Startled, I gasped, “A tree?”
He smiled. “The Hawthorn tree is cloaked in legend. Some say it brings evil powers into the home. Some say it’s a gateway to the Otherworld. Some use it to invite spirits in while others use it to keep them out. Still more say that it protects from storms. My favorite is the one that says it brings clarity, patience, and stillness.” He reached for me, his hand finding mine. “You brought those things to my life. You brought clarity and patience, and because of that, I called you Hawthorne.”
My gaze returned to the sky. “The Hawthorn tree,” I whispered. “I like that.” A smile overtook my features. “You know something, Uncle?”
“Hmm …”
“We don’t need forever. You’ve already given me that.”
My words hung between us. I didn’t look at Gregor because I was afraid I’d see the thing I feared most from him; tears. We remained on the ground, our gazes on the sky until the blue began to change, overtaken by pink and purple hues, the clouds graying. The temperatures dropped, the chill too much for my uncle, and he stood carefully. Shooting me a gentle smile, he walked to the house. Sitting up, I gathered the glasses from earlier and followed him in.
Uncle Gregor stacked wood in the living room fireplace while I branched off into the kitchen to fix supper. We ate together in companionable silence, ending the night with a quick game of checkers before heading to bed.
Then I did something I hadn’t done since I was a child. Once my Uncle Gregor was asleep, I climbed into bed with him, lying on my side on the corner of his mattress, my gaze on the wall. This is how I wanted to remember him, the father who’d protected me during bad weather and slayed the demons that haunted my nightmares. The man who’d listened to me cry and patiently decoded my dreams.
His breathing was deep, and I listened to it, the sound lulling me to sleep.
A few hours later, I woke cold and shivering. Climbing quietly from the bed, I snuck out of the room and up the stairs, my bare feet silent on the carpet. My bedroom door creaked as I opened it, my hands grabbing automatically for the cocoa-colored afghan that sat at the end of my bed. Pulling it around my shoulders, I stumbled across the floor to my window seat, my gaze going to the silver-bathed yard beyond.
Heathcliff’s pickup was visible from my perch. It looked black in the dim light, the decay and rust hidden by the night. The dark transformed it, turning it into something beautiful and different.
Beyond the truck, a shadow moved, and I squinted. Cats and raccoons were common visitors at night, but this shadow was longer and broader.
It moved again, and I stood, my knees on the window seat, my eyes wide. The security post in the yard barely threw off any light, but it was bright enough for me to make out the shape of a man.
People didn’t steal things in my small town. It just wasn’t done. At least not at my uncle’s plantation, but there was a first time for everything.
Heart pounding, I pulled the afghan tighter around me, my feet rushing for the stairs. At the bottom, I sped to the front door, my hand finding the knob just as it turned. Soundlessly, I backed away, my eyes wide, my mouth parting as the door swung inward.
A face appeared, a startled gasp whooshing from the intruder. “Hawthorne?”
I yelped. “Heathcliff?”
“Shh,” he hissed, his hand covering my mouth as he pulled the door shut behind him.
I stared. He was still dressed in the same clothes, his shirt from earlier wrinkled and streaked with dirt from the yard. His hair was mussed, dark circles marring his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered.
His gaze met mine, and I saw in his eyes what often shone from mine; grief. He’d spent the afternoon with his Mams, with a woman who hadn’t raised him the same way Gregor had raised me, but who played a major part in his life anyhow.
“I keep remembering what you said this afternoon,” he responded.
I stepped closer. “About making love?”
He exhaled. “No … I mean, yes, but not that exactly.”
“What?”
His gaze searched mine. “The part where you said you needed me.” He stepped forward, our feet meeting in the entryway, foot against foot.
Glancing down at my bare toes and his tennis shoe, I had a déjà vu moment to the first time our feet touched in English class, to the first time I’d wondered about the boy next to me, the one who reminded me of brooding, gothic romance novels.
“Yeah,” I breathed.
He leaned close, his breath feathering the top of my head. “I need you now.”
It’s kind of funny how moments collide. From the first time our feet met in the aisle between our desks to this moment, to our ever touching feet.
Taking his hand, I led him up the stairs.
Chapter 11
“Did you walk here?” I asked, my gaze trailing Heathcliff’s work shirt and jeans. He wore no jacket.