In The Rancher's Arms. Trish Milburn

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the glass pane, no beasts with razor-sharp claws prowling for a meal, her heart rate sped up again.

      She thought of how when she was growing up and couldn’t sleep, she’d slip outside and sit on the porch or go for a walk, allowing the night air to waft against her skin as she took in the expanse of the wide Texas sky and what must be at least a billion stars blanketing the blackness. Now the idea of even getting too close to the window made her heart race and body tremble.

      The need to scream, to release the anger that still festered inside, rose up within her. But she couldn’t let it free and scare her parents to death that she was being murdered in her room. They’d been through enough. She had to protect them. Somehow she’d find a way to get past what had happened to her—alone.

      Her legs threatened to give way, so she turned and headed to bed. She sat with her back against the headboard, her arms wrapped around her knees, and stared at the window. Pale moonlight from something less than a full moon filtered in through the curtains. She listened but all she could hear was a faint hum from the electricity running throughout the house. After weeks in that remote corner of Uganda, everything sounded a thousand times louder than she remembered.

      She shook her head, trying to dissipate the self-pity. Yes, she’d been through an ordeal no one should ever have to endure, but she’d been one of the lucky ones. The horror of watching her kidnappers load several cages onto the back of a truck, the occupants crying and begging to be let go, was something she’d never forget. She’d added her screams to theirs, hoping that maybe one more voice could make some difference. All it had gotten her was a vicious jab with the butt of an automatic weapon and the very real threat that the men might decide to keep her for entertainment instead of selling her.

      The mere thought had twisted her insides so much that, combined with the knowledge of what awaited the people being driven away, she’d turned and thrown up what little was in her stomach. Even now, she could taste the bile in her throat.

      She bit her lip and blinked several times, not wanting to cry again. It only made her feel worse.

      The chirping of the first birds of the morning drew her attention toward the window again. She listened to their familiar song, letting it soothe her the tiniest bit. It wasn’t until the darkness outside began to give way to dawn that she felt her body begin to relax. Even so, she knew she wouldn’t be sleeping anymore. Despite not having had a decent night’s sleep in weeks, her rescue hadn’t brought the type of true rest she so desperately needed.

      Not wanting to think about her captivity anymore, she went to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water and smoothed her out-of-control hair. With the aim of occupying her mind and trying to make things as normal as possible for her parents, she headed for the kitchen to make breakfast.

      She eased the door to her bedroom open the same way she had all those years ago when she’d escaped her insomnia for the beauty of a Texas night. She halted the door right before the squeak that always came back no matter how many times they lubricated the hinges.

      As she walked quietly into the living room, Lemondrop gave her a tentative look from where he was stretched out along the back of the couch. Evidently, he still remembered the reaction to her bad dream the day before. She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t bolt when she approached him.

      “Sorry about scaring you, buddy,” she said as she ran her fingers through his soft yellow fur.

      Lemondrop must have forgiven her because his distinctive purr started up and he rubbed his head against her palm. The pure rightness of the moment caused her to choke up and smile a little at the same time.

      “Want some breakfast?” she whispered.

      Lemondrop looked up at her as if he understood every single word she said. When he hopped to the floor and strode toward the kitchen, she shook her head before following in his wake. Sometimes that cat seemed half human.

      As Arden moved about the kitchen, pulling out the supplies she needed to make pancakes, she found herself pausing to touch familiar items—the stoneware canisters that had been her grandmother’s, the framed paint handprint she’d made for her mom on some long-ago Mother’s Day, the top of the table around which her family had enjoyed countless meals. It was as if her mind was demanding she make contact with as many things as possible to be sure they were real and not simply part of the daydreams she’d used to get through her captivity. To prove she was actually here and not still in that sweltering cage.

      Arden shook her head, trying to rid herself of the memories. She tried not to think about how long they might plague her, but she’d written about too many survivors of horrible experiences—bombings, genocide, natural disasters of epic proportions—to believe she’d be back to normal anytime soon. If ever.

      “You’re up early.”

      The sound of her father’s voice did more to ground her in the present, in her childhood home than anything else. She glanced over her shoulder after flipping her pancake.

      “Still adjusting to the time difference.”

      The way he looked at her said he knew there were other reasons for her already being at the stove, but he didn’t push her to admit that. Her dad had always been one willing to listen but only when the person was ready to talk. If not for his heart attack, maybe she would confide in him. But that wasn’t going to happen. She’d keep everything bottled up indefinitely rather than cause him any more pain or worry.

      Her dad crossed to where she was standing and squeezed her shoulder in an affectionate, supportive gesture.

      “Those look good,” he said, pointing at the pancakes.

      “And Mom told me about your special diet, so you’ll be having oatmeal with blueberries and scrambled egg whites.”

      He made a sound of frustration. “Two against one, not fair.”

      She lifted onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I make really good oatmeal and eggs.”

      In truth, it was much more like what she’d normally eat, but weeks of gnawing hunger had her wanting every comfort food she could get her hands on. But even with her mouth watering at the impending consumption of pancakes, she had to remind herself to be careful. When she’d finally gotten a meal after her rescue, she’d made herself sick by eating too much.

      Her dad uttered another grunt but dropped a kiss on her forehead. “What can I do?”

      Arden nodded at the table. “Sit and catch me up on what’s new around here.” Some good old, dependable Blue Falls gossip should keep her mind off unwanted memories for a little bit at least.

      “You mean besides me going stir-crazy around here and your mom hovering?”

      “You scared her. She’s allowed to hover a little.”

      He started to say something but stopped himself. A couple of ticks of the wall clock passed before she realized what he’d thought, that she was most likely in for some hovering by her mom, as well. Part of her wanted to curl up in her mother’s arms, but she didn’t know how she could spend a lot of time with her mom while the details of her captivity remained unspoken between them. Arden would be torn between answering all her mom’s questions and needing to protect her from the truth.

      “I’ll go for your walk with you after we eat to give her a break.” She managed a smile. “And you.”

      Plus СКАЧАТЬ