Chapter 25
Sheridan
“Luke,” I managed, unsure of what else to say. “I don’t think that’s such a …”
Whoa. I had emotional whiplash from meeting Harvey Pooler and the guy’s insistence that Luke was my rescuer, and then Luke’s total denial of it still had my neck in a twist, and the rest of me writhing as well.
“Please, Sheridan. It’s important.”
If he was going to tell me he … tell me he … anything. Argh! But something about his tone made it impossible for me to deny any request. That, and the possibility that he’d decided Harvey Pooler was right.
“Okay. But it’s getting late.” It was after nine. I had a full client load in the morning.
We hung up, and I paced the room.
Could Luke have been the one who’d pulled the heavy log off my hips? The one with the unruly brown hair and the strong jaw who’d spoken so kindly and given me the words of life?
The disconnect between the guy who refused to sugarcoat anything and the guy who had promised me that everything would be all right seemed too great a gap to span. Plus, he himself had denied being a rescue worker. He’d been a teenager. Could he have possibly possessed the physical strength to lift the beam, and then to lift me to safety?
I could stretch belief, but that far?
My doorbell rang, but the door came flying open, and in walked Luke, looking haggard but earnest. He hadn’t even waited for me to answer it. He acted as if this was his own house. He walked straight to the kitchen, placed a sack on the counter, and then reached for a glass in the cupboard behind the potted plant.
He filled it from the faucet and drank the whole thing, like his life depended on it.
Luke walked to the fridge and pointed at my shopping list under my Yellowstone magnet. “Next time put key lime greek yogurt on the list. It’s my favorite.”
“Uh, okay?” I stood on the far side of the kitchen island from him. “What is going on?” He wasn’t scaring me, but he wasn’t really himself. “And once again, how did you know where to find that glass?” I asked. “Everyone who ever comes over here gives me a hard time about my kitchen organization. They say it makes no sense.”
“That’s just it, Sheridan. I know these things about you because … I’m not sure why.” He looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. “There are several items missing on the wall of the staircase.”
“There are?” No, there weren’t. I didn’t have anything on the curving wall of the staircase. I’d always meant to buy prints of Thomas Dewing artworks and place them, there, but I’d never gotten around to it. Art was expensive, and—
“Here. I got this for you.” He reached into the sack he’d brought, and he brought out a framed piece of art. “You recognize it, don’t you?”
I accepted it, and then looked at the painting, my fingers clutching at the wood frame so hard it creaked. “A Thomas Wilmer Dewing print,” I whispered, my throat constricting.
I looked up at Luke, my eyes shifting between features of his face. “He’s been my favorite ever since I saw the collection of his works at the Freer Gallery in Washington, D.C., as a kid. How did you—”
“That’s just it, Sheridan. I just know.” He shook his head. “Dewing! I couldn’t find that name for the longest time. I thought it started with a T, not a D.” He kept shaking his head.
“But, how?” My head spun. I gazed down at the American artist’s atmospheric green landscape. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” I should have thanked him immediately. “I love it.”
Then, he reached in the bag and pulled out the other item.
“Bluebirds?” I stared at the box, running a finger along the corded gold elastic tied in a neat bow. “Luke.” These were nearly impossible to come by this time of year. My eyes pricked with tears, and I blinked hard. “I need to know. I’m ready to know.”
He took the box of chocolates from my hands and set it on the counter. Then, he led me up the stairs. He took me toward my bedroom.
I dug my heels into the carpet. “Luke, I’m not—”
“It’s not like that.” He turned toward me. “This is your bedroom.” He frowned. “Our bedroom.”
Um, what? I felt myself pull away, but the look in his deep brown eyes softened me. “Go on.”
“While I was injured and in the hospital, I dreamed a dream.” He pushed open the bedroom door.
My bed was unmade, of course. Half of me wanted to race over and tidy it, but I resisted. His confused gaze seemed like it was looking not at the room but at a different version of it, on a different planet or in a different time.