Finding the Dream (Dream Trilogy 3)

"He won't come," Josh said to himself as he went after his friend. "Michael." He hurried across the terrace, over the yard, feeling like a fool for chasing a man who walked like a drunk beside a clopping horse. "Goddamn it, Michael, wait." He caught Michael by the shoulder, spun him around, and stepped back involuntarily at the molten fury that spurted out.

"Get away from me. I'm done here."

"I'm not. You listen—"

"Don't fuck with me now." Ignoring the pain in his hands, Michael shoved Josh back. "I'm in the mood to hurt somebody, and it might as well be you."

"Fine. Take a shot. The shape you're in, I could blow on you and knock you down. You idiot, you stupid son of a bitch, why didn't you tell me you were in love with her?"

"What the hell difference does it make?''

"Only all. You stood there and let me dump a pile of shit on you and did nothing. All you had to do was open your mouth and say it. I thought you were using her."

"I did use her, didn't I? I used her, then I tossed her aside just like you said I would. Ask her."

"I know what it's like to be in love with a woman and be scared boneless you won't make it work. And I know what it's like to want it so much you screw it up. Now I know what it's like to be a part of making two people I care about miserable. And I don't like it."

"This isn't about you. I'd figured out it was time to move on before you had your say. I've got other plans. I've got things…"

He trailed off, turned to press his face into Max's warm throat. "I thought she was dead." His shoulders shuddered, and he didn't have the will or the energy to shrug off Josh's hand. "I looked down and saw her lying there and thought she was dead. I can't remember anything else until I was down there and put my hand on her throat. Felt her pulse beating."

"She's going to be all right. Both of you are."

"She wouldn't have been down there if I hadn't told her it was done. If I hadn't hurt her." He drew back, rubbed his hands over his face, smearing blood. "She's being taken care of, so that's fine. I've got no place here."

"You're wrong. No one's shutting you out but you. Christ, Mick, you're a mess." He took a good look at the battered hands, the torn and bloody clothes. He didn't want to think, quite yet, of how close his sister and his friend had come to dying. "Come back inside, let Mrs. Williamson fuss over you. You look like you could use a drink, too."

"I'll get one when I'm done."

"Done with what?"

"I told her I'd get the damn chest, didn't I? I'm going to get it."

Josh opened his mouth as Michael started away again. Arguments, he decided, were fruitless. "Hold up. I'll get Byron. We'll do it together."

Chapter Twenty-one

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An hour later, dirty and a little sore, Josh and Byron brought the small chest into the parlor. There'd been a couple of dicey moments during an aftershock when the three of them had been caught crouching on the ledge, wondering if they'd lost their minds. Fortunately it had passed, and now the chest, still unopened, sat on the coffee table. Waiting.

"I can't believe it," Margo murmured. She brushed the wood with her fingertips. "It's real. After all this time." She smiled over at Laura. "You found it."

"We found it," she corrected. "We were always meant to." Her head throbbed dully as she reached for Kate's hand. "Where's Michael?"

"He didn't—" Josh bit back an oath. "He needed to check on his horses."

"I'll get him for you," Byron offered.

"No." It was his choice, Laura reminded herself. And her life had to continue. "It's so small, isn't it?" she mused. "So simply made. I suppose all of us had imagined something huge and ornate and extraordinary, but it's just a plain, serviceable chest. The kind that lasts." She took a deep breath. "Ready?"

With Margo and Kate beside her, she put a hand on the latch. It opened easily, soundlessly, the interior releasing a scent of lavender and cedar.

Inside were a young girl's treasures, and dreams. A rosary fashioned from lapis with a heavy silver crucifix. A brooch of garnets, rose petals drying to dust. Gold, yes, there was gold, glinting as it was poured out of a leather pouch.

But there were linens, meticulously embroidered and carefully folded. Handkerchiefs with lacy edges turning yellow. An amber necklace, a ring crafted to fit a small finger and studded with little ruby stones that glistened like new blood. Pretty pieces of jewelry that suited a young woman not yet married and a locket that held a curl of dark hair bound by gold thread.

Tucked in with them was a small book with a red leather cover. Inside was the careful convent-school writing of a well-bred woman: "We met on the cliffs today, early, when there was still dew on the grass and the sun was rising slowly from the sea. Felipe told me he loved me, and my heart was brighter than the dawn."