The hollowness was growing inside her. At times she looked down, expecting to see a round circle of emptiness where her stomach should be. A gashing wound where her heart was. Time healed all wounds was the saying. That saying was a lie. Time made the wounds deepen; it made them grow. It was her enemy and it was winning the battle against her soul. Time was ruining her, dissolving her, destroying her. It was all she had and everything she hated. Time mocked her in vivid detail of that final moment.
The time it had taken for the car to crash, time as it had slowed down and sped up; the last minutes she’d had with him, the seconds his eyes had filled with anguish and disbelief and the seconds it had taken for the light to fade from them. The hours she’d sat in the hospital, hoping and praying and hating herself. The days and months she’d had to exist without him. It was all about time. And it was killing her.
Sara clutched the phone to her chest, her first impulse to call Lincoln and confess everything. Instead she set the phone down, grabbed keys off the hook by the door, and braced herself against the cold and snow as she walked to the short driveway. The icy wind snapped at her, his worn sweatshirt not enough to keep her warm against the frigid air. White, fluffy snow seeped through the soles of her old shoes, making her toes stiff and her feet uncomfortably wet.
She tried not to think about what she was doing or where she was going. Sara sat in the car, shivering as she started it up. Her breath was visible in puffs of misty air as she inhaled and exhaled. She drove down the street, taking a left and heading out of town. Five miles outside of Boscobel, she parked the car and turned it off. Her eyes swept over the snow-covered scene. It looked different. Everything did now. Nothing was as beautiful. Nothing was as peaceful. The haze of pain covering her eyes had darkened the world to her. The trees were tall and spindly, their leaves gone. It saddened Sara, seeing them in their dilapidated state. It was as though they wept for him too; they cried as Sara cried; each lost leaf, a teardrop for him. She sucked in a sharp breath, her body trembling.
Sara got out of the car and stood there, envisioning him the second time she’d seen him. He’d stood just a few steps to the right from where she now stood. Sara could feel his warmth; she could smell his scent of coffee and cherry Carmex, and man. She could feel the sunshine beat down on her as it had that day, masking the bitter cold of the present.
She’d been walking, careful to stay near the road and out of the woods. Part of her had wondered if the mysterious man would be there again. Part of her had been excited by the thought, especially when she’d thought of that smile of his.
His back had been to her, broad and muscular through the long-sleeved red Henley shirt he’d worn; his faded jeans tight against his defined backside and legs. His physique had made her mouth go dry, especially watching his muscles clench and bunch as he worked. He had a chainsaw in his hands, the engine loud and grating to her eardrums as he’d cut fallen tree limbs in half.
She walked past, eyes on him the whole time. Sara had known the exact moment he’d sensed her. The engine had abruptly cut off and a deep, raspy voice had called out, “Aren’t you worried about serial killers with chainsaw fetishes?”
Her heartbeat had picked up as well as her breathing. Sara had spun around, blinking at the sight of him. His tall body had lounged against the back of a blue Dodge Ram, one elbow on the tailgate. His eyes had been hidden below the bill of a dirty white baseball cap, but she’d known they were watching her raptly. Sara had felt them on her, going up and down the length of her, searing in their intensity. He stripped away her clothes with that look, visualized himself and her naked together, writhing on a bed, or maybe against the wall, intertwined. She’d known it and it hadn’t bothered her one bit.
“Wrong state,” she called back.
He tipped his head back and laughed. “I think you’ve watched too many horror movies,” he drawled, removing his cap to wipe a hand across his forehead before tugging it back down in place. In that brief moment he’d been hatless; his electric blue eyes had zapped her, her body unconsciously jerking in response.
“Maybe,” Sara had said, slowly moving toward him. She’d been scared. She’d been scared and it had had nothing to do with serial killers. Sara had been scared because she’d never been so instantly attracted to any man before.
“So…Sara…Cunningham, is it?” She nodded. “Miss Cunningham, I do believe you are a thrill seeker.”
“You think so?”
“I do.” He straightened as she drew nearer, naturally looming over her at his height of somewhere around six feet tall. “Why else would you have shown up here a second time?”
“I like the scenery?”
His lips had formed into a slow smile and her stomach had dipped at the facial transformation from sharply angled features to rugged handsomeness. “Which scenery?”
Oh boy, she thought, I’m in trouble.
“I think I should take you out,” he said before she had a chance to form a reply.
“Take me out where?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. She had been almost to him, close enough to know the top of her head might have reached his chest if she were to test it out.