once more for the hallway. The ceiling needed paint, and the primrose-dotted paper on the walls was starting to peel along the seam. He hadn't had time to see to the repairs, though, not between his patients and the various odd jobs he did for Aunt Claudia to repay her loan for his medical schooling.
His jaw hardened to think of the futility of that education.
Even after all these years, the thought of Gabriel's death hurt so much, he couldn't bear to look at his brother's daguerreotype. Sera had handled the loss better, but then, at ten years old, Sera hadn't lost her faith in God yet. During Gabriel's burial, she'd sworn she'd seen Mama taking his hand and leading him through the Pearly Gates. Papa, of course, had been livid to think that the wife who had cuckolded him was in heaven. He'd punished Sera for her sin of vanity—lying to seek attention—and he'd forbidden her to speak of her supernatural visions.
To this day, Michael still wasn't sure that Sera had been lying. But Papa had won: Sera stopped claiming she played with her dead brother's ghost. Gabriel had disappeared entirely from household conversations—until Papa's death. At that point, Sera had ventured her opinion that Gabriel acted as a sort of guardian spirit over his siblings. She'd even dared to confess that she saw Gabriel in her bedroom most nights.
Michael had been horrified to think that his sister had been suffering these grief-induced delusions for so long—and practically under his nose. He'd promptly prescribed a regimen of medicines and rest. Nowadays, she didn't talk much about Gabriel, and Michael liked to think that he'd finally found the right combination of medicines to put her plague of hallucinations in remission—if not to cure her outright.
And speaking of visions...
Michael's mind drifted, conjuring forbidden thoughts of Eden. Now there was a vision a man could believe in: autumn-colored hair, luminous green eyes, luscious breasts and hips. He'd known, of course, that Claudia was expecting kinfolk, but he'd never dreamed that visitor might be the object of his fantasies. For weeks after that night in Whiskey Bend, his dreams had raged like a fever out of control, filling his nights with visions of a tempestuous, red-haired siren who'd dried his tears with one hand and massaged his straining crotch with the other.
The very idea made him burn with lust and shame.
Of course, Eden had appeared closer to his own age in the dreams, which had finally dwindled over the years, but not to the point of stopping. In truth, some lonely corner of his soul welcomed their return. But then, he'd never expected to see the real, flesh-and-blood Eden again. He'd never thought he'd have tofaceher.
But that's not what's really troubling you, is it, Jones? he jeered in self-disgust. The real trouble is you took a gander at the live woman and came to realize what a poor substitute your imagination has been. She's beautiful.
A poignant yearning stirred inside him. To the memory of the Tennessee woman-child who'd touched his soul, he could now add the vision of Eden Mallory running across the street, casting her life to the fates, wrestling a wild-eyed horse to save a child. Today he'd seen the strength, the courage, the magnificent spirit of the woman his fantasies had maligned.
He supposed he should be grateful Eden hadn't recognized him. No doubt his clean-shaven mug looked quite different from the cut and swollen face she'd washed in the livery. With eight years of aging to add to the change, he doubted whether Eden would ever recognize him. He hoped his luck held out. He wasn't proud of his behavior that night in Whiskey Bend.
If only Eden weren't so... special, he mused wistfully.
Don't be a fool, Jones. Even if you were in the prime of your health, a woman like Eden Mallory wouldn't look twice at a failure like you.
The thought lanced his chest, cutting so deeply he actually clutched his heart. Suddenly his knees buckled. He stumbled
His jaw hardened to think of the futility of that education.
Even after all these years, the thought of Gabriel's death hurt so much, he couldn't bear to look at his brother's daguerreotype. Sera had handled the loss better, but then, at ten years old, Sera hadn't lost her faith in God yet. During Gabriel's burial, she'd sworn she'd seen Mama taking his hand and leading him through the Pearly Gates. Papa, of course, had been livid to think that the wife who had cuckolded him was in heaven. He'd punished Sera for her sin of vanity—lying to seek attention—and he'd forbidden her to speak of her supernatural visions.
To this day, Michael still wasn't sure that Sera had been lying. But Papa had won: Sera stopped claiming she played with her dead brother's ghost. Gabriel had disappeared entirely from household conversations—until Papa's death. At that point, Sera had ventured her opinion that Gabriel acted as a sort of guardian spirit over his siblings. She'd even dared to confess that she saw Gabriel in her bedroom most nights.
Michael had been horrified to think that his sister had been suffering these grief-induced delusions for so long—and practically under his nose. He'd promptly prescribed a regimen of medicines and rest. Nowadays, she didn't talk much about Gabriel, and Michael liked to think that he'd finally found the right combination of medicines to put her plague of hallucinations in remission—if not to cure her outright.
And speaking of visions...
Michael's mind drifted, conjuring forbidden thoughts of Eden. Now there was a vision a man could believe in: autumn-colored hair, luminous green eyes, luscious breasts and hips. He'd known, of course, that Claudia was expecting kinfolk, but he'd never dreamed that visitor might be the object of his fantasies. For weeks after that night in Whiskey Bend, his dreams had raged like a fever out of control, filling his nights with visions of a tempestuous, red-haired siren who'd dried his tears with one hand and massaged his straining crotch with the other.
The very idea made him burn with lust and shame.
Of course, Eden had appeared closer to his own age in the dreams, which had finally dwindled over the years, but not to the point of stopping. In truth, some lonely corner of his soul welcomed their return. But then, he'd never expected to see the real, flesh-and-blood Eden again. He'd never thought he'd have tofaceher.
But that's not what's really troubling you, is it, Jones? he jeered in self-disgust. The real trouble is you took a gander at the live woman and came to realize what a poor substitute your imagination has been. She's beautiful.
A poignant yearning stirred inside him. To the memory of the Tennessee woman-child who'd touched his soul, he could now add the vision of Eden Mallory running across the street, casting her life to the fates, wrestling a wild-eyed horse to save a child. Today he'd seen the strength, the courage, the magnificent spirit of the woman his fantasies had maligned.
He supposed he should be grateful Eden hadn't recognized him. No doubt his clean-shaven mug looked quite different from the cut and swollen face she'd washed in the livery. With eight years of aging to add to the change, he doubted whether Eden would ever recognize him. He hoped his luck held out. He wasn't proud of his behavior that night in Whiskey Bend.
If only Eden weren't so... special, he mused wistfully.
Don't be a fool, Jones. Even if you were in the prime of your health, a woman like Eden Mallory wouldn't look twice at a failure like you.
The thought lanced his chest, cutting so deeply he actually clutched his heart. Suddenly his knees buckled. He stumbled
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