His body went rigid. His chin lifted. He quickened his step. In a moment he’d be running.
Terror ripped through her.
She stumbled backwards. Water washed over the heels of her boots and, as they sank a little into the mud of the causeway, the scene in front of her faded. Like a photo that has been overexposed. Niall was still moving towards her but there was no sound and she knew he would never reach her. She backed away another step and into the hole that had claimed her boot previously, toppling into a pool of water. Her head went under.
Helen!The voice was in her head, a cry of anguish and need. When she surfaced and pulled herself out on to the mud, she was spluttering and choking. Her wet hair hung in her eyes and she pushed it away with a trembling hand and turned back towards the house.
It stood drunkenly above her, a ruin baking in the sun. No garden, no horses and certainly no Niall McEwen. Nothing but bare ground and warped timbers and a harsh blue sky.
He was gaining on her. She tried to scream but the sound was breathless and barely louder than the other night noises. She ran to the side, towards the garden, where flower stalks rose starkly. She’d insisted on tidying them herself and now she would never finish.
He reached for her arm but at the same moment Moppet ran between his feet and tripped him. The dog yelped, the man cursed and Helen ranon. Before her was the lily pond. Would he follow her in? He couldn’t swim, she knew that much. It was one of the only weaknesses he’d admitted to her. He was afraid of water.
Perhaps she could save herself after all?
By the time Claire had showered and changed daylight was fading. Sunset was a glorious crimson and orange affair, and Claire sat on her verandah and watched it, a glass of cooled wine in her hand, the dog at her feet.
He had forgiven her for shutting him up in her house earlier and now seemed content to rest by her side, following her with his eyes whenever she moved, clearly intent on attaching himself to her.
Her own eyes continually drifted to the old homestead, as if she expected any moment it might transform itself. She had no explanation for what had happened. If it was a hallucination, it was a pretty good one, but she knew it wasn’t a dream. She wanted to discuss it logically, but who would listen to her? Gabe? He might, or he might just ring for the doctor.
Perhaps the most disturbing part of it had been the sense of familiarity. Her daydream had already shown her what to expect and when she stood in the lavender it had not seemed foreign at all. And he had not seemed a stranger.
But still her rational mind argued, needing proof.
Claire got up abruptly and hurried out to the door, the dog trotting along behind her. She came back with the box from the museum and set it down on the kitchen table, then poured herself another glass of crisp white wine.
A quick search found mostly junk. There was a photo album, however, and she eased it out and opened it up, expecting great things. She found disappointment. The first photo had been eaten away by mildew, the faces unrecognizable. The next page was worse. Claire turned another page and then another, but it was all the same. The damage to the album had been extensive and irreversible. Even a master restorer could do nothing with this mess, there was simply nothing to restore.
Claire had come to the end of the album. The last photo. And it was undamaged. She stared down at it. A man in a high white collar, his handsome face stern and still, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow. His gaze was intense but it was also faintly amused,as if he knew the effect he had on those around him – especially women.
Claire shivered.
It was him. The man she’d seen.
Niall McEwen was alive. He lived in a place that could be reached through a moat of water that surrounded the homestead. He existed in the past, but he also existed in the here and now, and only Claire knew it.
Only Claire could reach him.
But that was madness, impossible! Wasn’t it?
There was only one way to prove it. She had to go back there and do what she’d done earlier. She had to cross the causeway and step on to the island where the homestead was. She had to go and face her fears.
The knock on her door almost gave her a heart attack.
Gabe’s smile faded when he saw her face. “What’s happened?”
Claire knew she could tell him. She could burden him with everything and he would help her, look after her, as he had before. Or she could solve her problems herself and come to him as an equal partner.
“I had a headache. It’s gone now.”
He appeared to accept her word.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight, Gabe.”
By now he’d taken in the box from the museum and the photo album. She closed it before he could see Niall McEwen, some sense of self-preservation driving her.
“You were talking about Helen,” he said. “I thought you might like to see the picture of her that belonged to my grandfather.”
