Although Lance had suspected this would come sooner or later, the force of her explosion shocked him into stillness for a few seconds. Then he pulled her into his arms and rocked her like a baby. She clutched handfuls of his shirt and pounded her fists against his chest in her anguish. Still, he held her, cradled her, and absorbed her misery. It lasted a long time. At one point she buried her face in his shoulder and simply screamed out her fury and torment. He felt tears of commiseration spring to his eyes, and he blinked them back.
“I hate them! I hate them! I wish they would all die!” she moaned. Rearing back, she looked into Lance’s face. “They were going to kill me. I heard them say it. How could they hurt me like that?”
“Because they’re just what you said, sick bastards. Sick defective human beings.”
Brook returned her face to his shoulder. “Sometimes I can’t get the smell of them out of my head. Or their faces. Or the sound of their voices. And it nauseates me. My skin crawls with the horror of it.” Brook wept quietly now. But, the outburst had a therapeutic effect, and she gradually grew calmer.
“I’ll help you,” Lance said, his cheeks moist with his own tears. “Brooklyn, when you need to, you can pile it on me. You can yell and cry and talk until it’s all drained out of you. It’s poison, you know. We just need to get it out of your head so it can’t make you sick and sad anymore.”
She pulled back from him just far enough to look into his eyes.
“Out of my head and into yours?” she asked bitterly, realizing the burden he was willing to accept. All those horrid images and feelings, the nightmarish memories, the painful and obscene acts. He would take them on?
“I can handle it, Brooklyn,” he said, even as he wondered privately if he really could. It made him crazy knowing how she had suffered. It made him want to kill.
She held his gaze, and he looked past the fading bruises and the tears into her soul. A slow but irresistible force passed between them, and she felt his lips come softly against hers. Ever so tenderly, he claimed her mouth and she melted into him. He felt the flutter of her heart and the sweet press of her body. Groaning, unable to stop, he deepened the kiss and she responded with a yielding sigh. Then, he felt her body stiffen and he went dead still. He quickly moved his lips from hers and said, “Brooklyn. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Brook watched as a stricken look crossed his face. Even in her fear she realized he meant her no harm. She took a deep breath and moved slowly away from him. “No. No, I let you. Something deep inside me wanted to kiss you as much as it seemed you wanted to kiss me. I just can’t. You understand, don’t you?”
“Oh, Brooklyn, of course I understand. It’s okay,” he said, resisting the passion he had felt, knowing he had to shove it away, forget it. “I just lost myself there for a minute. I only wanted to comfort you. It’s just comfort. It’s a human need, you know. Sometimes people just need to hold each other.”
She fell into his voice, that voice she remembered from her fevered first days here, consoling her, soothing her back into forgetful sleep. She loved to listen to his voice, its deep resonance and the gentle lilts, the comforting words. A part of her wanted him to hold her, longed to just bury herself in the safety of his arms. At the same time, she wanted to push away from him, to keep him at arm’s length, not to trust anyone, especially a man. These conflicting desires flooded her senses, clouded her thinking. She shoved them aside. This man was gentle, he only wanted to help her; and God knew she needed help. Unable, no, unwilling, to give in to her misgivings, she leaned back into his embrace. She let him hold her, comfort her; and she perceived him as pure and good, the complete and utter opposite of the men who had abused her. The thought brought more tears to her eyes and she hiccupped a sob.
Lance stroked her hair softly. “It’s okay, Brooklyn. I’m here. It’s okay.”
Brook let all thoughts drift away as another flood of tears escaped the barriers she thought she had in place. Lance held her gently, making soft, almost cooing noises.
As Lance consoled Brook, he couldn’t help but wonder at the kiss he had shared with this woman. It was nice. No, not nice, better than nice. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it; she wasn’t his Ellen. Lance hadn’t kissed another woman since way before he and Ellen married. They had dated all through college. Ellen had been his true love. But this woman, she stirred thoughts that had been long buried, and he needed to bury them again. He wasn’t ready and Brook sure as hell wasn’t. Still, he held her in his arms in a long moment of closeness that was sweet and soft as summer rain.
After a time Lance became aware of the wind picking up, whistling around the corners of the cabin. Glancing at the window, he noted the darkening of the day as the next storm raced over the mountainside. He carried Brook to her bed and laid her on the mattress.
“I need to stoke the fire,” he said softly.
He stirred the embers, threw on some logs, and then returned to her. She reached for him, eyes pleading. “Would you hold me? Please? Just hold me.”
Crawling into the narrow bed, he pulled her close. She placed her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest. He held her until she fell asleep. Soon, he drifted too, and they napped well into the early part of the evening.
Chapter 37
They woke still wrapped in each other's arms and parted almost reluctantly. Brook knew being in Lance’s arms should feel wrong, but it didn’t. She was a married woman. But after all she had endured, she decided she would not feel guilty about taking consolation where she could find it. Maybe it was an excuse, but she didn’t care. She had felt safe and protected next to Lance, and it answered a deep and wrenching need in her soul. Besides, it was innocent. It was as he said, just two people drawing comfort from each other. And although he hadn’t told her so, she got a strong feeling that he had found solace in their closeness as much as she had.
“It's a little late for the cocoa we planned; how about some supper instead?” Lance smiled as he stood and stretched.
“Sounds good,” she replied. “Can I help?”
“You could peel the potatoes. Let me get you over to the table.”
Brook held up a hand, palm out. “No, Lance. I need to try to walk. I have to stop babying my feet sometime.” She stood and made her way to the table while Lance stood by in case she needed him. It wasn’t an easy trek, and she secretly congratulated herself for the progress.
Once she was seated at the table, Lance brought her a bowl, knife, and four potatoes. He prepared the meat for cooking and fired up the stove. They talked while they worked.
“We used to have a big garden,” Brook reminisced.
“Back home in Denver?”
“God forbid! That would never go over where I live now.” Brook smiled. “We have a gardener, but he doesn’t really garden. He just takes care of the grounds. Mows, trims the hedges, waters, that type of work. I wanted a vegetable garden at the house but Clark was outraged and said, ‘That’s what farmers markets are for. That’s who you used to be; that’s not who you are now. Why don’t you join the garden committee at the club?’
"Yeah, right. I didn’t want to tell people what to plant and where. I wanted to do the work myself.” She sighed. “No, I was talking about my childhood. My family always had a big garden and we all pitched in to tend it.”
“Did you like it?” Lance asked.
“Yes, I did. I loved it, actually. From setting out the seeds and plants, right up until we harvested the fruits of our labor. Of course, weeding wasn’t much fun. That’s why Dad always used a thick layer of mulch. I take it you like gardening?”