Amanda Stevens - Bishop's Rock

After propping the photograph against the dresser mirror, she went out to the balcony to enjoy the late-afternoon breeze. Leaning her forearms against the railing, she stared across the rugged countryside, trailing her gaze up the vertical face of Bishop’s Rock. Hard to believe she’d once climbed to the top for the simple pleasure of viewing a sunset. The shadowy summit seemed forbidding to her now and as mysterious as her past.

The back of her neck prickled as a feeling of being watched crept over her. She slid her gaze across the landscape, telling herself she was imagining things. After everything she’d been through, it was only natural to be wary. Nightmares still plagued her sleep and she had caught herself more than once glancing over her shoulder for no discernible reason. Even though she couldn’t remember the vicious attack, her instincts had built a protective wall. All her anxieties would start to dissipate as she healed, the doctor had told her. Once she felt safe again, the barriers would come down. Give it time.

The sun had dropped below the treetops. She could hear the wind in the trees and the eerie whispering sound the water made as it bubbled up from the underground springs. She had just turned to go inside when she caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Someone was coming up one of the trails, walking quickly as if on a mission of some great purpose. Glancing behind him, he left the trail and strode across the grounds toward the house, stopping short at the edge of the patio when he saw her staring down at him.

Their gazes touched and for a moment, Lea felt suspended in time. Frozen in the terror of her nightmares.

She knew that man. She didn’t know how she knew him, but she was certain she’d seen him before. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Andrew, slim and as fit as her husband, but there was something unsettling about this man’s vitality. He seemed stealthy and cunning and dangerous.

He was dressed in jeans, dusty boots and a plain black T-shirt—all of which had seen better days. His dark hair was clipped short for convenience and scruff shadowed his lower face.

He squinted up at her so that she couldn’t tell the exact shade of his eyes, but they were light and piercing and she imagined them to be as cold as ice.

Her impulse was to retreat back into the room and lock the door, but the same instinct that had erected those protective walls held her rooted to the spot as a voice in her head whispered, Don’t let him see your fear.

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