Cover Of Night

Creed had felt fear before; every good soldier had. He’d been in situations so tense he’d given up hope of ever relaxing his sphincter again – but he’d never before been frozen into inaction.

He tried to bolster his nerve. What was the worst that could happen? Neenah could reject him, that was all.

And just the thought of that was enough to curdle his blood and make him want to run. She could reject him. She could look at him and say "No, thanks" as if she were turning down nothing more important than a stick of chewing gum. At least if he never asked, he’d never have to face the sure knowledge that she didn’t want him.

But what if she did? What if she would say yes, if only he dared ask?

Shit. Piss. Fuck. He sucked in a deep breath and knocked – gently.

A moment of silence stretched out so long he fought a deep surge of despair. Her lights were on; why wasn’t she answering the door? Maybe she’d peeked out a window while he’d been dithering there and seen who it was, and didn’t want to talk to him. Hell, why should she? He was nothing to her; he’d made damn sure of that, by giving her a wide berth for years. He’d never said anything to her other than a few pleasantries whenever he was in the feed store, which wasn’t that often.

What the hell. He knocked again.

"Just a minute," came a faint call, and he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

A couple of feet from the door she hesitated, and said, "Who is it?"

That was probably the first time she’d asked who it was before opening the door, at least here in Trail Slop, he thought grimly, and he hated that her sense of security had been shattered.

"Joshua Creed."

"My goodness," he heard her mutter to herself; then the lock clicked and she opened the door.

She’d been getting ready for bed. She wore a white nightgown and a long blue robe that she’d belted snugly around the waist. He’d never seen her wear her silvery brown hair any way except pulled back from her face and held with a scarf, which struck him as very old-fashioned, or pinned up in a knot. It was loose now, straight and sleek, falling around her face and over her shoulders.

"Is something wrong?" she asked anxiously, stepping aside so he could enter. She closed the door behind him.

"I just heard about what happened Wednesday," he said, his tone a little rough, and he watched all expression fade right out of her face. She lowered her eyelids, closing herself off; his heart pinched as he realized Cal was right, she wasn’t handling the incident well and had no one to turn to. She’d been alone a long time, he thought, which was strange because everyone in Trail Stop thought of her as a friend. She’d been here when he’d retired from the Corps, changing little over the years. To his knowledge, she didn’t date at all. She ran the feed store, occasionally she would visit with a friend, and at night she came home alone. That was it. That was her life.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his deep voice coming out in little more than a rumble. Before he could stop himself, he reached out, gently brushing her hair back from her right temple so the dark bruise there was fully revealed.

She quivered, and he thought she might jerk back, but she didn’t. "I’m fine," she said automatically, as if she’d already provided the same answer many times over.

"Are you?"

"Yes, of course."

He moved closer, his hand touching her back. "Why don’t we sit down," he suggested, urging her toward the sofa.

Two lamps were all that lit her cozy living room, so he wasn’t certain, but he thought her color warmed. "I’m sorry, I should have – " She broke off and would have veered toward a chair; with a subtle shift of his body he prevented that, steering her back toward the sofa. She sat down on the middle cushion, hard, as if her legs had suddenly gone out from under her.

Creed sat beside her, close enough that his thigh would touch hers if he shifted just a bit. He didn’t, remembering suddenly that she’d been a nun.

Did that mean she was a virgin? He broke out in a sweat, because he didn’t know. Not that he would be having sex with her tonight or anything like that, but – had any man ever touched her? Had she ever dated at all, as a teenager? If she was completely inexperienced, he didn’t want to do anything to scare her, but how in hell was he supposed to find out?

And why had she stopped being a nun? The only thing he knew about nuns was that line "Get thee to a nunnery," which told him exactly nothing. Well, he’d watched a couple of episodes of The Flying Nun when he was a kid, but all that had told him was that when lift and thrust exceeded drag, flight was achieved. Big help that was.

All right, so he was scared shitless. But this wasn’t about him. This was about Neenah. Neenah being terrified and having no one to talk to.

He relaxed, sitting back and letting the overstuffed cushions cradle him. This was very much a woman’s room, he thought, looking at the lamps and the plants, the photographs, the books and knickknacks, some kind of sewing clamped in a round wooden frame and laid aside. There was a television, a nineteen-incher, wedged among books on top of what looked like an antique sideboard. A fireplace occupied the left wall, and glowing embers told him she’d lit a fire against the early chill.

She hadn’t relaxed; she was still silting upright: he couldn’t see anything except her back. Good enough. Maybe she needed that sense of anonymity.

"I was career Marine Corps," he finally said, watching her shoulders straighten in surprised attention. "In for twenty-three years. I saw a lot of action, was in a lot of tight situations. Some of them I thought I wouldn’t get out of, and when I did, sometimes I’d shake so hard I thought my teeth would crack. The combination of shock and adrenaline crash can do a number on you, take you a while to get over it."