His eyes shone with an earnest light, an intense desire for me to understand. “There’s no life without its share of pain. This whole past winter I thought on it, on the reasons a soul would return for another life, knowing ahead of time that life means suffering, no exceptions. But then I realized it’s not for pain that souls return. It’s for love. Maybe…” He paused to inhale a soft breath. “Maybe it’s because this is the only place where love is fully felt. Where love exists in its truest form, as something you would risk everything for, even the loss of it. And that’s why souls keep on coming back. And you know what? It’s worth it. In the end, I believe it’s worth it.”
Malcolm carried me to the wide rocking chair near the stove, so we could sit together more comfortably; for a long time he kept the rocker at a slow, steady pace while I sat with both knees drawn up, my head on his chest until I could breathe without crying. Our hands stayed linked, resting upon my belly. Since this morning, neither of us had mentioned the possibility of a baby nine months from now. Eyes closed, inundated by Malcolm’s words and presence, I silently vowed, I’ll name him for you.
Chapter Thirty-Two
THE WINDOWS SHOULD HAVE SHATTERED WITH THE FORCE of my wailing shrieks but the sound snagged on my damaged lungs. Wide-eyed with horror, nude and flat on my stomach, I was able only to watch as Fallon’s gunshot sent Marshall flying backward. Not a second later Fallon’s body lost substance, fading to misty nothingness, and I scrabbled toward it, fingers like claws, hissing with the furious need to destroy. Desperate huffs of air burst from my lips as I grabbed for Fallon’s boot. I thought I had him but my hands fisted around empty air…
And – minutes later, maybe more, I had no sense of time – my eyes opened upon a bright, silent, vacant space. No distinguishing characteristics to offer a clue, no hint as to where I was or how I’d come to be here. Precious seconds ticked past as I attempted to collect my bearings before the memory of Fallon’s attack rushed back to the forefront of my consciousness. Still naked and short of breath, I struggled to maneuver into a sitting position, my eyes leaping in wide, wild arcs, trying to make sense of the surroundings.
“Marshall!” I cried, my voice sliding through an octave of pure fear. “Where are you?”
I stood, reaching outward as if answers hovered in the lukewarm air, terrified down to a cellular level. I wasn’t outside. But the space around me didn’t seem contained within a building, either. When I tried to peer farther ahead than about six feet, a gray fog, the sort that hung over Flickertail on muggy summer mornings, obscured the view. I stepped forward only to find that the fog parted to allow passage through it; my bare feet touched solid ground and I could walk in any direction without reaching a limit, other than the fog. The ability to inhale and exhale returned, but too rapidly; panic beat a tattoo against my breastbone.
“Where am I?” I begged, turning in tight circles. I covered my belly with both palms, protecting the firm melon-curve of my baby. Louder now, terror swelling. “Marshall! Where are you? What’s happening?!”
Was I dead? Or had I come to some sort of standstill in the flow of time?
“Can anyone hear me?” I shouted. “Where am I?”
The fog existed above, below, to every side. I walked and jogged, by turns, desperate to find an entry point. A door, a window, a sign. A horrible picture filled my mind, of a huge, smooth glass jar in which I’d been deposited like an unwary ant. I saw myself running in agitated, endless circles around its confines, a prisoner suspended in time; no matter how much ground I covered, I went nowhere. The surroundings did not alter in any way. My forward motion eventually stalled and I crouched in the exact center of the bright, silent, vacant space, gripping my shoulders in either hand, curving forward. Too terrified to cry, I clutched my torso and begged a refrain of despair. “Help me. Please, help me.”
Rain continued falling over the little settlement of Windham, providing a lulling background cadence as Malcolm and I sat together in the rocking chair; my eyes eventually drifted shut. Not quite asleep, I remained peripherally aware of the surroundings; Cole returned downstairs and he and Malcolm talked in hushed voices. The fire in the woodstove crackled, its red heat bathing my half-closed eyes. Intermittent thunder grumbled. The rocker creaked and Malcolm’s lithe fingers stroked my hair in a slow, rhythmic caress. My nose rested at the juncture of his collarbones and his pulse beat against my cheek. He smelled exactly like Mathias and in my exhaustion I imagined I was snuggled in my husband’s arms, the two of us stealing a moment’s rest after finally getting the kids to bed.
Mathias whispered, Rest, honey. It’s been a long day and you’re exhausted.
My heart constricted with a deep and painful yearning.
Thias…
“It’s too quiet out there, something ain’t right,” Cole was muttering.
My legs twitched at this intrusion of sound, chucking me back to reality. I opened my bleary eyes to see Cole positioned at the edge of the window, the curtain drawn aside about an inch as he peered out at the bleak, wet night, rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. He let the faded material fall back into place and took a seat at the table, facing Malcolm and me.
“We’ll ride out by morning’s light,” Malcolm said quietly. “If Patricia and the baby are up to it. What are you thinking, Spicer? You want to push northwest, or head toward Jalesville and your folks?”
Cole
