The In-Between Hour by Barbara Claypole White

Author:Barbara Claypole White
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2013-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Three

Thrashing through a tangle of nightmares and erotic fantasies had left Hannah’s mind raw and her eyes rheumy.

She paused by the hall mirror, squinting at the latticework of crow’s-feet under her left eye and the gray hairs that had begun infesting her scalp. She flattened her palms across her cheeks and lifted, raising her skin upward by ten years. It made no difference. This tired, aging woman was not someone Will Shepard would find attractive.

And yet he had invaded her sleep unremittingly. She hadn’t recognized him until he’d turned to appraise her with those eyes—cold, distant, familiar. Eyes she remembered but could not recognize. Then he was behind her, his hands sliding up her ribs to tease her breasts, his voice on her neck, whispering, “Make love to me.”

Such dreams didn’t belong juxtaposed against those of Galen stumbling through a black forest, Galen being chased by a pack of baying hell hounds, Galen sinking to the bottom of an icy lake.

At one point in the night, camisole and boxers soaked through from sweat, she’d roamed the house, turning on lights, trying to ground herself in the mundane. Even awake, fear had pelted her.

Then she woke at 3:00 a.m., the hour of hauntings, with her heart pounding like a jackhammer. Pure evil had sauntered out of her subconscious to hover in her bedroom doorway, watching, waiting, barring her escape. For a moment, she had thought Galen was screaming—a distorted scream like a manufactured Hollywood sound shot through a wind tunnel. But when she’d tiptoed upstairs to check on him, he was lost in peaceful slumber.

Why was her mind torturing her now, when Galen was beginning to heal? Even though he had been unwilling to engage in a conversation about his grandfather, Galen had repeated, several times, that he felt wonderful, the surprise on his face suggesting he believed his words to be true.

Hannah walked out into the afternoon heat. On the porch, her pumpkin had begun to rot. She’d carved it too early, hoping Galen might find his festive spirit and join in. He hadn’t. And now the pumpkin was turning black and collapsing in on itself. Its shrunken, toothless mouth sneered.

The October sun burned the back of her neck, hitting the spot Will had kissed in her dreams. Crispy leaves sprinkled to the dead grass where he was sitting, cross-legged, watching a box turtle lumber toward the shade of her redbud tree. He was surrounded by what appeared to be climbing gear: a thick, coiled rope, an assortment of metal clips and pulleys and something that had to be a harness but looked more like a huge, nylon diaper. Safety equipment, in other words, for a life-threatening activity.

Hannah approached him and stopped, arms folded. “You are not, I repeat not, taking my son rock climbing.”

Will tilted his face to glance up at her, then glanced down at his lap. If he smiled, her resolve would unravel.

Hold on to your anger, Hannah. He’s just a guy with a sexy smile.

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