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Together, Jack. Together.
Suddenly he ached to hear those comforting words
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again, trembled with the need to feel the softness of her skin and smell the lavender-scented sweetness of her hair.
He moved away from the tree and started walking through the tall, swaying, golden grass toward home.
Toward Lissa.
Chapter Twenty-five
It took Jack hours to find his way to the house. He paused by the side of the barn. The last, fading rays of sunlight cast the farm in a cozy glow. The house seemed almost iridescent, its ordinary whitewashed boards transformed into pearlized planks by the setting sun.
He felt a stab of longing so powerful and unexpected, he almost staggered from the force of it. For years he'd dreamed of living in a place like this. An honest-to-God home. A place filled with dreams and laughter and light. And here it was at last.
He started to take a step toward it when a sound caught his attention. He paused, turned toward the barn door. From inside came the clanging thunk of metal on metal. Frowning, he eased the big wooden door open and slipped quietly inside.
Lissa was standing with her back to him, carefully reorganizing his tools. She'd cleaned his pitchfork and put it back where it belonged. The huge red ribbon around the tool barrel was gone. The only thing out of place was his old Winchester shotgun. For some reason, the weapon was propped in the corner of the barn. It stood at an odd angle, almost as if it had been thrown there and then forgotten.
"Lissa." He said her name quietly, half expecting her to vanish at the sound.
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She gasped and spun around. The hoe she was holding slipped from her hand and thudded to the ground. "Jack!"
She snatched up her skirts and ran for him, throwing herself into his arms.
At her touch, Jack swayed with relief. The warmth of her body against his was a soothing balm on his soul. "God, you feel good," he murmured against her hair.
She clung to him. "I missed you so much. I was so afraid."
"I always come back," he whispered, feeling the moisture of her tears seeping through the flannel of his long Johns and dampening his chest.
She pulled away suddenly and stared up at him through glazed eyes. He realized then, looking in her eyes, how much he'd hurt her by leaving. How afraid she'd been that he wouldn't return. The knowledge that he'd hurt her was like a dull, aching sore in his heart.
He wrapped her in his arms and held her tightly. He wanted to share with her, wanted to tell her everything, but he was afraid. So goddamn afraid. The doctors told him never to speak of it, never even to think about it. What if he opened his mouth and instead of words coming out, he screamed? He was afraid that if he screamed once, he'd never be able to stop, and one day he'd wake up again, nameless and alone, in a dirty hospital bed.
; He shivered at the thought, remembering the countless months he'd spent in that sagging cot, unable to think or speak. Staring sightlessly at the blood-splattered ceiling.
"Jack?" she whispered, touching his cheek.
He looked down at her. He could see the question in her eyes, see how desperately she wanted to understand where he'd been and why he'd gone. But she didn't ask.
"Why?" The word slipped out unexpectedly.
"Why what?"
"Why don't you ask?"
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She blinked in surprise. "I want to know, but... I trust you, Jack. That's the most important thing. You'll tell me when you're ready."
