BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (26 page)

“Who’s gonna take care of you?” Brian snorted. “The last time you had a wee drink you—”

Cree hissed at the older man, said something Bronwyn didn’t catch then walked back to her.

“He needs to bid his lady a proper Irish farewell,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. He wants to get shit-faced Irish drunk!”

Cree grinned. “Good that you understand what Celtic warriors need.”

“What about you? Do I have to worry that you’ll wrap his car around—”

“We’re taking my bike.”

“—wrap your
bike
around a telephone pole?” she finished as though he hadn’t interrupted.

He put his hand over his heart. “No alcohol for this Reaper. I learned my lesson, I did.”

“Gobshite,” Brian pronounced. “This is one Reaper who intends to come home none the good for wear!”

“Aidan!” Bronwyn whined.

“He’ll be all right,” Cree said, and chuckled.

“Don’t let anything happen to either of you,” she pleaded, searching Cree’s amber gaze.

He took her hand, brought it to his lips and placed a soft kiss on her upturned wrist. “I promise.”

A thrill of longing shot through Bronwyn. She drew back her hand, seeing in his dark gaze the knowledge of what he had caused to happen in her body.

“Sleep well, dearling,” he said huskily, then turned, shoving Brian off the jet. “I’ll call one of the guards to come get you.”

Sighing heavily, Bronwyn headed into the terminal when the stewardess hurried up to her with the box of Dorrie’s letters.

“I’d forgotten all about them,” Bronwyn said, feeling a deep sadness settle over her as she accepted the item. “Thanks.”

“Have a good evening, Doctor,” the stewardess bid. “Looks like more bad weather is on the way by morning.”

“Great,” Bronwyn muttered.

By the time a ride had been sent for her, Bronwyn knew Cree and Brian had gone back to Baybridge to fetch the motorcycle. She was worried about them, although she knew very little could hurt either man.

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Knowing that didn’t help her frame of mind. By the time she arrived at her condo, she was wide awake, knowing she’d be unable to sleep until she heard that powerful bike roar into the parking lot.

It was too late to fetch Brownie, and Cedric was still absent. With no other living being to keep her company, the condo felt lonelier than ever. Putting the box of letters on her desk, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of tomato juice and sat to watch television. Soon bored of the pathetic fare that passed for entertainment on the networks, she flipped to cable, but there wasn’t much there, either, to interest her.

Finally with a snarl of contempt, she turned off the television and sat staring into the distance.

Her gaze drifted to the letters and held. After five minutes of looking at the box, she headed to the desk. Just as she got there, the phone rang, startling her. Thinking it might be about Cree and Brian, she jerked it up.

“Hello?” she said, her voice tight.

“Hello, dear,” her mother answered. “Don’t you ever listen to your messages?”

Bronwyn noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine and mentally groaned. “Have you been trying to reach me?”

“Only since yesterday morning,” her mother said, sounding a bit miffed.

“I’m sorry, Mom, but I’ve been in Georgia.”

There was a short silence then DeeDee McGregor sighed heavily. “You went to see the Cullen woman?”

“Mom—”

“You need to wean yourself from contact with that woman,” DeeDee grumbled. “It isn’t good for either you or her—”

“She died, Mom,” Bronwyn said between clenched teeth. “I went to attend her funeral with Brian.”

“Brian O’Shea? What was he—?”

Bronwyn was in no mood to explain about Brian and Dorrie. “Was there something you needed, Mom?”

“Well, yes, I wanted to share some good news, but it doesn’t seem to be the right time.”

Bronwyn closed her eyes. “What good news? I could use some.”

“I’ll call back in the morning,” her mother said, her voice sharp. “Get some rest and we’ll talk then.” Before Bronwyn could reply, her mother hung up.

“I love you, too,” Bronwyn mumbled as she put down the phone.

Depressed after the stilted conversation—so uncharacteristic for the two of them—

Bronwyn sat on the sofa, the letters on her desk forgotten. At a little past two o’clock in the morning, she heard the rumble of Cree’s bike and shot up from the seat. She pulled aside the curtain and saw him sagging beneath Brian’s weight as he carried the older 155

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man over his shoulder. Sighing with relief, she was about to turn away when she saw Cree look up at her.

“Good night,” she mouthed.

He held up a hand, acknowledging her then she lost sight of them as Cree carried his burden into the building.

Relieved that the men were home safely, she turned toward the sofa. But again, her gaze fell on the box of letters.

For a moment, she stared at the box. She knew there would likely be at least a couple of dozen of her own letters to Dorrie, each written after Sean’s death and while Bronwyn was in college. There would most likely be many of Brian’s letters and perhaps a few from Seannie.

It was the thought of reading Sean’s letters that brought her to the desk. Gnawing on her lower lip, she fought with herself, wondering if she had the right to read what he had written. Wondering if seeing his words after all this time would be too painful. As much as she ached to know what he might have written, she pondered the wisdom of prying.

She touched the locket hanging at her neck. It was her dearest possession and she never took it off. Within the hinged interior was a poem Sean had written her long ago.

Whenever she felt the burden of Sean’s leaving, she would touch the locket and recite the poem to herself. His words comforted her. Perhaps reading what he had said to his mother would bring a measure of peace.

The box had been taped shut, the wide cellophane material sealing the top on three sides. Bronwyn rummaged in the desk for a box cutter. When she peeled open the lid, a strong smell wafted up—a clinical smell, the scent of disinfectant and antiseptic, of medicine and floor wax.

Inside the box lay several large manila envelopes, each labeled by year, beginning with 1984—the year Dorrie Cullen was taken to Milledgeville.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled out the first envelope and held it in her hands for a long time. She could feel the blood pounding in her temple. She stroked the handwriting on the envelope front, smiling slightly at the heavy scrawl that had been Sean’s mother’s penmanship.

A part of her wanted to thumb open the metal clasp on the back of the envelope, yet another part warned the memories invoked by what she might read would reopen wounds that had lately started to heal. After another moment of trying to decide what to do, she carefully replaced the envelope in the box and walked to the window to stare out at the dark night.

When she pushed aside the curtain and looked down, she saw Cree and Ralph taking the pathway to the lake.

“My God, Aidan! You woke Vince at this time of night to get Ralphie?”

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As though he had heard her, he nodded. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his black jeans, his shoulders hunched against the world, drawn in upon himself, and she felt the burden of his solitude heavy on her heart.

Not giving herself time to rationalize whether what she was doing was right, she grabbed her trench coat and the flashlight she kept on her desk, and left the apartment.

A light mist was blowing across the parking lot as she took the trail to the lake. Pulling the hood over her hair, she switched on the light and directed its beam along the gravel pathway.

The air was cooler than she had anticipated, but the chill of it washing over her face, accompanied by the soft prickle of mist, felt good.

He was standing with his back to her, looking out across the midnight waters of Rock Creek Lake. His hands were still jammed into his jean pockets, but his shoulders no longer looked so rigid. There was a sense of defeat about the way he stood. Ralph, hunkering on the ground at his feet, turned his big head to look at her as she came toward them.

Bronwyn tripped over an unseen root. When her arm rose, the flashlight beam traveled up to catch Cree’s eyes as he turned. She gasped at the chatoyant glow that came from his wolflike amber eyes and would have fallen had he not rushed forward, catching her easily in his arms.

“Woman, what the hell are you doing out here this time of night?” His tone was more exasperated than angry. He steadied her then moved away, putting distance between them.

“Making a fool of myself, apparently,” she mumbled. Being this close to the water, there was enough sky-glow to see so she switched off the flashlight and stuck it in her coat pocket.

“You shouldn’t be traipsing around in the dark.”

“I saw you coming here. You looked like you needed some company.”

“You know me that well, do you?”

She looked up at him then blinked. “You shaved your goatee!” She made a grunting sound of disbelief. “And cut your hair!”

He tugged at the thick curls spiraling at his nape. “It’s not all that short.”

“But why?”

“On my world, it is a ritual of mourning to shorn the hair.”

Bronwyn felt a tug at her heart. “You did it for Dorrie.”

He moved to the large rock everyone used as a bench. He sat and drew his spread knees into the perimeter of his arms, one hand clasping the opposite wrist. “I cared for her.”

There was enough room for her to join him and she did. Her hip touched his as she sat and she thought he tensed at the contact.

“Did you ever go see her with Brian?”

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“Sometimes. I hated that place so I didn’t go often.”

“I’m sure she enjoyed your visits.”

He looked at her. “She enjoyed yours. She would talk about them for days afterward.”

Bronwyn lowered her head, tears gathering in her eyes. “I really cared for her, too.”

“She knew you did.” He returned his attention to the calm lake. “She called you her daughter-in-law. Did you know that?”

Bronwyn squeezed her eyes closed. “In my heart, I was.”

Cree made no comment. He continued to stare at the glistening dark waters, seemingly content to keep the silence that had settled over them. When Bronwyn leaned her head against his shoulder, he lowered his legs, shifted his right arm around her and pulled her head to his chest. He held her as his body absorbed her sobs, then laid his cheek against the top of her head and began crooning, rocking her, as he would have a child in need of comfort.

When she had cried out her misery, she eased away from him, fishing in the pocket of her coat for a tissue.

“Here,” he said, handing her his handkerchief.

“I came here to comfort you,” she apologized, and wiped at her eyes.

“You did.”

“Is Brian all right?” she asked, blowing her nose.

“He’s probably puking up his guts right now.” He chuckled. “And cursing me for all I’m not worth in his eyes.”

“Why? He was the one who wanted to go drinking.”

“It has nothing to do with the drinking. He knows you’re out here with me and he’ll give me hell about it when I go back, afraid I’ll say something I shouldn’t.”

“Do you care?”

“Not especially.”

“He’ll probably say something to me too, then.”

“About what?” Cree demanded.

“He’ll lecture me. I’ll listen, he’ll preach. I’ll ignore his warnings, he’ll threaten dire consequences if I do. I’ll remind him I’m a grown woman, he’ll remind me you are not the man for me.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s for me to decide, don’t you think?”

Another deep silence spread over them and lasted longer than the one before. It was Cree who finally broke the stillness.

“Maybe it’s time to talk about him, now.”

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Bronwyn drew in a shaky breath and pulled her coat closer around her shoulders.

“Maybe so.”

He drew up his knees again in what she had come to realize was a defensive posture. “What do you want to know?”

“Sometimes I can hardly remember what he looked like. Every year, his face grows less vivid in my mind. I hear his words less clearly. The memories seem to be fading.

They are still there, but they are not as sharp.”

“That’s to be expected. Time heals all wounds, they say. If the wound stays fresh and painful, it’s hard to move on.”

“I think it’s time for me to move on. I’ve resisted doing so for nearly ten years, but lately I feel as though he’s trying to tell me to let him go, to find someone to spend my life with and not be alone anymore.”

Cree took a deep breath and looked out across the shoreline. “But something is stopping you.”

She slid off the rock and walked to the water’s edge. Wrapping her arms around her, she waited for him to join her, knowing he would, before she answered. When he came to stand behind her and enclosed her in his strong embrace, she leaned her head back on his chest.

“I’ve never asked Brian,” she said. “I’ve tried a couple of times, but I never could seem to get out the words. It hurt too much.”

“What, dearling?” he asked, his breath soft against her ear.

“I need to know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I have to know where he’s buried, Aidan. I want to go there and say goodbye. I
need
to do that.”

His arms tightened around her for a moment then he released her. He turned her around to face him, put his hands on her cheeks and locked his gaze with hers. “There is no burial place, Bronwyn. When he was taken back to Fuilgaoth, he was cremated and his ashes cast to the wind. He would not have wanted to be caged in the earth for all eternity.”

Bronwyn pressed against him, her cheek to his powerful chest and her arms around his waist. She reveled in the feel of him, the strength of his arms as he held her. The cinnamon smell of his cologne was heady, driving straight through her defenses to stroke the fire of her passion.