When Lightning Strikes

Sleep. The word filled her with a sinking sense of despair. He made it sound so easy; go to sleep. He might

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as well have suggested she try brain surgery. "I'm not tired."

He frowned. "I can see it in your eyes."

His eyes saw more than she wanted to reveal. The silence between them thickened, became laced with undercurrents.

Unable to stand it, she spun away from him and went to the stove. "You want a cup of coffee?"

"Yeah," he said as she reached for the tin pot. "Coffee would be great."

She pulled a speckled blue cup from the shelving behind the stove, poured him a cup of strong, black coffee, and crossed back to the bed.

Without meeting his gaze, she handed it to him.

He took it, set it down on the bedside table. "Thanks."

"No problem."

After that, the silence fell again, thick and heavy and strained.

Killian threw the damp washrag down on the bedside table and leaned back in his chair, letting out a harsh sigh. God, he was tired. He raked his fingers through his tangled, dirty hair and came forward, resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands.

He listened to the slow, steady sounds of Viloula's breathing. The old woman was sounding better, and her fever had finally broken about a half hour ago.

Tiredly he lifted his head and glanced sideways.

Lainie sat sprawled in a chair in the corner, her legs pushed out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Her head was cocked to one side, her mouth parted slightly. Her arms hung limp at her sides.

As he watched her, she frowned in her sleep, made a soft, breathy sound that might have been the word no.

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She moved restlessly, her head snapped suddenly to the left. Then she quieted again, fell silent.

She looked painfully vulnerable right now, and the need to go to her, to wake her from her fitful sleep, was powerful. So powerful .. .

He frowned and forced his gaze away from her. He'd made a decision, he'd given her what she said she wanted: a way out of this hellhole. As soon as Viloula wakened, Killian was going to send Skeeter and Lainie to Fortune Flats with his blessing.

There, he thought, that ought to do it. He was acting like a goddamn hero, doing what she asked of him. So why did it make him feel empty and lost? As if he wasn't doing the right thing at all.

Why Skeeter and not you?

"She's asking too much," he said softly, wincing at the desperate tenor of his voice, wondering bitterly who he was trying to convince.

"Alaina?" Viloula's cracked, reedy voice cut through his thoughts.

Relief rushed through him, banished the fear and apprehension for a heartbeat. "Thank God. Viloula?" He turned to Lainie, raised his voice. "She's trying to say something."

Killian's voice, ragged and hoarse, roused Lainie from her stupor. She blinked hard, sat upright in her chair. "What?"

"She's trying to say something."

Lainie stumbled to Viloula's side and skidded into the chair, clutching the seat edge. She scooted closer to the bed, leaning over Viloula. The old woman lay motionless, looking frail and withered against the linen sheeting. Purple shadows puddled beneath her eyes; her lips were colorless and dry.

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