He chuckled hollowly. “I’m learning not to ask a lot of questions around here.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked out the shattered door.
BAILEY WANDERED into her bedroom, vaguely intending to pack. She knew the packing had been only an excuse. Truth was, she was waiting for Bran. She still had trouble thinking of him as Ian.
She had to believe he would come back to her. She refused to accept the possibility that he had left her life forever. She could still so clearly picture the look in his eyes when he’d told her that he didn’t want her hurt.
He had to care—at least a little, she told herself.
She only hoped she hadn’t driven him away with her angry accusations.
She loved him. She didn’t know when it had happened, though she suspected it might have been that moment when he’d turned to her after their first meeting and told her she had a lovely smile. Or maybe it had been last night, when he’d awakened her from her nightmare and had so obviously raged against his helplessness to comfort her. She hadn’t understood then. Now that she did, her heart twisted in sympathy for him.
Would he, like his sister, be given a second chance to live? And if so, would he want to spend that new life with her? She loved him enough to accept what he was. Whatever he had to give. If only some miracle would grant them the opportunity.
She wanted so much to see him. To talk to him. But she didn’t know where to look. She could only wait, and hope that he would come back to her soon.
She stood, deciding she might as well start packing while she waited.
Her suitcase was in the closet, next to the box of old books she still hadn’t taken the time to go through. She took out her suitcase, then paused, and looked at the box with a frown. Some impulse she couldn’t understand made her set down her suitcase and kneel beside the box.
She dug through the musty volumes inside, giving only cursory glances at the titles and publication dates. She set them in hastily organized piles on the floor, one stack for the ones she knew to be worthless, another for the ones that merited further inspection. She didn’t know why it suddenly seemed so important to do this now.
The journal was at the very bottom of the box. Bailey opened the cover, then caught her breath when the name written inside leapt out at her.
Amelia Townsend Cameron Peavy. The name Peavy had obviously been added later, in different ink.
Though the writing was splotched and badly faded, Bailey could make out many of the words. The first entry was dated February 16, 1896. “My babies are two days old, diary. My twins. Ian and Mary Anna.”
Ian. Mary Anna. Bailey sank onto her heels, her breath caught in her throat. This journal had been written by Ian’s mother, over one hundred years
ago.
It was almost too much for Bailey to take in.
She kept reading.
They were his final gift to me—born on Valentine’s Day. And though I know it sounds foolish, I made a special wish for them on the night they were born. I prayed that they would not leave this earth without finding the love my darling James and I were fortunate enough to share. I wished that they would each meet someone who would love them absolutely, and that they would feel that same unconditional love in their own hearts. Would that I had the power to grant my own request for them.
“Oh, my God,” Bailey whispered, looking from the diary to the old photograph she’d left on the nightstand.
She had accused Ian of using her. Of manipulating her to fall in love with him so that he could come back to life. But that hadn’t been what his mother had wished for him. She had wanted him to beloved—and to know true love in return.
She remembered again the way he’d looked at her. The undeniable pain in his face when she’d unintentionally flinched away from him. The helpless rage he’d expressed when her safety had been threatened.
Mark and Cara and the others had seen him. Heard him. Felt him.
And there had been blood on his mouth.
A wave of hope swept through her, making her hands tremble. She forced her attention back to the journal, hungry to learn all she could about Ian’s former life.
11
September 18, 1911
It is becoming harder to pretend to the children that I will recover. We have been telling them that Mama just doesn’t feel well. We have led them to believe that I need only rest and time. I can’t bring myself to tell them what I now know to be true.
Ian suspects, I think. He has become so quiet during the past months. So withdrawn. Perhaps he is preparing himself for the separation he dreads. I do not believe he has shared his fears with his sister. She seems as happy as ever. She waits on me so sweetly, as though her tender care will hasten my recovery. My poor darlings.