Another Dawn by Deb Stover Page B

to leave that execution chamber, his fate was determined.  
           Luke Nolan was a man on the run. A fugitive. A man on a life-or-death quest for freedom.
           Focus . He drew a deep breath of the fresh mountain air wafting through the partially open window. Yeah, focus . He could play this game until dark–he had no choice. Then he would run fast and hard.
           To freedom.
           When Sofie leaned into him for support, the urge to wrap his arms around her and cradle her against his chest hit him like a two-by-four between the eyes.  
           Her softness melded against him and, despite his fatigue and worry, his body responded with intrepid–and infuriating– enthusiasm. He winced, his burned flesh tugging and stretching where nature demanded. But pain did little to suppress his rampant libido.
           Eleven celibate years did that to a man.
           Dr. Wilson's voice dragged Luke from his half-stupor. "Well, let's get you both something to eat before we put you to work."
           Clearing his throat, Luke kept his arm around Sofie for support and followed the doctor through a door at the back of the building. The kitchen, at least, harbored no beds for the sick and dying.
           The real Father Salazar wouldn't have thought such a thing. Guilt pressed down on Luke. That old man probably would have been out there praying over each and every patient before allowing himself a bite.
           But I'm no priest.
           Did it matter? Luke had been raised Catholic, and he knew the routine, so to speak. With Father Salazar's Bible and other paraphernalia, he could manage this gig until he disappeared into the night.
           So what if he was a fraud? The people of Redemption needed a priest for comfort. It was the least Luke could do to repay them for a hot meal.
           And the very least he could do for Father Salazar.
           After a bowl of Irish stew as good as any Luke had ever tasted, he felt almost human again. The Widow Fleming he and Sofie'd already heard so much about looked like Betty Crocker, only older. Dressed in black from chin to foot, she was a tiny but imposing white-haired figure who ran the kitchen–and everyone in the makeshift hospital–with a firm hand.
           Dr. Wilson returned to the kitchen with Zeke just as Luke finished the best piece of apple pie he'd had in exactly eleven years. His grandmother and Mrs. Fleming would've enjoyed exchanging recipes.
           No, he mustn't think about his grandmother, because she wouldn't want to know her grandson was an escaped convict, rather than an executed murderer.
           When Luke saw the expression on Zeke's face, he knew the time had come for him to play priest for real. His captor's long face looked even longer now, and he kept his eyes lowered.
           "We've lost Mrs. Judson," Dr. Wilson said quietly, placing his hand on Zeke's shoulder. "But Zeke was at her side when she left us."   The doctor heaved a heavy sigh.
           Luke pushed away from the table and stood, as did Sofie. She put her hand on Zeke's shoulder and said, "I'm so sorry."
           What would Father Salazar say? Luke swallowed the lump of cold hard fear in his throat and imitated Sofie's behavior. Even with amnesia, her manners were considerably better than his. Of course, prison hadn't required manners.
           "I'm sorry," Luke said, feeling his face grow hot; his words seemed so damned inadequate. Zeke had said he and his wife were Baptists, so maybe the new widower wouldn't find fault with Luke's shortcomings as a priest. I can't believe I'm doing this.
           Zeke nodded, then met Luke's gaze. "Like I done told you, Padre, the missus ain't–weren't–Catholic, but I know she'd like for you to speak a few words over her."  
           "If...if you'll show me what you want me to do, and where we need to do it, I'll try my best," Luke