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Lennon is instantly injected with vigor. He rises, striding quickly to the tiny four-year-old who emerges behind Reed, rubbing her eyes, clearly having just woken up. Even thoughMarsha—her babysitter—would have made sure she was in bed at the right time, Grace has had problems with sleeping of late.
"I'm here, baby," Lennon's voice, usually so cold and empty, is now overflowing with affection as he brushes his lips against his daughter's cheeks. "Are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?"
She nods. "Uh-huh."
Torture pinches Lennon's features. We don't know why, but poor little Grace has been plagued by bad dreams for the past few months. It came out of the blue late one night, when she woke everyone up with a blood-curdling scream. She didn't remember what it was about when she woke up, and at age four it's difficult sometimes for her to communicate how she feels, because she doesn't always have the vocabulary. She eventually went back to sleep, but that was just the start. Now, perhaps once a week, she has a nightmare.
Lennon takes her to a child psychologist in Silverton once a month, but there's been no improvement. I know it's killing him to watch her suffer.
"Let's go back to bed," Lennon tells her gently. "I'll stay with you." He scoops her up in his arms and, without another word to us, he carries his daughter away. I'm not offended. Grace is and remains his number one priority.
Reed and I share another look in his absence.
"Stay away from her," I say.
"Not happening," he responds.
We'll see,I think.
I'm right about one thing that night, at least. I don't get much sleep. I go to bed around three a.m., and I'm up at daybreak,ready to get started. I'm about to head out to the stables when something off in the distance catches my eye. A figure breaks out of the forest, and I freeze.
Is that our neighbor? Did she go into the forest at daybreak? Alone?
God, how stupid. I start toward her, irritation crawling up my spine. There hasn't been a coyote attack in years, but that doesn't mean the forest is completely safe. What the hell is she doing out there? And where's she going?
Without thinking, I follow her. As I step around a small group of juniper trees, I freeze, my heart dropping into my stomach. In the line of trees flanking the lake, I spot a large, black shape. I hear a familiar sound—a sort of huffing, like someone panting from exertion. But this isn't a person.
It's a bear. A full-grown female by the size of it. Not a grizzly, thankfully—we don't have those around here—but still, a bear is a bear, and even black bears can be dangerous if they feel threatened or spooked. It's summer now and so it's bear season. In truth, black bears don't truly hibernate like most people think, so even in winter you can still encounter one when it comes out of its den to feed. This time of year though, they are fully active, stocking up for the winter ahead.
Meanwhile, our neighbor hasn't noticed the danger. Her hands are gripping the hem of her shirt, and she looks like she's about to take it off.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shout, the words bursting out of me. Both she and the bear jump. Startled, the bear thankfully decides to bolt, scrambling back into the forest with a hasty, noisy retreat, leaving the two of us standing there.
I stand by the junipers, and she stands by the lake, her hands still frozen to her shirt, her eyes wide in shock.
CHAPTER 5
Hailey
Ispin around, my heart leaping into my throat at the sound of the voice behind me.
Once I spot that it's Mr. Handsome Leader, my heart doesn't calm down. If anything, it accelerates even faster.
I clutch my shirt, realizing how close I came to undressing in front of him.
"How long have you been standing there?" I ask, trying to keep my composure.
"Long enough to know you were about to do something real brain-dead." He strides closer, bringing the scent of juniper berries with him. His arms cross over his chest, the fabric of his shirt stretching taut over his massive muscles.
Good Lord, he's huge. How does any shirt even contain that? It's clear his button-down is struggling, the fabric practically screaming across his broad shoulders and chest.
As he stares at me, my brain scrambles to find something clever to say.
"Oh no," I try, flustered. "Don't worry. I used to do this all the time. I'm a pretty strong swimmer."
"Swimmer?"
"Yes, it's called swimming. You take off your clothes, get in the water, and?—"