Page 78 of Sanctuary at MacLeod's Cove
The metallic taste of blood from her split lip.
And, overwhelming everything, was the profound sense of relief as she’d stepped into Sam’s arms and he’d told her, ‘he’s safe. Liam’s safe.’
It was this last memory that she clung to because it counteracted all the other negative ones. She clung to it and one other fact, which was indisputable — a sense of hope had emerged from the tragedy.
Alistair was dead.
The words repeated in her head every few minutes like an echo in a chamber from which it couldn’t escape.
On the one hand, she and Liam were safe. On the other, she felt a massive sense of guilt. Alistair was dead because of her.
She closed her eyes tight shut as she remembered her last sight of him, lifeless, tied to a stretcher. The rain had plastered his dark hair to his face. It reminded her of the time they’d taken their first holiday together in Scotland. The wind had blown his hair off his face, and his blue eyes were even bluer than normal against his tanned skin. He’d been so handsome, and she’d believed herself to be so much in love.
But those early days of love hadn’t lasted. He’d always been possessive and controlling, and she hadn’t minded at first — had, in fact, mistaken the signs as love. But then he’d taken them too far and she’d woken up to what was really going on. Initially she’d thought she could help him change. But she’d failed, and she still couldn’t stop herself from feeling guilty, wondering if she’d only tried harder, Alistair might have reverted to being the man she’d first met.
‘Want some company?’ Sam asked.
Startled, she opened her eyes to find Sam standing in front of her
‘Yes. I came out to see if you were OK.’
‘I guess,’ he said. He looked up at the hills, and she could see the pain in his eyes. ‘I can’t get him out of my mind, you know? He looked so… so normal. Not the monster who’d grabbed you and Liam.’
’He wasn’t a monster. Not really. Just someone who was unbalanced.’
‘That makes it all the more of a tragedy.’
‘It does, but it doesn’t make what you did any less heroic.’
He grunted dismissively.
She took his hand in hers. ‘Sam, what you did was amazing.’
‘It doesn’t feel it.’
‘You didn’t kill him. He did that himself. What you did was save my son. And I’ll be forever grateful to you for that.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry I brought all this on you. I feel terrible about what you’ve had to go through.’
‘Maybe we should both stop feeling terrible,’ he suggested with a small smile.
‘Maybe we should.’ She patted the silvered wood of the bench. ‘That’s certainly something my great-grandmother Ngaire would have said. She was a very practical woman, Ngaire.’ She looked down at the bench, weathered through years of storms. ‘My great-grandfather built this bench for her. It was the place she always sat to drink her first cup of coffee of the day. So when she’d got too old to sit on the sand, the bench appeared.’
‘Nice.’
Jen laughed. ‘I remember she was cross at first because she thought everyone believed she was too old to sit on the sand.’
‘What changed her mind?’
Jen put her hands under her thighs and swung her legs as more comforting memories filled her exhausted brain. ‘I did actually.’ She turned to him with a grin.
‘Mum said that I always toddled off to be with her, holding my ‘coffee’ — milky weak tea — in my chubby little hands to keep her company. I refused to sit on the sand and always sat on the bench, so she did the same.’ She shrugged. ‘It became a habit after that.’
‘Hm,’ Sam said with a smile. ‘I remember Ngaire. Pretty formidable woman.’
‘Her bark was worse than her bite. She was always lovely to me. Told me all sorts about the family history. I think I’d like to write about it.’
‘Good idea. Might help with the writer’s block.’
‘True!’ She peered around to look at the house. ‘Trouble is, I haven’t got an ending yet. Ngaire never mentioned anything about not owning the house, so I still don’t know what’s going on there.’
