Trent. I mean, he’s aware on some level that his father wasn’t very nice to us, that what time he did spend at home was mostly in front of the game with a beer.”
“But you didn’t want to tell him his father is an abusive asshole.”
“Who ought to be … what was it? Put down like a rabid dog?” Faint humor glimmered in Penny’s eyes. “No, I don’t think it would be good for Matt to hear something like that about his father. It’s better if he doesn’t know.”
“Even though that means he blames you for the divorce.”
Penny shrugged, her gaze shifting sideways. “Someday, he’ll understand.”
Not if he doesn’t have all the facts, Dylan thought, but he didn’t say it. How could he? When he was every bit as guilty of selective truth telling.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, all through the afternoon’s repairs to the garden path’s paver stones, and the easy dinner that followed. Even through the fun of watching Penny and Matt relax enough together to joke around, and the joy of being included in the warm circle of light surrounding this little family, Dylan couldn’t stop pondering the reasons behind Penny’s refusal to tell her son why she whisked them off to Sanctuary Island to start a new life.
He was still thinking about it hours later, staring up at the ceiling over his bed, when a muffled shout of terror from down the hall tore through the night.
It was Penny.
Chapter Eight
Without conscious thought, Dylan was on his feet and moving silently down the darkened hallway toward Penny’s room. Every sense was alert to possible danger, but the only creaking boards he heard were under his own bare feet.
When he reached the door to the bedroom he’d visited just once, to change the light bulb in the tiny closet, he paused to listen.
All he heard were the comfortable sounds of an old house settling. And then, a tiny whimper from inside Penny’s room had him pushing open the door and slipping inside.
Dylan scanned the room for anything out of place. But it was the same as in his memory: tidy and pretty, if a little bare of personal touches. Penny considered the room she lived and slept in to belong to the Harringtons.
Still, a woman with Penny’s vibrant spirit couldn’t help but leave clues about her personality scattered throughout the room. He’d grinned at the froth of royal purple lace spilling out of a half-open drawer, and ran a furtive palm over the hand-stitched quilt folded at the foot of the queen-sized bed. There was a framed photo of Penny with a younger, chubbier Matthew, faces squished together happily and shot from the improbable angle achieved by Matt holding the camera at arm’s length.
Dylan had looked at all of that and recognized traces of Penny in the impersonal, tastefully decorated room—the value she placed on fun, her pride in her family and its history, her hidden sensuality.
Another high-pitched noise from the bed got Dylan moving. Penny made a small lump under the covers, and as he approached the bedside, that lump thrashed against the blankets as if caught in a net.
“Penny,” he whispered urgently, his hands hovering. He didn’t want to startle her awake to find a man looming over her bed, but he couldn’t let her stay trapped in a nightmare, either.
The thrashing continued until Dylan had the bright idea to switch on the small antique Tiffany glass lamp on her bedside table. Amber light flooded the queen-sized bed, picking up the dull gold threads in the patterned duvet cover as Penny finally stilled.
“Wha—?” She pushed the blankets down as if they were suffocating her, breath still coming hard and heavy, and blinked up at him sleepily.
Dylan’s blood leapt, then rushed south. Penny may have been having a nightmare, but this situation was entirely too close to one of Dylan’s better dreams. The glory of her chestnut hair spilling over the white pillows, the hazy sweep of her lashes and the sleep-warm flush of her
“But you didn’t want to tell him his father is an abusive asshole.”
“Who ought to be … what was it? Put down like a rabid dog?” Faint humor glimmered in Penny’s eyes. “No, I don’t think it would be good for Matt to hear something like that about his father. It’s better if he doesn’t know.”
“Even though that means he blames you for the divorce.”
Penny shrugged, her gaze shifting sideways. “Someday, he’ll understand.”
Not if he doesn’t have all the facts, Dylan thought, but he didn’t say it. How could he? When he was every bit as guilty of selective truth telling.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, all through the afternoon’s repairs to the garden path’s paver stones, and the easy dinner that followed. Even through the fun of watching Penny and Matt relax enough together to joke around, and the joy of being included in the warm circle of light surrounding this little family, Dylan couldn’t stop pondering the reasons behind Penny’s refusal to tell her son why she whisked them off to Sanctuary Island to start a new life.
He was still thinking about it hours later, staring up at the ceiling over his bed, when a muffled shout of terror from down the hall tore through the night.
It was Penny.
Chapter Eight
Without conscious thought, Dylan was on his feet and moving silently down the darkened hallway toward Penny’s room. Every sense was alert to possible danger, but the only creaking boards he heard were under his own bare feet.
When he reached the door to the bedroom he’d visited just once, to change the light bulb in the tiny closet, he paused to listen.
All he heard were the comfortable sounds of an old house settling. And then, a tiny whimper from inside Penny’s room had him pushing open the door and slipping inside.
Dylan scanned the room for anything out of place. But it was the same as in his memory: tidy and pretty, if a little bare of personal touches. Penny considered the room she lived and slept in to belong to the Harringtons.
Still, a woman with Penny’s vibrant spirit couldn’t help but leave clues about her personality scattered throughout the room. He’d grinned at the froth of royal purple lace spilling out of a half-open drawer, and ran a furtive palm over the hand-stitched quilt folded at the foot of the queen-sized bed. There was a framed photo of Penny with a younger, chubbier Matthew, faces squished together happily and shot from the improbable angle achieved by Matt holding the camera at arm’s length.
Dylan had looked at all of that and recognized traces of Penny in the impersonal, tastefully decorated room—the value she placed on fun, her pride in her family and its history, her hidden sensuality.
Another high-pitched noise from the bed got Dylan moving. Penny made a small lump under the covers, and as he approached the bedside, that lump thrashed against the blankets as if caught in a net.
“Penny,” he whispered urgently, his hands hovering. He didn’t want to startle her awake to find a man looming over her bed, but he couldn’t let her stay trapped in a nightmare, either.
The thrashing continued until Dylan had the bright idea to switch on the small antique Tiffany glass lamp on her bedside table. Amber light flooded the queen-sized bed, picking up the dull gold threads in the patterned duvet cover as Penny finally stilled.
“Wha—?” She pushed the blankets down as if they were suffocating her, breath still coming hard and heavy, and blinked up at him sleepily.
Dylan’s blood leapt, then rushed south. Penny may have been having a nightmare, but this situation was entirely too close to one of Dylan’s better dreams. The glory of her chestnut hair spilling over the white pillows, the hazy sweep of her lashes and the sleep-warm flush of her
Similar Books
