Darker Than Desire (32 page)

She looked at him over her shoulder, that white blanket falling around her like a queen's robes. “I understand you. Better than you think. You want to protect me, despite the fact that I don't
need
your protection. My sister is a junkie—both Drew and I are used to talk. We know how to handle it. He's heard it since he was a baby. He's already come home asking me what a whore is, because that's what his mama is—or so he's been told. Drew knows what
rough
is.
I
know what
rough
is—we were the town trash, in case you don't remember.” She looked around the house she'd been slowly fixing up, remember how it had been all but falling down around their ears when their father had died, leaving Mom alone with two young girls.

“If you think you're protecting him or
me
by staying away, you don't know shit.” She shook her head and moved to stare outside. “What you're doing is just taking the easy way out. That's fine. You've had it rough and maybe you need easy. But don't think we can keep this up. I won't keep waiting.”

Easy
—none of this was easy.

Just give me time
 … he almost said it. Then and there.

But he couldn't. He had to have something to give her. Something solid. Something real. He wasn't there yet. Since he couldn't offer her anything, he just continued to stand, head bowed, feet on the floor.

Her silence nearly sent him to the floor.

The odd, shaking sigh all but gutted him.

“Sybil,” he whispered, his resolve trembling. “You know I care about you.”

“Care?” She laughed, the word bitter and ragged. “David, you are a stupid ass. You love me, every bit as much as I love you. You just aren't willing to take the risk. And I'm not going to wait around for a coward.”

She turned to look at him then and he held still as she came to him.

Yes, I love you
. The words were right there. He could say them. Almost did. He could nod, pull her against him, show her in a dozen ways. But not until he knew he'd done what he could to keep her and Drew safe. That wouldn't happen until he'd stopped things, found answers.

So instead of reaching for her, he held still as Sybil stopped in front of him. He held still as she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth.

“I hope you find it somewhere, David,” she whispered.

It wasn't until she was halfway to the bathroom that he asked, “Find what?”

“Whatever it is you're looking for.”

I will
. He watched as the door shut behind her. One hand clenched in a fist and he had to fight not to pummel something. Anything.

I'll find it. Then I'm coming back here, damn it.

This wasn't done. It wasn't over.

He'd come back, and even if he didn't come back
whole
he'd at least have enough pieces of himself that he could try to make them fit. It was the only acceptable outcome.

The silence in the room echoed through him like a death knell and he hunted down the rest of his things, shoes, socks, keys. In under five minutes he was ready, but at the door he lingered.

You saw for yourself.

You know she's safe.

It wasn't enough, though. Without thinking it through, he moved upstairs, avoiding all the little spots that made the stairs squeak. The door to Drew's room was open and David lingered there, a hand on the doorjamb, his gaze on the boy in the bed close to the door.

A quick look inside told David that the boy slept. Sprawled across a blow-up mattress was the skinny form of Taneisha's son, his face half-shoved under a pillow. The slow, quiet cadence of the boys' breathing filled the room and David stood there nearly an entire minute before he pulled away.

He wanted to go in there, he realized.

Wanted to wrap his arm around Drew and hug him. Just once.

Before he left.

Instead, he just moved downstairs. As he did, he saw the door to the library open, caught a glimpse of Sybil. But he just kept right on walking, out the back, down and across the yard.

It was dark. It was cold. But he'd spent plenty of nights in the cold.

He'd didn't leave yet. He didn't leave for hours. He settled himself in a corner, on the ground, braced against the cold. From there, he could see the back windows—exposed panes of glass, the most vulnerable area in the house, he thought.

He stayed there, kept watch.

Once the sun kissed the horizon and he could see Sybil moving around, he unfolded his stiff, aching form. That was when he left. Dawn. The perfect time to find the woman he needed to see anyway.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The farm was … quiet.

Almost neglected.

David walked around, the work boots he hadn't fully broken in crunching on leaves that hadn't been raked away. The gardens were overgrown. It was mid-November. Winter was breathing down their necks and Sarah hadn't even cleaned up the dead vegetation, much less started preparing the gardens for winter.

That alone sent a weird little chill down his spine.

But then he went inside and saw the layers of dust.

He could see where she'd been here recently, cooking, yes. There were dishes in the sink from a recent meal, but she hadn't even cleaned them.

That was just about unheard of.

There had never been a day in this house when it was less than spotless, not that he could recall.

The gardens had never gone untended.

And even though it was early and there were morning chores to be tended to, animals to be cared for, Sarah wasn't there. An air of melancholy hung around the place. He could hear the chickens outside and horses from the pasture closest to the house, but that was it.

There wasn't a soul nearby.

Prowling through the house, he searched for some sign as to where she was.

A note would have been nice.

David/Caine:

I'm in town. I'm looking for you. I killed Max and Louisa and Clay Brumley and I'll tell you why. Just find me at …

Disgusted with himself, he left the big room near the front of the house and checked Sarah's bedroom, frowning as he moved around. It looked even more abandoned than the rest of the house, the layers of dust so thick, it was like she hadn't been in here in weeks.

He checked the room where Abraham had slept, but to his surprise it was cleaner than the rest, almost dust-free.

Something tugged at his gut, and unable to ignore that nagging sensation, he headed outside. The house he'd lived in was about a twenty-minute walk up the hill. Twenty minutes he couldn't spare, and it would take longer to drive. So he didn't bother. He hopped the fence and moved up to Bill, the horse he used the most when he had to ride. Bill nudged him in the chest and he stroked a hand down the black-and-white gelding. “Come on, boy. I need a ride.”

He didn't bother with a saddle, just mounted up bareback, glad that was one thing he'd learned over the years. The ride to the quiet little house where he'd lived took just a few minutes.

That creeping sensation of dread got worse as he opened the door.

Here
there were signs of life.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, moving inside and turning in a slow circle.

The place was pristine. No dust. Nothing out of place.

Blood roared in his ears and he moved down the short hall to stand in the doorway of his room. The headboard and frame he'd built along with Abraham was still there.

And the quilt Sarah had made a few years ago was spread out along top of the mattress.

Closing one hand into a fist, David stared at that quilt for a long, long moment before moving deeper into the room. Her dresses hung where he'd once kept his clothes. His gut twisted a little tighter when he saw a pair of jeans and a small stack of T-shirts. “What are you doing, Sarah?” he whispered.

He went to turn away, but something on the shelf caught his eye and he reached up, grabbed the box.

It was hand carved, but he didn't think Abraham had made it. It didn't look like the old man's work. Flipping open the lid, David found himself staring at a stack of old photos, a couple of newspaper articles that were yellowed, worn with age. Reaching in, he pulled the stack of items out, and closed the box. Tucking it under his arm, he started to go through everything as he left the room.

The first picture was of a man—his eyes were familiar, but David didn't know him. He had a girl in the picture with him. Both of them wore the plain clothes typical to the Amish. The picture wasn't posed. The Amish didn't own cameras. David didn't know if somebody had snapped the Polaroid and given it to the man or what. Flipping it over, David saw spidery print down at the bottom:
Jacob Miller and daughter Sarah—
.

“What the fuck?” David flipped the picture over again, staring at it. Hard.

Maybe. The eyes?
He looked at the man, but it was hard to say.

Dumping everything on the counter by the sink, David tossed that picture down and reached for another. It was Sarah, just her, a few years older, walking through Madison. The back of the picture this time just read:
Sarah
.

The newspaper article had been torn out of a paper. David couldn't guess at the
exact
time, but considering what was mentioned, he had a guess.

Soldiers return home from Vietnam
.

His eyes narrowed on two of the names mentioned.

One of them wasn't a surprise. Max … David had always known that Max had been in the army. But the second name—

“Caine.”

He turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Thom Yoder stood there, his eyes solemn, his face unsmiling.

“What is this?” David demanded, ignoring the name Thom had used as he strode over and shoved the article in the younger man's face.

Thom flicked a glance to it and then looked back at David. There was a flicker of resignation on Thom's face, but no shock. No surprise.

“What is this?” David demanded again.

“It's an article about Uncle Abraham. Before he came back to us.”

David closed his eyes, rubbed a hand over them and then opened them, looking back down at the article again, reading it over a second, then a third time. “Before he came home. What in the hell are you talking about?”

Thom's face spasmed and he looked away. A long, tense moment passed and then he sighed. “He was born here, raised here … until he was nine years old. But then his father decided to leave, with him. They left and nobody saw him, heard from him. Twenty-five years passed before he returned here. He'd fought in the war, killed people.” A shadow passed over Thom's face before a sad smile softened his grim features. “But they also taught him to save people. He was trained to be a medic, and he met Max Shepherd. Which is how he was able to help you.”

Thom lapsed into silence then and David turned away, a thousand questions storming inside him. His chest burned and he realized he hadn't been breathing. “This … none of this makes sense.”

“He needed peace. His father had been a troubled, sick man. Then, once he was old enough to leave that behind, he was forced into a war that went against what he'd learned as a young child—he remembered those lessons—and there was he was, surrounded by death, blood, violence.”

Turning, David looked at Thom. Thom stared out the window into the cold, grey morning. “He came back here, wanting this life, wanting that peace.”

That was something David could understand. But too many questions remained. “He met Max in Vietnam?”

“Yes.” Thom sighed and reached up, stroking a hand along his beard. “He'd been living in Louisville before he was drafted. He didn't like to speak of it, but he did, a few times, because people talked about how he'd lived much of his life away from us. I had questions. We all did.”

Memory flickered, formed. “Max has medals in his house. I saw them. Others talked.… He was in the Special Forces. Are you telling me that
Abraham
was in the same unit? That he was in the Special Forces?”

“He had a great need for peace, Ca—David. I can imagine you would understand that better than anybody.” Thom's voice was soft, so soft David could barely make out the words.

At first, David didn't think that was any answer at all. But then he realized, perhaps it was. A man like Abraham would need a great deal of peace if he'd lived the life that David suspected Max had lived before he'd left the military behind.

Max had found the answer in the law, in the laws, in helping others.

Abraham had looked elsewhere. Back here, to the place where he'd been born.

Reaching down, David picked up the picture of Sarah and turned it around, showing it to Thom. “And this? How does she fit in?”

“That is a much more complicated story.” Thom looked around, moving through the house with more than a little trepidation. “The box. You found it here?”

“Yeah. It was in…” He hesitated and then finally said, “My room. It looks like Sarah has been staying here.”

Thom stopped in his tracks and looked back at David, troubled. “Staying here.”

“Yeah. Where does Sarah fit in? Is this her? Why does it say
Miller
on it?”

Thom looked down at his boots for a long moment before he finally looked up. When he did, his eyes were full of sorrow. “Because that is who Sarah was before Abraham took her. Sarah's father and his father were cousins. He once told me they both had a…” He passed a hand over his head, shaking it. “He said they were unwell. Here.”

“Unwell.” David curled his lip. “You mean
crazy
.”

Thom inclined his head. “Don't be unkind. We don't understand what was wrong.”