She felt part of her revolting at the idea. And it was all she could do to not step back and to reject everything he was saying—or at least everything she thought he was saying. Keeping her counsel to herself, she shifted him gently on the bed and quickly took off his shoes, eased up his belt and shirt, and pulled a blanket over him.
As she sat on the bedside beside him, she whispered, “How long has this been going on?”
“Not long,” he whispered back.
“Can you pull out of it?” This was her only acknowledgment thatsomething—definitely beyond the scope of what most people would say wasnormal—was happening here.
“Trying,” he whispered back. And then his body went stiff and rigid.
She stared in shock, as he trembled in reaction to something. She cried out, “Simon! What’s going on? Break free.” And she tried to shake him out of it. When that didn’t work, she winced and hauled back with her right hand and smacked him as hard as she could, followed by an almost audiblepopin the air and then a groan from Simon. When she checked him over, he lay here, his body slowly calming, and his breath slowly balancing out.
When he opened his eyes and looked at her, she whispered, “Sorry,” with a question in her tone.
His lips quirked. “No,” he said. “This time is about the only time I’ve ever been grateful for getting smacked.”
She shook her hand, feeling the weight of her slap. “Can’t say that it was an easy thing to do either. Are you back?”
His gaze narrowed with interest. “Interesting phraseology.”
“Look. I don’t know any of this stuff,” she said in frustration, “and whatever I just saw? I’m not sure I want to either.”
“Hey, neither do I,” he groaned. “I’m blaming Grandmother for this.”
“Is that fair?” she asked, tilting her head sideways. “I don’t think she’s around to defend herself.”
“Not only is she not around,” he said, “she warned me ahead of time, and I didn’t listen.”
“Ah, so you’re the one who’s to blame.”
He winced. “If you want to put it that way, then yeah.”
“Is there any other way?”
“She told me”—he paused—“and I’m saying it clearly,” he said, as if the effort to speak were still hard for him, “that, if I ever started down this road, there was no going back.”
“So why the hell would you start down this road?” she asked, staring at him, puzzled.
He blinked; as far as he was concerned, she already knew the answers.
She narrowed her gaze, thought about the little she knew, and then she nodded. “The children.”
He nodded slowly. “I couldn’t let the children keep getting hurt,” he said quietly.
She sat back with a sigh, staring down at the man who had more principles than she’d expected and more honor than she could have hoped for. “I’m glad you did.”
His lips twitched again. “Maybe,” he said, “but not when I’m caught in something like this.”
“You’re out now though, right?” she asked in alarm.
He nodded. “I am out now.”
“Well, thank God for that,” she muttered. She got up and said, “How about I put on coffee?”
“Yeah, how about it.”
And, with that, she bolted safely to freedom.
In the kitchen, she made coffee, her mind going over the scene, and she’d never seen anything like it. It was a bit hard for her to even stomach any of this. And yet, at the same time, was it his fault? Did he have anything to do with any of this, or was he as much of a victim to the circumstances as she was? She’d always considered herself honest and yet a pragmatist. So what was that feeling that sent her racing to his side?