The House on Blackberry Hill (Jewell Cove 1)

The crew showed up with materials, and then Tom sent them out on a rush repair job in town. It left him with too much time to think. As he cut in around the ceiling of the kitchen with his paintbrush, he knew this morning had nothing to do with his feelings for Erin. It had been all Abby. It was her independent streak mixed with her vulnerability, her sharp tongue tempered by sweetness. She wasn’t like any woman he’d ever known. It had been her wide eyes and soft lips and the way her scent curled around him. Finally touching her skin had been like putting a match to paper.

The big question was, what was he going to do about it?

A younger, rasher Tom would have said pursue and not thought twice about it. But there was something about Abby that made him pause and take greater care. It was in her eyes this morning when she’d asked him to stop. When she’d said she couldn’t go through with it. It occurred to him that Abby was probably keeping secrets of her own, and why shouldn’t she? Everyone had a right to their own secrets.

With the edges painted, Tom refilled the paint tray and went to work with the roller, applying the paint in an even white layer over the ceiling. There was also the small matter of Abby’s questions this morning about him and Erin. He’d answered honestly, but there were things she didn’t know. Things that no one knew. When he’d met Erin he’d been a simple carpenter on a crew while she came from old money. The summer they’d met, Tom had fallen hard, and by the time he realized that he was Erin’s chosen form of rebellion against controlling parents, it was too late. He’d already fallen in love with her. And what had started as a way to thumb her nose at her parents had become more for her, too.

She’d gone slumming just to anger her folks, who had kept the leash pulled just a little too tight. In the end, though, the pressure had been too much and Erin had buckled. It was Josh who’d gotten the parental stamp of approval. Josh, the doctor. Josh, more polished and worldly and a much better prospect to parents who settled for nothing but the best for their little girl. They hadn’t been crazy about her joining the army, but let it go because in a few years she’d be the respectable wife of a doctor who was in practice with her daddy, rather than scraping by with an ordinary carpenter living in a two-bedroom cottage on the beach.

As much as he’d loved her, it had made Tom angry that she hadn’t fought harder for them. He would have given her everything. He could have given them a great life if she’d only been brave enough to take it.

That bitterness had lasted far too long. Tom hated that it had driven a wedge between himself and his cousin. Erin had at least been honest when she came to see him just before she left that September. She’d told Tom that even though she cared for Josh and he looked better on paper, she loved Tom more.

It had been torture. Knowing came with a heavy price—years of loneliness, a half-life—all for nothing. Because the sordid truth was that Erin had come to him one last time, begging him to be with her, and Tom had turned her away.

It was the last time he ever saw her.

His maudlin thoughts were interrupted by a cry coming from the hallway; a desperate, keening sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He put the paint roller down as alarm washed over him. There it was again … and he was certain he heard the word “no.”

He crossed the kitchen in long strides, heading for the hall, panic making him rush. He saw Abby right away, standing at the top of the landing, weaving unsteadily. Her body gave a strange jerk, her hand slipped on the banister, and she leaned forward almost drunkenly. Heart in his throat, he raced up the steps two at a time and barely caught her as she collapsed. With the weight of her limp in his arms, he started to tremble as consequences ran through his head. If he hadn’t been there, she would have tumbled right down the hard wooden stairs clear to the bottom. A fall down those hardwood steps could kill a woman …

The blood drained from his face. Just like Edith.

Abby opened her eyes, staring at him with such a stricken look that panic rushed through his limbs. “Shh,” he comforted her, holding her close, the adrenaline rushing from the residual fear of knowing that a split second later and she could have been badly hurt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, Abby. You’re safe.”

* * *

After wasting fifteen minutes idly pacing her room and listening to the sounds of Tom working downstairs, Abby knew she couldn’t avoid him forever. This was her house, he was her contractor. What was she going to do, stay upstairs all day? She laughed. Yeah, like that would work. No, what she needed to do was just get it over with, Abby thought as she gathered her resolve and left her room, wondering what on earth she was going to say to Tom. She’d figure it out as she went.

As she reached the open hallway overlooking the foyer, Abby stumbled and caught herself on the railing. The moment her hand touched the finished wood, she was flung into her nightmare, the one she’d had weeks ago but never finished.

Suddenly another scene came to life before her eyes. Instead of her gleaming hardwood floors, the hallway was covered in a dark red carpet from the stairs to the railing above the foyer. Creamy gold wallpaper replaced her soothing modern palette. A glance through an open doorway showed her bedroom, decorated in yellow and green. It was her house, yet subtly different. Everything was off.

Especially the air, which smelled of scotch and cigar smoke, fear and desperation.

The next moment, Abby could feel herself moving toward the stairs, unable to control her motion, the sounds of her breathing loud in her ears. Her heart seized with fear as she made out a figure standing at the banister. What was going on?

And suddenly she was at the top of the stairs. Tears streamed down her cheeks. A terrified child with brown curls stood behind her, eyes wide with terror as she clung to her skirts. On the floor was an open suitcase, clothing scattered over the floor as if the latch had been violently ripped open. And in front of her was a man, his face cold and cruel in the shadows.

Elijah! Abby recognized the man from her dreams. Shocked, she tried to say something, anything, but she was frozen, trapped in the scene like she was reliving a memory, only the memory wasn’t her own.

She couldn’t breathe. Elijah was holding a baby in his hands, a look of violent rage on his face. The baby was strangely silent, not even crying in the chaos crashing around her.

Please, Elijah, please! Let me have my baby. Let me have Iris! Abby heard herself say. Only it was Edith’s panicked, pleading voice. Thin at first, as if from far away, and then closer, louder, until it screamed in her ears. I’ll do anything, I swear. Just please, give me the baby! Don’t take her away from me!

She reached for Elijah’s arm, crying as she begged for him to leave her child unharmed. Insisting that Iris was innocent in all of this and it was her fault.

She moved toward him, hands outstretched, asking for the baby.

And his arm pushed her away as he called her a dirty whore.

That was how it had happened. With weeping and begging and violence. As if in a dream, Abby felt her great-grandmother’s pain and desperation as her own. A cry escaped her lips in shock and pain as a hand tightened on her arm, the fingers strong, digging into her flesh, shaking her. Cold rushed through her body, freezing her to the spot, and she felt the world sway. She was Edith. And she was the one in danger.

Elijah shoved her away with a thrust of his arm. She heard herself cry out, the dream fading into reality. As Abby felt Edith fall, she was dimly aware of the sound of footsteps rushing toward her as her hand slipped on the mahogany banister and she lost her footing.

An odd buzzing sound filled her ears as she slid down, down, down …

A pair of strong arms caught her.