He reminded himself that it had worked out for Anna. Maybe… maybe the same thing could happen for him and Bailey.
But, no. He had nothing to offer her. No job, no future, no security, no home. The inn belonged to Dean and Anna now.
He had no knowledge of her world, her society, her history, the technology she so casually took for granted—even her words were foreign to him at times. He would be useless to her, no better than those men in her past—indigent, uncertain, dependent on her to help him find his way.
The imagery made him cringe.
He knew he should stay away from her. But he was consumed with the need to know that she was all right. To see her. To hear her voice. To be close to her… even if he couldn’t touch her. Could never have her.
Suddenly overcome with rage and frustration, he threw back his head and let out an anguished shout.
There was no sound in the grayness. Only the dim echoes of pain and hopelessness reverberating through his mind.
8
November 11, 1903
Gaylon and I returned from our honeymoon trip to New Orleans yesterday. Though I was weary from the long train ride, I tried to enjoy the welcomehome party the staff had waiting for us. It. went very well. Ian and Mary Anna were on their best behavior, and young Charles participated a bit more than he usually does. I smiled until my face ached.
To an outsider, we would have appeared to be a very happy family, indeed. I, however, was much too aware of how mistaken that impression would have been.
I know how unhappy my children really are about the marriage, though to their credit, they are trying to support me. I sense that Charles isn’t at all excited about leaving the farm where he grew up to move into the inn with his new family. As for me, I knew on my wedding night that I had made a sad mistake.
Gaylon tried to make it pleasant for me. He was very patient and gentle. But though I will try to be a good wife to him, I cannot feign enthusiasm for an act that I find holds little appeal for me now. When I allow myself to remember the way it was with James, I become almost physically ill at the thought of letting Gaylon touch me that way again. There is no joy for me in lovemaking now, only regrettable comparisons, though I will do my best to hide my true feelings.
Poor Gaylon. He deserves better. But I have nothing more to give.
I should have known better. I should have realized that a marriage without love is wrong. I should have listened to my children, instead of all those well-intentioned people who do not truly know me. But it’s done now. And for all our sakes, I will make it work. I must lock the bittersweet memories away and concentrate on my children’s future.
BAILEY WAS NOT overly impressed by the Destiny police force, not even when the chief himself arrived at the inn the next afternoon to report the latest development in the investigation.
“Just thought I’d let you people know that we’ve found the truck that hit you,” the mousy-looking man in the wrinkled brown uniform reported officiously. “It was stolen from a motel over on the other side of town. Whoever was driving the vehicle when it hit you was long gone. He abandoned the truck in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly.”
Bailey, Mae, Cara and Mark sat in the lobby of the inn, paying close attention as Chief Roy Peavy made his announcement. They exchanged a look of shared dissatisfaction when he finished.
“That’s it?” Bailey asked, the first to speak up. “That’s all you have?”
Peavy nodded stiffly, his gray eyebrows beetled over his cool brown eyes. “That’s all we have at this point. We’re still looking for clues and interviewing potential witnesses. We expect the perpetrator to be apprehended. But it takes time to complete an official investigation.”
He sounded as though he was quoting from an official police-spokesperson’s phrase book, Bailey thought in exasperation. “What time was the truck reported stolen?” she asked.
“Fifteen minutes before you say the accident happened. The owner was… entertaining a lady friend in a motel room when the truck was taken.”
“He left the keys in it?” Mae asked.
Peavy shook his head. “It was hot-wired.”
“No one saw anything?” Mark asked with a frown. “It’s not as if it were stolen in the middle of the night. It couldn’t have been much past nine o’clock.”
“As I said,” Peavy replied, “we are interviewing potential witnesses. Unfortunately, the staff and clientele of this particular motel don’t tend to be overly cooperative with the police. We suspect that the truck was stolen by some joyriding teenagers, probably drunk or high on something. When they hit you, they most likely panicked, abandoned the truck as soon as they could and hightailed it out of there.”
“What about the scene of the wreck?” Bailey asked. “Are you looking for clues there, as well?”
Peavy looked a bit confused. “We’re sure we have the truck that hit you. The one we found matches the description you gave us, and the left side sustained heavy damage. We’ll test the paint scrapings against your car, but I’m sure we’ll find that it’s the right vehicle.”
“What about skid patterns, or whatever you call them? Has anyone studied them?” Bailey asked. “Can you tell if the other driver tried to avoid us? Was there any indication that he applied his brakes? Did his driving appear to be erratic, or was it controlled?”
Peavy was looking at her now with a suspicious frown. “You make it sound l