bathe.

“
You go change, and I’ll run a bath for you,” Phillip continued when she didn’t protest.

“
All right,” she agreed uneasily. She went on to her bedroom, changed into a robe and returned to the bathroom, still feeling oddly disturbed at the thought of sinking into a few inches of water.

The bathroom
—her mother’s pride, since not everybody had one inside the house—looked much the same except someone had arranged a wall display of things she normally didn’t see on a wall—a paper fan, a shaving brush, a half-open straight-edged razor, a curling iron and some hairpins. Odd as it was, she had to admit that the odd grouping of familiar objects had a certain appeal.

However, Phillip in his business suit looked out of place kneeling on the tile floor in front of the big, claw-footed tub. He glanced up as she approached.
“What the devil is this gadget, and where’s the stopper for your drain?”

She studied the contraption
he indicated—coiled, flexible steel tubing on one side of the faucet leading to a round, flat object pierced with dozens of small holes through which water was streaming.

“
My shower,” she said slowly as the device came clear in her mind. “I had it installed.” Leaning over, she flipped a small lever. “This makes the water come out the faucet instead of the shower. And I don’t have a stopper for the tub, so you can’t fill it with water.” Her assertion surprised her by its intensity, the relief she felt in saying it.

Phillip was right. She didn
’t like to take tub baths. In fact, she intensely disliked them, disliked the suffocating feeling of water around her body even when the water was only a few inches deep.

He stood, straightened his clothes.
“Well, then, I’ll leave you to your shower. I’ll be downstairs if you need me, and I’ll spend the night in the guest room.” At the door he paused and looked at her quizzically. “1 never did understand why you didn’t take the guest room for yourself. It’s bigger, next door to the bath, has a better view.”

Take Mama and Papa
’s room? “But I’ve had the same room since I was born,” she answered automatically then realized what she’d said. Phillip had told her she’d been in this house for only six months. “I mean...” She was too tired to figure out a way to cover her blunder. She bent to turn on the hot water and flip the diverter switch back to
shower
.

After a quick shower, she collapsed gratefully into her own bed. As she drifted off to sleep, she sent up a fervent prayer that she’d wake in the morning to find her world restored, Mama downstairs making breakfast, Papa
alive, reading the newspaper and preparing to go to work.

*~*~*

From far away Elizabeth watched as the woman stirred, her pale hair spreading over the pillow like moonlight. But no moon shone through the clouds. The night was dark.

The woman raised her head slightly, seemed to be listening to something
—perhaps the thunder that rumbled in the distance.

She turned on the lamp beside the bed
and picked up the clock. The hands showed four o’clock. She switched off the light and settled into bed again.

A sound came like a whisper, a sound not of the approaching storm.

She sat upright in bed, eyes wide, head cocked to the side, listening, then slid quietly out of bed, shoving the covers to the floor in her haste.

The noise came a
gain, closer, as if someone was moving up the stairs.

She yanked the lamp cord from the wall socket, tossed aside the shade and clutched the lamp around the midd
le, wielding its cut-crystal base as a makeshift club. Taking a deep breath, she tiptoed through her open bedroom door, down the hallway toward the stairs.

Lightning flashed, and in that instant a shadow move
d on the landing, but darkness immediately reclaimed the house.

Cautiously she made her way down the hall to the
landing then hesitated at the top of the stairs.

A board groaned
behind her. Danger loomed suddenly, real and close.

She swung the lamp up and tried to turn, to defend herself.

Cold, hard hands gripped her bare shoulders. She could feel the pressure on her skin, the steel in the hands that shoved her downward. The lamp slipped from her fingers. She screamed, reached vainly for the rail.

Down and down she tumbled, over and over as her worst nightmare came true, her fear of falling
becoming a reality. But the cold, suffocating blackness she somehow expected didn’t come, and she almost cried with relief when she hit the floor with a painful thud.

Before she could get up, he was there, a dark silhouette bending over her, shoving a pillow over her face. Panic
stricken, she fought him, flailing against him, but he held her down, pressed the softness of the pillow tightly around her nose, her mouth—and the blackness stole her breath.

Then it was over and
she floated upward toward the bright light that waited, beckoning. She turned back for one last look and saw him leaning over her body, feeling for a pulse.