Saving Laurel Springs (9 page)

“And shouldn't I date people? You dated other people. You even got married. You started a new life and a family. Should I just sit here as if time stood still?” She spread her hands in exasperation. “I've dated a lot of people in the last nine years. And, yes, I'm dating Marshall Sutton right now. So what? He asked me out after we ran into each other at a Christmas party and we've been seeing each other now and then since.”

He took a step toward her, his eyes dark. “Are you intimate with him?”

Rhea felt her face flush. “That is none of your business, Carter Layman. Nor is whom I date. You have
nothing
to say about my life in that area, do you hear me?”

He turned to pick up a book from her desk. She watched him flip through the pages, collecting himself. Rhea remembered this diversionary technique all too well.

“I've never liked Marshall Sutton,” he said at last. “I always felt there was something off in him.”

“How ridiculous.” She fumed. “That's only old high school prejudice talking. Marshall was a bit of a nerd then and some of us made fun of him. But he's gone on to become a respectable member of the community. I think he just always exhibited more maturity than the rest of us.”

“Maybe.” Carter turned to study her. “But he isn't right for you. Surely you know that.”

She bristled. “And who do you think is? You—now that you've decided to wander on home since your wife died?”

He walked toward her, angry now. “You've got a mean tongue, Rhea Dean. And you don't know anything at all about my relationship with Judith, how we courted, why we married, how she suffered with ALS and how hard that was on Taylor and me.”

“Well, poor you!” She threw the pillow at him now. “So what should I have done? Stayed your pen pal through all those years? Let you tell me about how much you loved your wife in your letters or how good she was in bed?”

He strode over to the bedside, sat down, and grabbed her arms, bringing his face close to hers. A muscle twitched angrily in his jaw. “One day you'll let me talk with you about all this. So you'll understand.”

“I don't
want
to understand. Do you hear me?” Her voice shook. “I don't want to know about it.” Rhea felt the tears threatening. She put her hand up to push him away, but he caught her hand instead and wrestled it behind her, bringing them even closer.

Rhea heard his breathing escalate and saw his eyes darken just before his mouth descended on hers.

She was caught immediately in the passion and intensity that always raged between them. Rhea's head spun with the impact. His warmth and scent enveloped her. She let him wrap her closer, let his kisses deepen, reveled in the feel of his hands in her hair, on her back, tracing soft patterns down her arms. Why did it have to be Carter who still made her come alive like this? Who made her weak with wanting and dizzy with desire? Whose kisses electrified her senses? Whose fingers brought alive every place on her skin he touched?

Rhea's heart cried even as her blood raced. How could he have left her? How could he have loved and kissed and shared himself with someone else? Hurt her so deeply and married another woman?

Rhea felt Carter's hands slipping under her nightshirt, touching her bare leg above her knee. What was he doing? He feathered breathy kisses over her neck in a way she didn't remember, making her shiver in delight. It registered painfully with Rhea that he'd grown more artful. He'd never done this when they were younger.

Words of passion slipped out of his mouth—tantalizing words—but they sounded unfamiliar, too. Where had he learned these things? Who had taught him all these new moves? They'd learned loving together as children, exploring innocently at first and then with more passion and wonder later. But with all their explorations, they'd never made love. It wasn't right—and they had never gone there. Instinctively Rhea knew where Carter headed now. And they had not learned this game together. Carter had learned this with Judith.

She stiffened. And began to push and pull away.

“No, Carter. No.” She struggled under him.

“Oh, Rhea.” His words were husky and raw. “Don't push me away. It's been so long. I have missed you so much, been so lonely for you.”

She pushed his face away from hers and glared at him. “You had Judith. You haven't been lonely. You've had no need to lie alone at night.”

His dark eyes looked down into hers, and he smiled one of his slow, sensual smiles at her. “Judith said it was your name I called out the first time.”

Furious now, she pushed Carter off onto the floor. “How dare you tell me something like that? How dare you!” She slid out of the bed and stomped around to kick him as he started to get up. “Did you think it would please me to hear that? Well, it doesn't, do you hear? It makes me feel sick and angry.”

Carter's eyes were heated now, too. “Watch yourself, Rhea Dean. You're always so quick to judge without knowing all the facts. It's not one of your nicer traits.”

“And it's not one of your nicer traits to climb up into my window and to try to seduce me with all your newfound skills learned with another woman. Don't you have any shame? Have your lost your morals? Don't you have any respect for me anymore—when you claim to still care so much about me?”

Surprise touched his face as he stood up to face her. “You haven't been with anyone else,” he said at last, slowly shaking his head.

A gradual, smug smile spread over his face. “I just assumed you would have after all this time. . . .”

She kicked out at him again. “Get out of my bedroom, Carter Reagan Layman. I'm sick of you and all of your games, do you hear? And I wish you'd never come back! You're turning my life upside down and making my days a wreck. I hate you!”

Carter threaded his hands through his hair, his eyes studying her thoughtfully. “It will all come right, Rhea. You'll see.”

She shook her head, tears threatening somewhere deep inside.

He reached out a hand to brush back a wisp of hair from her face, but Rhea backed away from him as his hand lingered on her face.

“Go home,” she said between clenched teeth.

He nodded and started toward the window. “I didn't mean to come on too strong or to disrespect you. But feelings have always escalated so fast between us. They tend to override my reason.”

She stood there, hugging her arms tightly around herself, not wanting to hear his words or to make a response. He was right that passion had always escalated between them rapidly like fireworks, consuming them and wrapping them in a whirlwind of feelings. Spiraling them into a wonder of sensory ecstasy.

Her heart wrenched inside her. Had it been the same for him with Judith, she wondered? She wanted to weep as the thoughts came to her. Thoughts she could never put into words or ask. But thoughts that tormented her.

“There has never been anything like the wonder of you,” Carter whispered to her before he opened the window to climb out.

She glared at him, hating how he'd always been able to pick up on her thoughts. Even after all this time, he still knew her all too well.

He dropped out of sight onto the roof, but his voice called out softly from below the window. “See ya later—and love you forever, Rhea Dean.”

Rhea slammed down the window on his words and then crawled into her bed to finally weep with outrage.

CHAPTER 8

C
arter heard Rhea slam the window as he climbed from the roof into the branches of the oak tree growing beside the Dean house. Dropping to the ground, he followed the well-worn path through the back property, skirting under the trees out of sight of the house until he met the Deans' drive. After walking a short distance down Dean Road, he turned right on an old settlers' road, following it through the woods to a pathway angling left beside an old fence line.

Usually he turned at this point to follow the grassy, rutted lane below Low Ridge that led over to the Layman farm. But tonight he hesitated. He checked his watch. He'd tucked Taylor and Beau in bed, both worn out, before he left for Rhea's. He could take time to climb up Low Ridge to the old Costner ruins—and he wanted more time alone to think.

A full moon helped light his way, and Carter quickly found the crumbling stone walls and big rock chimney of the old Costner house, built long ago by early settlers to the mountains. Smiling at the familiar sight, Carter climbed over the foundation to the chimney. He sat down on the old hearth, leaned his back against the chimney, and savored his recent memories of being with Rhea.

He lifted his shirttail against his face. The scent of her still lingered—that citrusy, sweet smell unique to her. Even after his walk, the excitement from being with her still stirred his body. No one had ever affected him as Rhea Dean.

After they'd fallen in love, they used to sit here, at the Costner cabin ruins or higher on Rocky Knob, and plan their future. Carter wondered if he still had a chance to make those dreams come true. He wasn't sure.

Rhea held just cause not to want him back. But she hadn't married through the years. Carter learned tonight she'd not been with anyone in intimacy since he left either. He grinned in the dark. She hated the fact she'd revealed this piece of information to him.

Carter shifted against the fireplace to kick a pinecone into the night in irritation. That dang, stubborn pride of hers always reared up. He shook his head. He'd have his work cut out for him getting past that.

Behind him, Carter heard an unexpected noise. He sat up—alert, listening. It might just be a raccoon or night creature scurrying in the brush. But an uncomfortable premonition caused him to stand, trying to see more clearly in the darkness around him. All the talk of vandals probably made him prickly.

Suddenly, he felt a presence behind him. Before he could turn, a hard blow whacked the back of his head, dropping him to his knees. As searing pain lanced through his consciousness, Carter struggled to lift his head. He glimpsed the dark shape of a man retreating into the night shadows just before darkness enveloped him.

A short time later, he surfaced to find Jinx, his Airedale mix, licking his face and barking out a happy greeting. He tried to focus his thoughts. Where had the dog come from? Carter felt momentarily confused as he felt the rough ground beneath his head and wondered where he was. Then he remembered being hit from behind. He must have passed out.

Carter reached out a hand to pet the dog and then saw his father and grandfather climbing over the rock wall toward him.

“Are you all right, Son?” his father asked with concern, squatting beside him.

Carter struggled to sit up. “I think so. Someone hit me from behind.”

Wes Layman examined the back of his head. “That's a right nasty blow. Looks like you got hit with a good-sized stick or something. Who did this?”

He shook his head, feeling a little dizzy when he did. “I don't know. Whoever it was sneaked up on me. I only saw a shadow of the person retreating before I fell.”

“Well, here's the weapon.” Grampa Layman brought a thick stick over for them to examine. A little blood still decorated the side of it.

Wes held a finger in front of Carter and began to move it back and forth. “Can you follow this, Carter?”

Carter nodded.

Grampa chimed in. “What's your full name, your date of birth, and where you went to school?”

Carter grinned, knowing they were checking him for signs of concussion. “Name's Carter Reagan Layman, born April 6, father Wesley Dodd Layman, mother Mary Jane Reagan Layman. I went to Smoky Mountain Elementary School, Cosby High School, and Cogswell Polytechnical College in Sunnyvale, California. Majored in Game Design and Development.”

Grampa punched Carter's arm, pleased with his response. “Just checking, boy. Just checking.”

Carter, who'd been knocked out in childhood antics and in high school football, knew how potentially dangerous a hit to the head could be.

“How long were you out?” Carter's father studied him with concern.

Carter tried to remember. “I don't think long. And I don't have any nausea or amnesia. How bad's the bump?”

“You'll have a nasty goose egg there for a day or two.” He parted Carter's hair, studying it. “But there's not much blood or breaking of the skin.” He moved around to look at Carter. “Think your Grampa and I can help you stand?”

Grampa scratched his head. “It's a mighty long walk home, Wes.”

Carter looked up in surprise. “Did the two of you walk in?”

“Yeah.” His father grinned. “Followed the dog as best we could. He set up to howling and scratching at the back door a while ago. Taylor woke up and told us Jinx always did that when something happened to anyone in the family. The boy insisted we let the dog out and told us to follow him. He was real scared when he learned you were out of the house. Cried to come with us.”

Carter ruffled the big dog's ears again. “Well, aren't you the fine hero tonight, Jinx?”

The dog woofed softly and pushed his head affectionately against Carter's chest.

Carter frowned, thinking of his son and remembering his father's words. “Taylor's afraid something might happen to me like it did to his mother, Dad. He has nightmares of me dying sometimes.”

“Poor kid.” Wes shook his head.

Carter rummaged in his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Call Mama and let Taylor and her know I'm all right. Beau, too; he's spending the night and probably worrying right along with Taylor.”

Grampa put a hand on Wes's arm. “Ask Mary Jane to drive the car over here to bring Carter home. It's too far for him to walk.”

“I can walk.” Carter tried to stand but found himself surprisingly unstable on his feet.

Grampa watched him. “See? And tell Mary Jane to call Ellie to come over to check Carter out.”

Carter put a hand against the rock chimney to support himself. “Ahhh, Dad. Don't make Aunt Ellie get out this late. I'm okay. I just need a minute.”

“It's only ten at night.” Wes looked at his watch. “She and Rice will still be up.” He put an arm out to support Carter. “It's either call Ellie and let her check you, since she's a registered nurse, or your Grampa and I will have to haul you into the hospital emergency room in Newport.”

Knowing this was an argument he couldn't win, Carter acceded. Ellie, his mother's sister, and her husband, Rice, lived nearby in Cosby. They weren't traveling with the Gabes Mountain Band this weekend, and they wouldn't mind coming. Also, Carter knew it would frighten Taylor if he went to the hospital for anything.

He rubbed a hand over his head while his dad made the call. “She's on her way,” Wes said.

Carter looked through the darkness at the rocky, unpaved roadway leading up to the Costner ruins. “Well, at least we can walk down to meet them at the paved road. It's hard to drive up this rutted settler's trail.”

With his father's and Grampa's support, they started toward the road.

An hour later, Carter lay in the twin bed in his old childhood bedroom, an entourage of his family hovering nearby.

“I think the boy's going to be all right,” his Aunt Ellie pronounced, closing a battered black medical bag she'd brought with her that once belonged to her father. Ellie frequently tended to the mountain people in the area who sometimes couldn't afford—or simply feared—the doctor. Her father had done it in his generation, and Ellie did it in hers.

Taylor turned anxious eyes toward Ellie. “Is Dad
really
going to be okay?”

Ellie tousled the boy's hair. “Sure thing, Taylor. Your dad's seen a lot worse blows than this one in his lifetime. He just got the back of his head bruised and needs to rest.” She took the ice pack off Carter's head and handed it to Taylor. “Why don't you go downstairs and put some fresh ice in this for your dad? Think you could do that?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Taylor jumped up, pleased to have something to do for his father.

When his footsteps receded down the stairs, Ellie looked at Carter.

“You've got a right smart bruise on the top of your head, Carter. You did black out briefly and you experienced some difficulty with balance—so you could have sustained a mild concussion. Mostly for Taylor's sake, I'm not going to send you to the hospital to be more thoroughly examined. But I'll be wanting someone to wake you up every couple of hours to check to see if everything's all right through the night.”

She looked at Wes, Mary Jane, and Grampa Layman. “Could you three take shifts coming in here to check on him?”

They agreed, and, after mumbling his complaints, Carter concurred, as well. He knew Taylor would get unnecessarily upset if he went to the hospital. The last time Judith went in, she didn't come back.

Ellie checked the bruise on Carter's head a last time. “Put ice on this to keep the swelling down. Do it for about twenty minutes every hour until you fall asleep and again at the wake-ups in the night.”

She picked up her medical bag. “I've cleaned the skin breaks, and no wood debris from the stick is in the wound now.” She patted Carter's shoulder. “You be a good boy, stay in bed to rest tomorrow, drink plenty of fluids, and take Tylenol if you have headache or pain.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You're lucky this wasn't worse—that he didn't whack you on a more vulnerable part of your head.”

Ellie turned to her sister. “Is the sheriff still here, Mary Jane?”

Carter's mother bit her lip. “No, he got all the information he needed from Carter earlier. Now, he's gone over to the Costner ruins to see if he can find any traces of who attacked Carter—footprints, scraps of clothing, or anything else.”

“Well, good.” Ellie frowned. “It's one thing to have a little vandalism around Laurel Springs, but it's quite another when people start being attacked. I don't like that.”

Carter fingered his head. “I think I simply surprised him and he panicked. He probably didn't expect to see anyone at the old cabin ruins at night.”

Mary Jane put her hands on her hips. “And what in the world do you suppose he was doing up there anyway? There's nothing but old rocks and a chimney at the end of that old woods lane.”

Wes looked thoughtful. “Maybe he was only passing by the place on his way to someplace else. The old ridge path runs by there.”

Grampa sat down on a chair near Carter's bed. “Still, it's not a good thing to know there's someone hanging around Laurel Springs who would hurt someone like he did Carter. If God hadn't been gracious, he could have been seriously injured.”

“Yes, God was taking care of him.” Carter's mother put a hand over her heart.

Carter made no comment. There hadn't been much of God in his life through the years in California.

Later in the night, he realized this fact even more as he heard the sounds of his Grampa praying by his bed.

“What are you doing here, Grampa?” Carter asked into the darkness.

His Grampa chuckled. “What does it sound like I'm doing, boy? Praying for you before it's my shift to wake you up and see if all's well.”

Carter felt uncomfortable. “Well, I'm okay.”

“Your head's okay.” He handed Carter a fresh ice pack to hold on the bruise. “But your heart's not okay.”

Carter frowned at him. “Are you going to preach at me, Grampa? Seems like you ought to save up your preaching for tomorrow morning's church service.”

“I've got plenty to spare.” His Grampa chuckled.

Carter took a drink of water from the glass on the bedside table and situated the ice pack on the right side of his head. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough,” Grampa Layman said, leaning back in the plaid bedroom chair. “Certainly long enough to see that things aren't well with your soul.”

Carter closed his eyes. He was in for it now. Grampa possessed a strong gift for discerning the hearts of people—and evidently the Lord had shared a revealing talk with Preacher Layman during his prayer vigil.

“I don't suppose we can avoid this talk?” He shifted the ice pack on his head slightly.

Grampa shook his head. “No. I'm accountable to give you what the Lord gave me.”

Carter looked around the familiar room, waiting. In the moonlight filtering through the window, he could see the rough beamed ceiling, the old fireplace, the familiar hunter plaid bedspreads, the car prints on the walls, and the shelf full of sports trophies and model cars he'd assembled and painted as a boy.

“You used to pray a lot in this room,” Grampa said, seeming to follow his eyes around the room.

“Those were innocent days.” Carter sighed.

“And now you don't feel worthy to pray.” Grampa's words were soft. “You're having a hard time forgiving yourself for your mistakes. And you're mighty angry at God.”

Carter made no comment.

“Oftentimes we go off on our own, make our mistakes, bear our consequences, and then get ourselves annoyed with God for the way things turn out. We pull away from the Lord and then seem surprised when things don't get much better.”