Page 25 of A Forgotten Heart
A log popped, echoing against the metal encasement of the potbelly stove. The bang resembled a distant gunshot, and his heart thumped.
Beside him, the evenness of Elsie’s breath calmed the erratic pace of his heart. She was safe, tucked into his side. So why this sense of urgency?
His heart squeezed as he watched her. Gently enough not to wake her, he lifted the fallen tendril across her forehead and smoothed it away. Love overcame him.
Someone had shot at him. If he was in danger, so was Elsie. The realization brushed something ghostlike against his skin.
In his dream, the shooter had remained hidden behind shadows, yet the shooter had been familiar. The feeling that he was missing something important tumbled in his gut.
He tucked his arm close to his body and shoved away the covers tangled around his feet. Once he’d freed them, he sat straight, but his head spun. The drab colors of the room took on hues he hadn’t known existed.
Warmth pressed against his back, soothing the erratic rhythm of his heart.
Elsie.
“Nick, what’s the matter? Do you need something?” Her voice was soft from sleep.
He forced a smile. “I’m fine. I need to?—”
What? Go protect her against an enemy he’d only seen in his dream?
“Do what, Nick? We’re in the middle of snowstorm. It’s the middle of the night.”
He turned to face her. His eyes wandered over her perfectly arched brows, her high cheekbones, her greenish-hazel eyes with flecks of blue around the irises.
He settled back against his pillow. “You’re the only woman I ever let boss me around.”
There. He only had a view of her cheek and nose, but he saw the soft smile. It faded too quickly, and the tension flared, growing bigger and bigger as the silence lengthened.
He began to whistle. He probably sounded silly and off-key, but the melody of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” rang out.
“My real pa used to sing that.” Elsie whispered so quietly he almost didn’t hear.
Nick’s tune cut short. “What do you mean your ‘real pa’?”
She grimaced. “It’s late. Let’s go back to sleep.”
He shifted so he could see her better. “What do you mean your ‘real pa’?”
She was silent for so long that he didn’t think she was going to answer, but then she said, “I was raised by adoptive parents. I vaguely remember my real pa singing that when we decorated a tree. That’s all.”
That’s all? “What happened?”
Shouldn’t he know about this? Maybe it was also something he’d forgotten. If so, what else was missing in the fog of his brain?
She fiddled with the blanket, clearly agitated. “It was so long ago. It doesn’t really matter now. I was four when my mom died.” Voice so quiet.
His breath caught in his lungs. “Losing a parent matters, El.” A fact he understood all too well. How could he have forgotten they shared this commonality?
She stared at the ceiling. “I don’t remember her much. More impressions than anything, but I know I loved her very much. And I remember she loved me.”
Nick pictured Elsie as a child. All strawberry-blonde curls and dimples. “How could she not?”
“Not everybody likes me.”
His head pounded harder. “What do you mean?”
She sighed. “The Westons, my adoptive parents—well, they aren’t the first people I stayed with. After my mom died, my dad was more concerned about running his farm than raising a daughter, so he left me with distant cousins. The Granbys. He told me he would come back for me.” She gave an unconvincing shrug. “He never did.”
