Home For A Hero. Mary Wilson Anne

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      She heard raw, pained fear in the single word and she opened the door farther to look out into the hallway. Right then, a door slammed—hard. She stepped out onto the cold marble floor and slowly walked in the direction of the voices that were quieter now.

      She entered the great room, the voice low, almost a sob now. “Please, no, please.” She glanced around quickly, but couldn’t see anyone. A low light was on by the couch, but Luke was nowhere in sight. As far as she could tell, no other person was there. She heard a muffled cry, then another.

      She almost retreated back to the bedroom to lock the door, but another sob pulled her forward. It was guttural and filled with agony. She felt the deep chill in the room at the same moment she saw one of the back doors was open. She walked silently toward it, listening, but the voices had stopped. The bedroll was tangled on the floor in front of the doors, and just as she was about to step over it to look outside, she stopped. Something moved to her right, and she looked into shadows alongside the doors and saw Luke. He was hunched over, his head on his knees, his image blurred in the faint light. He was shaking. Shay hesitated, then moved closer, crouching down next to him. “Luke? Luke?” she said softly.

      He exhaled, then lifted his face to her. His hand flew out, capturing her wrist. It startled her, but she stayed where she was. “You,” he breathed hoarsely, as if shocked that it was her talking to him and not someone else.