The newcomer sat off by himself, watching the confusion, detached. He couldn’t care less about the worm. He was waiting. Though he didn’t know for what. The plan would be made known to him in due time. He just had to be patient.
Sighing, Sam scribbled the finishing touch, the signature of Bantam’s creator, S.N.C., and dropped his pencil. Then he tore off the piece of drawing paper, folding it carefully and sealing it in an envelope for mailing in the morning—on time to meet his deadline. He methodically put all evidence of the work he’d been doing in the battered satchel, which he placed back on the closet shelf. Patience was the lesson of the week—for the comic strip’s new character and for him.
Sam needed to find a truckload of it somewhere.
ON THURSDAY NIGHT, Cassie was getting ready for bed with the eleven o’clock news playing in the background—from the console television in her bedroom, the little portable in her luxurious ensuite bathroom and the nineteen-inch set out in her kitchen—when the doorbell rang.
Assuming the caller was a patient with an emergency, she quickly spit out her toothpaste, wiped her mouth and pulled a pair of jeans on over her nightgown. Grabbing from the hamper the black, short-sleeved cotton shirt she’d worn to work that day, she drew it over her head while she made her way to the front of the house. It never occurred to her to be alarmed, to think anything dangerous might be waiting on her porch. This was Shelter Valley. A lot of people didn’t even lock their doors at night.
She opened the door, and when she saw who was standing there with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, her heart started to pound so hard she actually felt sick.
“Why are you here?” she asked. It was too late to go back, to return to the lives they’d once lived. And for her and Sam, there was no going forward.
He shrugged, the dark strands of his hair almost touching the shoulders of his white shirt. His eyes glistened beneath the porch light. “I’m a little lost here, Cass,” he said, giving her a glimpse of the past—a glimpse of who they used to be. Two people who told each other everything.
She couldn’t do that anymore, could no longer be that person. Her hold on happiness was too fragile. Too tenuous.
“Perhaps you should go back where you came from, then,” she said, trying not to cry as she rejected the intimacy he was offering.
“I belong here.”
“Since when?”
He looked down at his tennis shoes and then back up at her. “Can I come in?” he asked softly.
“No!” There was nothing for them. No point. She’d built a life for herself inside this house—a house in which there was not one bit of evidence that Sam Montford had ever existed.
“Please, Cass,” he said, his eyes begging her. “You know if we keep standing out here, everyone’ll have us married again by morning.”
“Which is why you need to leave. Now.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can.”
“I find myself needing a friend tonight, Cass. And you’re the best friend I ever had in this town.”
Why tonight in particular? Why did he need a friend now?
“Then why don’t you go back where you and Mariah came from? You obviously have friends there.” God, she hated what he was doing to her. How she was acting around him. But if she didn’t get defensive, she’d crumble into little pieces at his feet.
She’d needed him so badly for so many years. And had broken down when she’d lost him. She’d learned that breakdown was not an exaggerated or metaphorical description. It was exactly what had happened. And it had taken a lot of years to rebuild herself, to repair all the damage. She just couldn’t afford to allow Sam Montford to enter her life again.
“There’s nobody back there. I’m all Mariah’s got. Her family was killed six months ago,” he said, and then rushed on as though he knew his time with her was limited. “Mariah saw the whole thing, Cassie, and I’m losing her.”
Sagging against the big oak door, Cassie slowly pulled it back, gesturing Sam inside.
Not for him. Never again for him. But for that sweet child with the haunted eyes.
“Where is she now?” Cassie asked, leading Sam from the homey comfort of her living room in to the library she’d decorated with impeccable formality and never used. She took one of the leather chairs; Sam slouched down in the other.
“She’s asleep,” Sam said. “Thankfully, once I get her to give in and go to sleep, she usually stays that way. She used to have a lot of nightmares, but they’ve decreased in the past month or so. My mother’s sitting with her.”
Cassie sat forward, already preparing to kick him out. “Carol knows you’re here?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I told her I was going out for some air. She encouraged me to take an hour or two for myself.” That sounded like Carol Montford. Tending to her family made her happy. And she’d had so few opportunities in the past ten years. There’d only been her husband, James, who needed little—and Cassie.
Sam grinned suddenly, shocking her with the intensity of the effect that smile had on her. “She warned me not to drink and drive.”
In the grip of remembered companionship, Cassie said, “As if you ever would.” Sam had always been responsible about stuff like that.
About everything.
Except fidelity.
“Is Mariah deaf?” she blurted out, nervous, needing to get him out of her house.
Eyes clouded, Sam shook his head. “No.” And then, looking around, said, “You don’t have a dog?”
Cassie’s toes were cold. She pulled her feet up on the chair, covered them with her hands.
“I’ve been traveling more than I’ve been home during the past couple of years,” she said. “It wouldn’t have been fair to have a pet and then desert it so often, but I did recently acquire a collie puppy. I’m waiting for her to be weaned from her mother before I bring her home.”
Why did it matter that he know this? That he not think her lacking—cold and immune to the animals she’d dedicated her life to assisting?
“I can’t believe how fat Muffy is.”
“You need to convince your parents to put her on a diet, Sam. She almost died a few months ago.”
They shared a concerned look. Muffy was special to both of them. They’d picked her out together as a comfort to Sam’s mother, who’d been so sad after Sam moved out.
“Her food was cut in half as of yesterday.”
That reminded her of Sam, the old Sam. See a need, take charge, make it better.
Or at least try….
“Why doesn’t Mariah speak?” she asked, focusing somewhere just to the right of his chin. There could be no more meeting of the eyes. Sam’s looks touched her in ways she could no longer welcome. “Does she talk to you? Is it just strangers she’s so shy with?”
Frowning, Sam lifted his hands, then let them drop back to his knees. “She hasn’t said a word in six months. To me or anyone.”
“You said her family died. What happened? A car accident?” The tragedy sure explained some of the sadness she saw in Sam’s eyes. The sadness reached out to her in ways