Page 9 of Four Calling Birds

“Stuck them on the lawn and lit them on fire?” he said with a slight smirk under that full-grown beard that hadn’t been there while he was in the service. “I thought about it.”

I chuckled, placing my head under his chin.

“You should have.”

He snorted. “Well, I didn’t.”

He put me down on a tiled sink. The mirror behind it was murky, with brown spots from age. The thing was ancient. It may be as old as the house itself.

“When was this place built?” I asked, absently.

“1850.”

“Hmm,” I grunted. “Almost as old as you.”

He turned on the hot water. He smirked at my remark, but otherwise said nothing.

“I know you like your baths hotter than the flames of hell,” he said with a small laugh. “Probably makes you feel right at home.”

I bit my lower lip, trying not to laugh at his well-timed jab. He got up, and started to unravel the bandages on my stomach. I winced, as they pulled at the clotted blood. The tugging pain of the stitches made my eyes water, but I refused to cry.

He stared down at the dried blood, those prominent brows knitting together.

Time had not been cruel to William “Mack” McClanahan. In fact, the silver at his temples, and the fine standing of gray through his lush chestnut hair made him look… distinguished. Almost professorial. Like he should be in an Aran sweater, on a high-backed leather chair, in a study, with a leather-bound book, and a pipe in his lips. Coupled with his build, he was the hot professor who could also go out and chop wood for the enormous fireplace.

He ran his fingers over the black stitches. Fifteen in total.

I knew he was counting them.

“I was stabbed,” I told him, before he could ask. “I got burned. We’re not sure how. I think they were suspecting me for a while. So, they stabbed me. But I fought them off and got away. The problem was that the knife had a serrated edge.”

Oh serrated fighting knives were the work of the devil. Like barbed arrows, those suckers caused as much damage coming out as they did going in.

“I went on the lam with it in me, so I didn’t bleed out” I placed my hand on his. The one that was lightly tracing the ugly, jagged horizontal scab that pierced between the lowest intercostal space. It was surrounded by red and purple bruising. “But I caused more damage with all the commotion, until I could hijack a car and get to the extraction point.”

His hand came up to cup my cheek. I realized that my jawline sagged more now, than it had when he last saw me. I knew that my wrinkles were more defined, and my cheek bones looked pale. I wasn’t the lithe, youthful thing he had tried to hold down in marriage. Maybe that’s why he was more willing to sign the demise of our marriage now.

“Oh, Lotte.” He called me by the nickname that only he had ever used. His forest green eyes met mine, and I found myself staring at the face that had stopped me dead in my tracks at the Bad Monkey bar in Fayetteville all those years ago.

“I’ll be fine, Mack.” I wasn’t fine. Can all the memories from years ago come flooding back in a second? Could all the feelings that were built over years of marriage return in a blink of an eye? And why did that hurt more than the bruising on my ribs? “The stitches inside and out will dissolve by themselves. Other than the occasional difficulty breathing, I’m mostly fine.” I was vastly understating everything. “Just tired. The safe house wasn’t great for convalescing. It was a cold ass storehouse, with a cot.”

“I dunno how great this house will be for it either,” he unbuttoned the top of my trousers, unzipping the fly. "No central air. You gotta keep the fire going to keep this place warm. It's pretty old school."

"Just like you," I teased, event hough he wasn't much older than me. He just always looked older, not because of wrinkles or grays. There was something in his eyes that was timeless. Like he could be any age all at once. I always imagined it was the same quality you might see in Dorian Gray, or any of the immortal Anne Rice vampires.

"Exactlylike me."

I held my breath, willing my eyes not to shudder closed as he leaned in to me. He smelled like coffee. Strong coffee with vanilla.

“I can do that myself.” I tried to stand up, but he pushed me back down with a firm hand.

“Or I can do it for you,” he said, with a slight shake of his head. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. And nothing I don’t have the right to see.”

I balked, and snorted. “Therightto see?”

“Yeah.” His hand traced down to the waistband, pushing it down gently. “I’m still your husband. I still have the naked rights. It’s the law.”

“The naked rights?” I said through a small laugh.

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