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She turned and walked to her truck, leaving him to vie with his memories—and worries about his future—once more.
Chapter Two
“Dangit,” she muttered, clunking her head a second time under the kitchen sink. She’d tried to tighten the drainpipe for a good half hour and still it leaked like a sieve.
At least the cabin was spotless. The kitchen appliances gleamed, and the bathroom fixtures smelled of Lysol. Even the aged planked floor had a coat of wax. And the mattress in the main bedroom was new—a crucial detail when her mornings began at four.
All she required was for him to buy an elbow seal.
Clambering to her feet, she stretched a twinge from the small of her back. Ten-fifteen. The day nearly half gone and the boxes she’d piled into the Chevy’s bed some seven hours ago with a grousing Jason at her heels remained unpacked.
She swiped her stinging eyes. Her baby bro. Nineteen years they had shared. She’d changed his diapers, sent him to first grade, watched him walk across the stage at his high-school graduation. Ah, Jase. You’ll go places, dear heart.
Through a grove of fir, she caught sight of the sorrel stallion. Soldat D’Anton—Soldier of Old—according to Oliver, the barn cleaner, whom she’d met this morning. The name suited the animal.
For a moment, he stood still, chin held high, pin ears erect, tail winging the breeze. Then he pawed the earth and shook his big head.
“Me-o mi-o, but you are some piece of work, buddy.”
Like his owner. Arrogant, strong-headed and extravagantly stunning.
Movement on the cabin’s path caught her eye. A calico cat, its tail flagpole-straight, strutted in front of a little girl. Five or six, the child clutched her yellow daisy-dotted skirt, swishing it side to side as she walked. Dark curls framed rosy cheeks and bounced on tanned shoulders. Shanna smiled. Lost to her own will-o’-the-wisps, this little one.
Shanna’s smile faded. Where was the girl’s mother?
The doctor’s Cherokee sat parked in the driveway next to the farmhouse. Had he brought the child with him?
She was outside in seconds, walking down the path toward the pair. “Hey, kitty.” Shanna hunkered down, offering a hand to the feline. The animal sniffed her fingertips daintily.
Dropping her skirt, the girl pressed her knuckles together and approached Shanna one cautious step at a time. Through the evergreen boughs above, sunlight sifted gold sugar onto the girl’s curls.
The cat butted its sleek mottled head against Shanna’s knee and purred.
“Her name is Silly.”
As if surprised to see someone else, Shanna looked up. “Silly, hm?”
“Uh-huh.” A small giggle escaped. “It was s’pposed to be Sally. But when I was little I couldn’t say Sally. Isn’t that silly?” More giggles escaped. “Ooh.” She clamped a hand over her mouth.
Shanna’s throat pinched. Her arms ached for the snuggle of a small cuddly body.
“Oh, stop it,” she muttered.
“Are you talking to yourself?” The child edged closer. Her fingers worried her skirt. Silly, purring like a tiny fine-tuned motor, plopped to the grass.
“Actually, I was telling Silly to stop being so noisy because she’ll scare the chickadees off.”
“Chick-a…?”
“Chickadees.” Shanna pointed up to the trees. “See those little birds with black caps on their heads?”
“Nooo…uh-hm.”
“They fly real fast. See, there goes one.”
A breathless little gasp. “Oh!” Round hazel eyes centered on Shanna, then back up to the trees. “Oh…oh, lookit! There’s another!”
“Cute, aren’t they?” Shanna watched the child. An adorable half-toothed grin plumped her freckled cheeks.
“Mmm-hmm.” Curls swung as she nodded and sidled closer. Their knees bumped. Elfin face serious, the child looked at the cat, which stared upward with its tail twitching. “Will Silly catch one?”
“I don’t think so. They’re too quick and smart. They know she’s here.”
Relief swept into the girl’s eyes. “Good. I don’t want the little birdies to die. My mommy and daddy died an’ it wasn’t nice.”
Shanna’s heart stumbled.
Of course. The accident. She’d read about it killing the doctor’s sister and her husband. When had it happened? April? No, March. Mid-March. Over three months ago. A freak accident that had left a child the lone survivor. This child.
The girl’s eyes filled.
“Aw, sweetie.” Shanna tucked the child to her side. Her cheek found soft warm curls smelling of sunshine and lemon shampoo. “Hey,” she said, swallowing back the lump behind her tongue. “I bet your name is Sally. That’s why you got Silly’s name mixed up.”
Another round of giggles. “Nuh-uh. My name’s Jenni.”
Shanna offered a palm. “Well, hello, Jenni. I’m Shanna.”
Little fingers skimmed bigger ones. “You’re pretty.” The half-toothed grin. “Know what?”
“Nope.”
“I’m six.”
Shanna whistled mock surprise. “Whoa, that’s getting old.” Had the birthday been with her parents? Shanna prayed it had.
“Nuh-uh, it’s not.” Jenni hunched a shoulder to her ear, smiling shyly. “Grammy is old. She’s got white hair an’ lots and lots of wrinkles…right here.” Two fingers bracketed her eyes.
Shanna laughed. It felt good. “Is she here with you?”
“No, just Uncle M. He looks after me most. Grammy looks after me when he has to work at the clinic.”
Shanna envisioned Estelle. Kind heart. Soft, plump arms. A nurturer, the way Meredith, Shanna’s mother, had never been.
“Sometimes,” the child went on, “like when Grammy’s in California, I go to the day care.”
“Where’s Uncle M. now?”
Jenni pointed to the house. “Home. It’s Sunday. Sometimes he doesn’t work Sunday. Right now he’s doing ’portant stuff upstairs.”
What stuff kept the doctor too busy to keep an eye on his niece? Shanna looked to where the stallion grazed in the paddock.
He bites.
A shudder chased up her spine. Had the cat headed toward the barnyard, where would that have left Jenni? Crawling through the fence? Walking up to a twelve-hundred-pound beast who gouged out a strip of earth with one slash of his hoof?
Shanna pushed to her feet. “Let’s see if your uncle needs any help.” Or a wake-up call.
“C’mon, Silly,” Jenni sang to the calico. “I’m going back to the house now.”
Curling her little palm around two of Shanna’s fingers, she walked up the path, cat in tow.
“Uncle Michael doesn’t like me bothering him,” Jenni volunteered.
“Did he say so?”
“No.” She took a little skip. “But I know.”
“How?”
“He looks at me a lot.”
“Maybe he thinks you’re cute.”
Jenni shook her head, jiggling her sun-dappled curls. “Uh-uh. He never smiles. And sometimes—” she touched the bridge of her button-nose “—he gets two splits here.”
Shanna understood. Grief accounted for the pain in those gray eyes and that unsmiling mouth. But it didn’t explain Michael Rowan’s apparent disregard for his niece. Not for a second would she have left Jason unattended at this age. Or her darling Timmy, had he lived. Jenni ran ahead and squatted in front of a confusion of marigolds growing along the stone walkway. Someone obviously loved the sunny-faced plants. “This one’s the prettiest,” she said, plucking a fat bloom. “Do you like it?”
“Very much. Want to put it in some water?”
The child shook her head shyly. “In your hair.”
“My hair?” With a self-conscious hand, Shanna pushed a thick chin-length clump behind her ear. “Why?”
“’Cause Octavia wears flowers in her hair. They make her happy.” Jenni tugged Shanna’s hand. “Bend down.” Little fingers whispered like leaves in a breeze at her temple. “Mommy told me Octavia means eight.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Octavia’s my dolly. Her hair’s the same as yours…kinda messy and all over the place. Tavia—that’s what I call her when she’s good—has a bad time combing it. Do you?”
Shanna kept a sober expression. “Sometimes. Especially in the morning after I wake up.”
The little girl stepped back to survey her handiwork. “Tavia doesn’t like getting up.”
Tavia or Jenni? Reverse role playing was common among children experiencing severe trauma. After her mother left, Shanna had done it herself—heaping daily problems on a fictional friend. Hers had been Anne Frank. At school, she’d read the girl’s diary and followed Anne’s resigned, courageous year concealed in a narrow back annex of the now famous house on Amsterdam’s Prinsengracht. Shanna had been Anne’s age when Meredith left.
Anne, Shanna’s partner in austerity in a small notebook.
The calico purred around their ankles. “See, even Silly thinks it’s nice.”
There on the stone walkway, with the smell of a sun-warmed child saturating her senses, Shanna leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Jenni’s brow. “You’re nice.”
The child stiffened.
“What is it, sweetie?”
Jenni’s button lip quivered. “I want to go in now.” Whirling, she scrambled up the steps and fled into the house.
Shanna stared at the door. She should have kept her heart wrapped completely in its cool detached cocoon—the one self-preservation had driven her to create nine years ago. The one she never allowed to chip or splinter for fear of what could happen.
Like now.
Ten minutes and she’d formed a sweet covenant with a sad little girl. One kiss and she’d ruined it. The child hadn’t been ready—and Shanna too anxious. “It’ll serve you right if she never comes near you again,” she muttered.
Heart heavy, she rose. She had to set things right.
But how did one go about trying to explain to a six-year-old that a peck on the head meant nothing more than thank you? That it didn’t mean a stranger wanted to replace her mother?
Michael flung a second stack of Leigh’s jeans into a large cardboard box sitting outside the door of the walk-in closet. A month after the accident, he had removed his brother-in-law’s wardrobe from this same closet, heaped the clothes into his truck and driven to the Lady of Lourdes church.
Easy street compared to this.
This was ugly.
A sacrilege.
And the reason nearly three months had elapsed before he’d dared enter the bedroom a second time.
He hadn’t been able to touch her things. Hadn’t been able to look at them without the ache in his gut doubling him over.
She wasn’t supposed to be dead, his only sibling, his twin. Here is where she belonged. Laughing, her rich voice invading the rooms. Giving Bob those foxy looks—
“But why, Uncle Michael?”
And answering her daughter’s questions about this horrible after-death ritual.
“Uncle Michael?” His niece’s tiny voice quivered.
“I’ve already told you, Jen. She won’t need them any more.”
“Mommy’s never coming back, is she?”
“No. She’s not.”
He glanced out of the walk-in closet. Leigh’s daughter stood near the packing box, clutching her shabby doll to her chest. The large L-shaped bedroom with its pine furniture and its queen bed spanned out behind her. In the toe of the L was a vanity and chair. Soon, he’d eradicate all of it. Brushes, makeup—
“Ever?”
One word, filled with confusion, trepidation and disbelief. In his twelve years at the hospital he’d heard those emotions often, but he recalled the first time best. When he was ten and they’d brought his parents home from Canada, broken and burned and no longer alive. Leigh had asked the same question of their grandmother, in this very room. He’d stood next to his sister, their hands clasped tight, and Katherine had shaken her head and walked out. Leigh had started crying. In his brain, the sound shattered him once more. And once more he felt the cool welcome of loathing what he could not change.
