Sharon Ashwood - Possessed by an Immortal

“It’s time to go,” he said at last.

His low voice startled her. She turned from staring out at the fiery sky. The light inside seemed a thick, pearly gray—neither day nor night. His scowl was deadly serious. Not the face of a healer, but of something far more dangerous. She prayed he would keep his word. She prayed he was really on her side. If she guessed wrong, it would be Jonathan who suffered.

“Okay.” She pulled on her coat. It was still wet in the folds, but most of it was warm from the stove. “Is it far to the plane?”

“About a ten-minute walk.”

With Jonathan, it would take twice that. The boy was asleep and not ready to be disturbed. She started putting on his shoes. They were cold and damp to the touch, and must have felt awful. He woke up with a noise of protest.

“Sorry, baby,” she said, crouching down before the chair so she could get a better angle.

He jerked his foot back, his lower lip jutting and his eyes resentful.

“C’mon, we’ve got to go.”

Bree reached for his foot again. She was exhausted, with a numbness that came from no sleep all night. She felt as though she were moving underwater.

But her fingers closed on air as Jonathan’s feet disappeared under his bottom like darting fish. As she reached under him, he curled into a ball, drawing the blanket into an impenetrable cocoon.

“Jonathan!” Her voice held an edge she didn’t like.

The wad of boy and blanket shrank tighter. She rested her forehead on the arm of the chair for a moment, summoning patience. Forcing the issue would simply start a struggle that would last half the morning. Her son—oh, bliss—had inherited her stubborn streak.

She changed tactics. “If you’re good and put your shoes on right away, we’ll find waffles for breakfast.”

There was no response.

“With syrup and bacon.” Bree studied the blanket ball for signs of surrender. It was hard to read. “I’ll count to three. If I don’t see your feet, no waffles for you.”

She poked the blanket with a finger. That got her a giggle. Good sign.

“We have to go.” The doctor’s voice was urgent.

“In one minute. I have to get his shoes on.”

“Now.” Mark picked up the boy, blanket and all, as if he weighed no more than a stuffed toy, and braced him against his shoulder. Jonathan made a protesting noise, but not for long. Mark hushed him, one large hand ruffling the boy’s hair. He gave Bree a look made inscrutable by a pair of dark sunglasses. No hint of a smile.

She tried not to notice how well the dark glasses showed off the fine sculpting of his lips and chin. She wasn’t sure she wanted to like him, much less lust after him.

“You bring his shoes and my medical bag,” he commanded.

Bree obeyed, stuffing the shoes in her pack, but every instinct wanted to rip Jonathan out of the doctor’s arms. That was her son. He had interfered. Still, she followed Mark out of the cabin into the damp morning air.

Jonathan seemed perfectly content loafing against the man’s shoulder. That stung, too. She had grown used to being her son’s only protector. Hot, tingling anger crept up her cheeks, barely cooled by the mist.

Mark led the way beneath the trees, moving in a swinging stride that made her trot to keep up. The sun was up now, slanting across the dew-soaked greenery. Where autumn had kissed the leaves, golds and reds shone like scattered jewels. Her temper eased. It was hard to hold on to anger in the face of such beauty, and she was too tired to make the effort.

Easier by far to watch the lithe movement of his body through the forest. It was like watching a panther on one of those nature shows. The play of his muscles against tight denim did something to her insides.

As the path began to angle downward, she heard the distant purr of the plane’s motor beneath the incessant chatter of birds. The sound made her heart lift. On the mainland, they could get a decent meal, a bus to civilization, medical help, a new place to hide. Bree didn’t know what she would do after that, but there would be an after, thanks to that plane.

And thanks to Mark. He stopped at the edge of the trees, Jonathan still propped against his shoulder. He held the boy one-handed, which impressed Bree. Her son was getting far too big for her to do that for long.

She followed Mark’s gaze to the sky, now kissed a fading pink that reflected in the silvery water. Ropes of mist shrouded the end of a wooden pier. This spot was farther south than where she had landed last night.

“Where’s the plane?” she asked.

“There,” Mark said, nodding his head to the southeast.

Bree drew a step closer, suddenly far too aware of being near a good-looking man. It wasn’t just his handsome face that unsettled her. It was the fact of his physical being: tall and broad enough to shelter her from the searching breeze; strong and alert enough to offer protection. And yet—that was a problem in itself. It felt like an ice age since she’d noticed a man, and it felt risky. She’d shut down that part of herself for far too long. How good was her judgment? You’re better off alone. You know that.

And yet, solitude had its own vulnerability. Standing next to Mark reminded her how raw her loneliness had left her. Every kindness left her close to tears. But what if trusting him is a mistake?

She didn’t see the plane at first, but in a moment or two, it emerged above the trees right where he indicated. The stubby body made the craft more of a duck than a swan, but it made a graceful enough landing. It began gliding toward the shore, leaving a glittering wake behind its pontoons.

Bree took a step forward, but Mark grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”

High above, a raven croaked.

“What?” she asked, the sun losing all its warmth.

“Your friends from last night have joined us,” he said quietly. “Or maybe they’re here for me. Either way, they’re not bringing roses. Wait until the plane docks before making a move.”

“How do you know they’re here?” she said under her breath. “How did they know the plane was coming?”

A sudden wave of panic hit her. Did he call them? He was holding Jonathan. Was this a trap? She wanted to grab her son and fade back into the woods, gathering the sheltering green around her the way Jonathan had hidden under the blanket.

For a split second, Mark studied her from behind the dark glasses, somber and silent. As if sensing her uneasiness, he handed her Jonathan. The boy settled on her hip, and the doctor tucked the blanket around him with practiced efficiency. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he’d ever had a child of his own.

Holding Jonathan calmed her instantly. The next moment, Mark had drawn the Browning from under his jacket and was checking to make sure it was loaded. She clutched her son closer, glad that the walk had lulled him back into a doze.

The plane glided closer, turning to one side before the pilot cut the motor and drifted in next to the pier. Bree watched as a tiny arched door opened just behind the wing. A man jumped out, using one pontoon as a stepping stone before hopping onto the pier and grabbing a mooring rope. Using one foot to stop the drift of the seaplane, he anchored the craft securely to the pier.

Mark stepped from the tree line, motioning Bree to stay put. A bullet slammed into the rocks at his feet. Bree gave a startled cry that woke Jonathan. She clutched him, backing into the trees as he started sobbing in her ear.

Mark dropped to one knee, returning fire. He was angling the shot upward and to the right. Whoever was shooting was higher up on the rise. Bree saw the pilot of the floatplane draw a gun, scanning the land behind and above her. Even from this distance, she could tell he was hesitating, not sure what to do.