touched the wall again, a million memories flooding her mind and her eyes. It had been a while since she’d cried over what she’d lost, and she didn’t plan to cry now, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the dream that had woken her. The hot African sun and the little boy crying for help.
The vestibule door opened, cold fall air drifting in and carrying the scent of wood fires and wet leaves. Her favorite time of year, but it seemed as if she’d missed every moment of every fall for the past four years. As if she’d just drifted through the seasons without even noticing the leaves changing color, the snow dusting the ground, the first tulips of spring.
She turned, letting the cold moist air kiss her cheeks and ruffle her hair. She expected Stella to walk through the open door, but the figure that moved into the vestibule was tall and masculine. Her heart jumped as she met Jackson Miller’s eyes. Even in the midst of her terror, even half-frozen and desperate, she’d known who he was. She’d recognized the sharp angles of his face, the scar that sliced through his eyebrow, the broadness of his shoulders. She’d dreamed about him dozens of times, relived her captivity and her rescue every day for months.
Yes. She’d have known Jackson anywhere, anytime, in any situation.
“Everything okay in here?” he asked, his Southern drawl as warm as sunlight on a summer morning. It had been months since she’d heard it, but she hadn’t forgotten the thick twang, or the way it reminded her of home and safety and freedom.
“Yes.” She looked away from his searching gaze. “I’m just waiting for Samuel.”
“You’ve been waiting a long time.”
“He’s sick and exhausted. Everything takes longer under those circumstances.”
“I guess so.” He knocked on the door. “Hey, Sammy! You about done in there?”
“He doesn’t—” She was going to say speak much English, but Samuel poked his head out of the bathroom, his face and hair wet.
“I am finished.”
“What’d you do, kid? Take a bath?” Jackson stepped into the bathroom and came back out with a handful of paper towels. He dabbed at Samuel’s head and his face, swiped water off the back of his neck, pausing for just a moment at a ridge of scars just below Samuel’s hairline. When the young boy tensed, Jackson moved on, finishing the job with quick, efficient movements that Raina envied.
She could have been the one helping. She probably should have been the one. After all, she’d be Samuel’s caregiver for the next year. She felt awkward, though. As if losing Joseph had caused her to lose every bit of maternal instinct she had.
“Good enough!” Jackson proclaimed with a smile that eased the hardness from his face. “We have to stay here a few more minutes while the police officer collects some evidence. You want to sit down?”
He didn’t wait for Samuel to reply, just scooped him up with his crutch and placed him on a pew at the front of the sanctuary. The young boy looked surprised, but didn’t protest. Maybe he was more used to men than women. Or maybe he just sensed the difference between Jackson and Raina—one was relaxed and open, the other tense and closed in and scared.
She had to get over it.
No one had twisted her arm or begged her to help Samuel. She’d come up with the idea all on her own, because she owed him her life. She hadn’t been able to forget that, hadn’t wanted to. The problem was, she didn’t know how to care for a young boy. Not anymore. She knew it, and Samuel seemed to know it.
That was a shame, because she’d really wanted to hit it off with him, to make him feel comfortable and at home.
What she hadn’t wanted was to think about Joseph every time she looked into Samuel’s face, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. They looked nothing alike, but when she looked into Samuel’s eyes, she was reminded of Joseph. When she touched his arm, she thought of her son.
“You should probably sit down, too,” Jackson said quietly. “You’re looking a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” She met his eyes, felt something in her heart spring to attention. He was as handsome as she’d remembered. As tall. As muscular. He was exactly what she’d have imagined if someone had told her there was a team of people who’d devoted their lives to rescuing the kidnapped, the lost, the wounded from dangerous situations.
“Fine doesn’t mean you’re not going to fall over faster than Grandma Ruth during a summer revival meeting.”
“Your grandmother faints during revival meetings?” she asked, plopping down next to Samuel because her legs were feeling a little weak. She wanted to blame it on fear and stress, but it had more to do with that little ping in her heart when she’d met Jackson’s gaze.
“Only when it’s hot and she hasn’t had enough water.”
“You’re making that up,” she accused, and he smiled, dropping onto the pew beside her.
“Not even a little. The fact is Grandma Ruth has fainted once or twice during revival meetings, and we have to take care to keep her hydrated. The other fact is you look pale as paper, and you really did need to sit down.”
“At least I’m not beaten up and bruised,” she responded, touching a bump that had formed on his cheekbone. His skin felt warm and just a little rough, and she had the absurd urge to linger there.
She let her hand drop away, and he touched the bruise. “Guess I ran into something while I was avoiding the Jeep that tried to run me down.”
“What Jeep?”
“Parked in the church lot.” He watched her steadily as he spoke, his eyes dark blue with thick, long lashes surrounding them. Women would pay to have lashes like that, and they’d probably swoon to see them on Jackson. “You know anyone with a blue Jeep?” he prodded.
“No.”
“That was a quick, decisive response.”
“Because I don’t know anyone who owns a Jeep.”
“Have you ever known anyone who did?”
“Probably, but I can’t think...” Actually, she could think of someone with a blue Jeep. She and Destiny had gone to D.C. for a girls’ weekend, and Destiny had borrowed her boyfriend’s Jeep. “Lucas Raymond has one, but he lives in D.C.”
“Lucas Raymond,” he repeated. “Who’s that?”
“My friend’s boyfriend. I’ve only seen the vehicle once. I think it’s newer.”
“Do you have any reason to believe this guy would—”
“Raymond is a great guy. A psychiatrist. He’s gotten awards for his work at the hospital and in the community.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an ax to grind with you.” He stood and stretched, his T-shirt riding up along a firm abdomen.
She looked away, because she felt guilty noticing.
“Say we rule out Raymond,” Jackson continued. “Who
