Sparked (4 page)

But Cora didn’t want to hear what he was going to say next. That she shouldn’t get her hopes up? That he could never date a woman like her? That she didn’t know what she was doing? That she didn’t deserve his kiss? 

She didn’t want to hear it and she definitely didn’t want the moment to stop. And so she kissed him.

He returned her kiss with fervor, parting her lips this time, delving into her with his tongue. He tasted like oranges and woodland rain. Cora sighed against his mouth, closed her eyes to savor the taste of him. The feel. The feel of electricity shimmering across her skin.

He pulled away, his heaving chest a match for her own. 

“Please,” he begged, his strong hand curving around her cheek, his eyes locked on hers. “Tell me. I have to know your name.”

It took a moment for his words to register. Took a moment for the cloud of desire to clear long enough to understand. 

It hadn’t been boldness or kindness.

He hadn’t recognized her. He didn’t know.

In that instant, everything she had been feeling vanished. The satisfaction, the warmth—all disappeared. 

Cora’s heart twisted in her throat. She didn’t know what to do, how to answer. What could she say now? What could she possibly say?

While she was stuck there, trying to speak, the light shifted. 

Cora heard a giggle, then a guffaw. Their privacy had been invaded. Moonlight silhouetted the bodies of five people. 

She moved to dart out of his embrace, but his grip on her only grew tighter as he turned to look at the group.

“Jeez-Louise, Clay,” a voice drawled. It was female, high pitched but thick with alcohol. “How drunk
are
you? You’re kissing a Murphy.” 

A gale of laughter burst from the group. 

Clayton pulled away from her, his brow curled in confusion.

She had been so stupid. So absolutely stupid.

She knew better than to hope. Hope was a territory for fools. 

Cora ran.

CHAPTER FOUR

Clayton

Clayton hadn’t wanted to stop kissing her. If it was up to him, the kiss would have been longer—much longer, the whole night. Her mouth tasted so sweet. It was nothing like any other kiss he’d ever had, and even now he longed for more of it. Her body had been so lush, so willing.

Most women he dated seemed to want to play games—they were quick to dangle their affection in front of him like a carrot, but careful never to reveal where they were really leading him. Was it toward their heart? There was no shame in vying for someone’s heart, so why hide your intentions? He suspected it was toward his wallet. 

But she had seemed so different. She gave in to the moment with him, let herself stretch toward it the way he had. He could feel it in the whole essence of her. He could feel the spark of electricity between them. 

It felt like he could read every thought that flitted across her lovely face—and that openness had drawn him in, made him want to return it with his own honesty, his own affection.

Had it all been a lie? Could this woman really be a Murphy? 

Just as he was about to ask her, she ran. Instinctively, he reached to check for his wallet. But it was still there.

“Cora Murphy,” Violet giggled. “Surely you can do better than that, Clay?” Violet had a sharp tongue, but he had never known her to be a liar. She was Clayton’s ex-girlfriend—usually smart, but alcohol made her silly and cruel. He guessed that was exactly why his friend Frank was handing her his flask right now.

Cora Murphy. The name rang a bell. He’d gone to school with a Murphy girl for a while. If someone had asked ten minutes ago, he was sure he wouldn’t have remembered her name. But Cora sounded right. She’d been so much younger that they had never crossed paths. And so quiet and shy he’d barely noticed her. Other than the fact that she was a Murphy, there was nothing
to
notice. Surely this woman wasn’t her? Surely a person couldn’t change so drastically in just four years? 

But what other explanation could there be?

God, he’d been an idiot. No wonder she’d resisted him so much. 

And what would his father say? He’d been parading around with the descendant of someone who had killed a Briggs. And worse, he had taken her across Lover’s Bridge. His father would surely see this as yet another foolish mistake by the family failure.

“Cora Murphy,” Frank said, taking the flask back from Violet. Frank was the kind of guy who invited himself more than he got invited, but was generally nice enough. “You’re never gonna live this one down, pal.”

“Quiet,” Clayton snapped.

He looked to where Cora had run—darting through the trees, heading toward shore. The sight of her back made him want to slap the flask out of Frank’s hand. He needed to apologize.

Clayton ran, trying to catch up with Cora who was well ahead of him by now. “Cora!” he yelled. “Cora, wait!”

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even turn to look at him. She was going so fast that her hair flowed wild behind her.

Then he saw something else. 

Something strange.

He stopped.

A vivid purple fog curled toward them both, swallowing Cora into its depths—enveloping her so fully that it was like she had never been there at all.

He stood still for a moment, confused. What was that? He’d never seen anything like it before. It was thick and dark and creeping closer and closer to him. He wasn’t sure if he should follow her into it or run in the opposite direction.

From afar, he heard a moan and a thud. 

“Cora?” he called, racing toward where he had seen her disappear. “Cora?”

But there was no answer. What if she had fallen? What if he had caused that poor girl to hurt herself?

“Where are you? Please, Cora. Just answer that you’re okay?”

But there was no sound now. No people or wind tickling the leaves. Even the sound of the crickets had ceased. Just an eerie silence as the fog crept closer—coiling in dark purple swirls that reached for him like fingers through the darkness.

Panic clutched his chest. She was in there somewhere. Maybe lost and hurt in that strange fog. He had convinced her—practically twisted her arm to come with him here. This was all his fault.

There was no other choice but to find her.

He ventured into the cloud.

Immediately his vision disappeared. He held his hands out in front of him to feel his way through. 

The fog smelled terrible—sulfuric and sharp as rotting cheese. He coughed as it entered his lungs, feeling the sting of it instantly—even sharper than the smell.

This was bad. This was a mistake.

He had to get out of this. He had to get Cora out too.

Cora moaned again. And again, panic clutched his heart. He had to save her. Had to get her out of here.

He willed himself forward but everything was wrong. 

He felt two things almost at once.

First, he felt himself retch. His body violently rejected the air in his lungs and everything that had been inside his stomach came out in a sickening heave. 

Second, he felt his consciousness fading. He was aware of it as he staggered forward, his limbs growing heavier, his thoughts growing thicker, everything in his vision warping and hazing around the edges.

He managed one step, then two, then his body simply would not move another step. 

There was no more fighting it.

His face smacked against the soft moss of the forest floor. 

“Cora,” he said, as everything went dark.

When Clayton’s eyes opened again, it wasn’t to the darkness of the forest. It was to a blinding white light. Everything around him seemed to glow. He was warm—too warm. Covered in something, but slick with sweat. What was that sticking to his skin—his clothes? A blanket? It felt as heavy as wool and twice as thick. He tried to move the offending cover off of him, but found he couldn’t lift his arm. Pain shot through his body at the smallest effort.

There was a din. Random noises he had to fight to make out. In the distance, he thought he heard people moan, cough, but he couldn’t see anything. It was too bright. Someone groaned in pain. Clayton was suddenly aware of how his own body ached too. More than ached, it screamed. Every part of him felt stretched and battered and on fire. It hurt to breathe, to be.

He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the brightness. He was in a bed. No, not a bed. It wasn’t nearly soft enough to be a bed. It was a cot. And there was a white curtain around it, sectioning him off from the sounds beyond. Was this a hospital? There wasn’t more than a clinic for a hundred miles.

Despite the pain, a part of him relaxed. He was alive. Everything hurt, but he was alive.

Then the sinking realization hit him. What about Cora? Had she survived?

There was a movement to his right. People. Doctors. Clayton heard their voices as though through a fuzzy radio.

“And he’s up to date on all his vaccinations?”

“Yes. Diphtheria, tetanus, pertussis, smallpox. He’s also a part of Salk’s polio vaccine trial along with everyone else in town. Gave it to him myself last week.” 

Clayton knew that voice. It was Dr. Henry Porter. He was new at his job—the grandson of the town’s longtime, soon-to-retire physician, Dr. Pinkerton—but Henry had always struck Clayton as particularly intelligent and particularly kind.

“Good. Then we can rule those out initially,” the other voice said. This one he couldn’t place. He was fairly certain he hadn’t heard it before. “You’ve made an excellent start here, doctor. Both you and your grandfather. I think it’s given the rest of them a fighting chance.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dr. Porter said. “And we’re more than grateful for your assistance. I just hope—” 

“We all do, son. We all do. Now let’s put our heads together and see what we can make of these symptoms.”

There was a flutter. A flash of white. A woman’s voice.

“We couldn’t revive her, sir.”

Couldn’t revive her? Did that mean?

Who had they lost?

Cora.

What had happened to Cora?

The voices continued, but he couldn’t make them out. There was a ringing in his ears and it felt like he was under water—so far away from the voices.

The curtain to his left fluttered, and he saw her—Cora—lying there. She looked so pale, so weak. Was she even breathing?

Please, God. Please.

Seeing her that way was unbearable. Why did the sight of her hurt so much? Then the curtain dropped back into place, and he couldn’t see her at all. That was worse, so much worse. 

He had to help her, had to touch her, had to know.

“Cora,” he said, and managed to sweep the sheet away from his chest. “Cora, Cora.”

“Nurse?” he heard the unfamiliar voice say. “We need more anesthetic here.”

Then there were hands holding him down, and a needle in his arm, and once again, the room went dark.

CHAPTER FIVE

Cora

Bright blue eyes stared down at Cora. They were so similar to her own that for a moment she thought she was looking in a mirror. But as she focused she realized she was staring into Bethany’s eyes.

“Cora! Oh Cora!” Bethany said, then shouted behind her. “She’s awake! Doctor? She’s awake.”

Cora lifted herself onto her elbows. She was in a hospital, from the looks of it. She’d never been in a hospital before, but this was about how she imagined they would be. Sunlight shone through a window above her head. A white curtain surrounded her so that she couldn’t see anything but the small area beyond her cot. 

It was disorienting. The last thing Cora remembered was racing through the forest. But why? Oh yes. She had kissed Clayton Briggs. And then … well … she hadn’t been kissing him anymore. It had all been a mistake. Shame flooded her as though it was happening all over again. She’d been so foolish. 

And now this? How had she gotten from there to here? She hadn’t made a fool of herself again, had she?

“What’s going on? What happened?”

“You’ve been ill, sissy. So ill. We weren’t sure if you’d—but you did, and that’s what matters. The doctors think you’ll make a full recovery,” Bethany said, and threw her arms around Cora. “I was so scared.”

Cora sat up into her sister’s hug. Ill? She didn’t feel ill at all. A little stiff, maybe a little fuzzy, but she wasn’t in pain. She felt like she’d woken from a long, restful nap—one of those rare times when she’d been able to sleep a little too much and was foggier because of it.

“How did I get here?” Cora asked.

“It was such an ordeal. You wouldn’t believe. First they took care of everyone on the beach, but then we noticed people missing. I didn’t know where you were. And then someone said they’d seen you cross Lover’s Bridge with Clayton Briggs. That’s when they thought to check the island. Did you really cross Lover’s Bridge with Clayton Briggs?”

“I—yes. But I still don’t understand,” Cora said. “I remember being on the island last night, but—”

“It wasn’t last night. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

“No. Tell me I wasn’t. It can’t have been three days. What about Mrs. Felder’s mending? And I’ve a cake due to Mrs. Stewart tonight. I have to get home.”

Cora tried to stand, but Bethany stopped her.

“Don’t move. Please. Mrs. Felder and Mrs. Stewart will understand, I promise. The fog made all of us at the festival sick.”

The fog. Cora remembered it now, how strange it was, how oddly colored. Like an entire field of violets had shed their petals into the wind. She had thought at first that it was something from the festival—some leftover firework smoke drifting its way toward her. Then she had tasted it, and known to run the other way. She didn’t remember turning around, though. She didn’t remember anything until this very moment.

“Most of us recovered pretty fast. But some people got extra sick. Like you and Butch,” Bethany said. “The whole town knows about it. We’ve all been praying for you.”