Dean just felt tired. And empty.
“It wasn’t all that exciting, Aunt Mae. I simply did some research.”
“And risked your life in the process,” Cara said heatedly, looking at his sling. “I can’t believe you let that mean old woman get away with hiring someone to attack you. She should go to jail for what she did to you, and so should the man who hurt you. Why, I—”
She stopped suddenly, her face going pale.
“What is it, Cara?” Dean asked.
“You, uh, wouldn’t want me to testify, would you?” she asked in little more than a whisper. “I mean, I’m grateful to you for taking us in and for being so kind to us, and I’m very sorry you were hurt, but I simply couldn’t appear in court. I—well, I just couldn’t.”
He wished he knew what Cara was hiding. What frightened her so badly. He hoped she would trust him enough someday to tell him. Maybe he will have regained enough energy by then to help her. For now, he let it go.
At the moment, he felt like a battered, fatigued, hopelessly lovesick male. Some hero, he thought with a private grimace.
Maybe he should leave Cara’s problems alone. Or let Mark try to convince her to share them with him.
“I wouldn’t expect you to testify, Cara,” he promised quietly. “As I said, I’m not pressing charges against Margaret. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over.”
Over. The word echoed in his mind. Was it over? Was Anna already gone, her mission completed?
Had she left without even saying goodbye?
It was all he could do not to groan aloud at the thought.
“What about that old photograph we found, Dean?” Mae asked, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Did you tell Mark about it? Is he going to run it with the article?”
“No,” Dean said, more sharply than he’d intended. He couldn’t bear the idea of making that photograph available for the morbidly curious. The photo would be all he had left of Anna; he wouldn’t share it, not with anyone.
“I don’t want the photograph mentioned, Aunt Mae,” he added more gently. “I have my reasons, okay?”
“Whatever you say, dear,” she murmured. Dean didn’t miss the look that passed between her and Cara. Both of them then turned to him. The concern in their faces touched him, even as it made him restless.
“I think I’ll go out for a walk,” he said. “It’s been a long day. I need to clear my mind with some fresh air.”
To his relief, neither woman volunteered to accompany him. They must have sensed that he wanted to be alone.
No, that wasn’t quite true. He didn’t want to be alone.
He wanted—he needed—to be with Anna.
HE WALKED STOWLY down the garden path, watching his steps in the darkness. He hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, but the full moon overhead gave just enough illumination for him to make his way in relative ease.
Midnight, he thought. February 14. Valentine’s Day. It would have been Anna’s one hundredth birthday. The thought made him shiver.
He hadn’t worn a jacket. The frosty night breeze bit through his shirtsleeves. His breath hung in the air ahead of him.
He hardly noticed the cold. Only the silence.
The garden shed had been torn down the day after Dean had been injured in it. He paused at the place where it had been, staring glumly at the pile of rubble waiting to be hauled away. He mentally replayed Anna’s frantic warning to him, the frightened, worried look in her eyes when she’d knelt beside him, sharing his suffering, despairing because she couldn’t do more to help him.
He turned away and looked back toward the inn. There was a light burning in his bedroom window; he’d left the bedside lamp on. He remembered how Anna had come to him, had kissed his injuries and soothed his pain. How she’d left him wanting her with an ache that hadn’t receded since.
An ache that would never be satisfied.
Pushing aside those disturbing memories, he walked on, to the end of the path where he’d first felt that cold, macabre feeling. The place where he’d turned and spotted Anna, looking at him with a plea for help in her haunted eyes.
He turned now, and saw nothing but the emptiness of the dark, winter-bare garden.