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Sloane had no sooner clicked the button to print her confirmation and flight itinerary when Bree’s blood-curdling scream ripped through the cottage.
24
Acting on nothing but sheer instinct, Sloane bolted through the kitchen at a dead run. Her bare feet slapped against the floor hard enough to send a jolt up the length of her spine, yet she didn’t break stride on her direct path to Bree’s room. She vaguely noticed that the front door was still bolted shut, just as it had been all night, and that nothing in the cottage seemed even a hair out of place.
Bree screamed again, an unholy sound that sent Sloane’s blood vibrating in her veins, and she ran even faster.
“Bree!” Sloane kicked through the entryway, far past the pleasantries of knocking. The door clattered against the adjacent wall in noisy protest, but Sloane barely heard the racket. She zeroed in on Bree’s bed, where she could just make out her shaking outline from the scant light filtering in from the hallway.
“Bree, what’s the matter? What is it?” Oh, God. She’d been sleeping like the dead only half an hour ago when Sloane had come in to turn off the light. What the hell could’ve happened this fast? She yanked back the quilt, determined to figure it out, but her movements skidded to a stop as soon as the image in front of her registered.
Bree was curled around her pillow, with her back to Sloane and her hands jammed over her ears, seeming to be caught in the limbo of dream-level sleep. She thrashed over the sheets, her damp hair sticking to her forehead as she jerked into full view, and it occurred to Sloane all at once that Bree wasn’t sick or hurt. Not in the traditional sense, anyway.
She was having the mother of all nightmares.
“Bree,” Sloane tried tentatively, afraid to scare her awake and do more damage. “Bree, can you hear me? It’s Sloane.”
Bree’s only response was to follow her writhing with a low whimper, and Sloane’s heart threatened to shatter.
“Don’t…don’t go…” Bree mumbled into her pillow, eyes squeezed shut as she grasped at the fabric around her. It was impossible to tell if she was waking up or still stuck in dream mode, and Sloane stood, mired to her spot with ice-cold fear. Clearly, Bree was so far in the throes of sleep that she thought her dream was real, but would waking her with a start knock her out of the nightmare, or make things even worse?
Bree twisted the edge of her pillowcase in a tight fist, her whimper growing louder, and Sloane moved on gut-driven impulse to make it stop. She rounded the far side of the bed to sit on the twin mattress right next to Bree’s curled-up form. A fresh round of cries began welling up from Bree’s chest, but this time Sloane was prepared. Bree might not be able to take on this nightmare, but Sloane sure as hell could.
No way was Bree going to be frightened like that. Not on her watch.
“Shhh. It’s okay, Bree. You’re having a bad dream. I’m right here.” Sloane reached down to smooth the wild threads of Bree’s hair back from her temples, repeating the same words over and over again. “Shhh, I’m right here.”
Bree’s sleep-furrowed brow softened for a breath before her eyes flew open with a gasp that sounded as if she’d surfaced from the bottom of the ocean.
“Don’t go!” Bree flailed for a moment, certainly stuck between sleep and waking, and she grabbed for Sloane with what had to be all her might. Sloane’s breath left her on a sharp exhale, but she refused to be toppled as Bree launched herself forward, hanging on for dear life.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m right here. It was just a nightmare.” Sloane pulled away to cradle Bree’s face between her palms in an effort to soothe her back to consciousness. It took every ounce of strength for Sloane to keep her hands from visibly shaking, but she dug deep. If she wasn’t steady, Bree might get even more frightened, and that just couldn’t happen.
“Sloane?” The thick veil of confusion began to lift from Bree’s features, and she blinked through the soft shadows as if trying to gain her bearings.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Sloane tried on a crooked smile, praying it would hold. “You okay?”
Bree exhaled and dropped her chin to the notch of her rumpled pajama top, realization trickling over her face. “I have nightmares sometimes.” Her body tensed as she let go of Sloane and curled back up against the mattress, and in that moment, Sloane caught a firm snapshot of the little girl she’d once been.
“I see that. It’s kind of scary, huh?” She reached around and placed a hand on Bree’s back, rubbing a gentle circle between her shoulder blades just like her own mother used to do when Sloane was a kid.
“I guess,” Bree said, in a clear bid to try to appear tough. She hugged her knees to her chest, capturing the pillow in the unyielding knot of her arms. “Sorry if I made a lot of noise.”
Tears pricked Sloane’s eyes. “It’s alright. You filled my excitement quota for the night.”
She felt the razor-wire tension start to slip from Bree’s shoulders, one tiny degree at a time. Hushed quiet folded around them, punctuated only by the whisper of Sloane’s hand on the flannel as she continued her soft, steadfast circles. Finally, just when she thought maybe Bree had dropped back off to sleep, the girl’s barely there voice broke the silence.
“Am I ever going to stop missing my mom?”
Sloane halted, but didn’t remove her hand from Bree’s back. “I still miss my dad sometimes,” she admitted on a quivery breath. “And it’s okay to miss her. You don’t have to pretend that you don’t.”
Bree nodded into her pillow. “So, what do you do? When you miss your dad?”
“I write to him,” she confessed, surprised at how easily the admission flowed out of her.
“But he can’t get the letters,” Bree said, her confusion plain even in the dim light from the hallway.
“I know. But the letters aren’t for him, really.” Sloane turned the idea over in her mind with a wistful smile. She’d never told anyone about the letters she wrote to herpapa, not even her mother or sisters. Somehow, it had never occurred to her that anyone would really get the importance of it—until now.
