A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

Dean watched Anna closely. She took a step away from him, toward the brother that only she could see.

Her expression was suddenly anguished. “Ian, you aren’t—Ian, no!”

She launched herself forward. Dean caught her in his good arm when she would have stumbled.

She clung to him, limp, dazed, still gazing longingly at that empty spot.

“Please. Don’t go,” she whispered to her brother. “Stay with me. With us. Please. Stay—”

A faint whisper of sound lifted the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. He sensed, more than heard, the words.

“... love you, Anna. Be happy.”

“Ian,” Anna said, sobbing, sagging against Dean’s side. “Oh, Ian.”

Holding her, Dean strained to see, but there was only darkness. Silence. “Is he—”

“He’s gone,” she whispered. “He just... faded away from me. I—I can’t see him now. I can’t... hear him.”

Dean held her close as she wept. Her tears were hot and wet against his throat.

This, too, was a part of being alive, he musedly poignantly. Joy, grief, passion, heartache, laughter and pain. It was only love that made it all worthwhile.

Anna didn’t cry long. Dean didn’t think she was the type who would shed tears often. Taking a deep, ragged breath, she drew back and wiped her face with the back of one hand.

“He’s gone,” she said. “Maybe it was meant to be this way. His name has been cleared and I—I’ve found you.”

She touched Dean’s cheek with her wet, warm fingers.

He caught her hand in his. “Regrets?” he asked.

“I’ll miss Ian,” she murmured. “I’ll always miss him. It’s as if—as if a part of me has been torn away. But... no. I have no regrets, Dean. I love you. If I had to make the choice again—” She swallowed, then finished in a whisper. “It would still be you.”

He drew her close and kissed her, trying to soothe her sorrow with his love.

After a moment, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. And he knew she would be all right.

Mary Anna Cameron was meant to savor every moment of life. Through her, Dean would learn to savor it, too.

IT WAS VERY LATE when Dean and Anna slipped into the inn, hand in hand. The others had gone to bed, probably still presuming Dean needed time alone.

Both almost giddy with emotion, Dean and Anna closed themselves in his room, trying to be quiet. They didn’t turn on the overhead light; the soft illumination from the bedside lamp was enough for them then.

“How will we ever explain who I am?” she asked, turning to him in question.

“We’ll think of something,” he assured her, reaching for her. “Later.”

She slid her arms around his neck. Her hand lingered at the thick bandages protecting his stitches. “Your arm,” she murmured, pressing a kiss on his neck, just above the injury. “You mustn’t strain it. You’ll pull the stitches out.”

She felt so good in his arms. So slim and supple and sweet. “I don’t care,” he murmured, his mouth hovering over hers.

“Well, I do,” she said firmly. “It’s my job now to take care of you. Starting tonight.”

He laughed softly. “You’re living in the nineties now, Anna. Women don’t ‘take care’ of their men the way they used to.”

She frowned. “People still fall in love in the nineties, do they not?”

“I assume that they do. Some of them, anyway.”