Borrowed Time

  BORROWED TIME

  Copyright © 2004 by Edie Claire

  Digital edition for PubIt published in 2011 by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Dedication

  For all my minister friends.

  Let the record show: You guys rock.

  Chapter 1

  Sarah Landers wasn’t looking forward to the mail coming. She never did, except at Christmas, and the stale heat of midsummer that currently bathed western Pennsylvania was a far cry from Christmas. Not that she considered a mildly muggy, 87-degree day to be hot. She had grown up in southern Alabama. She knew hot.

  She stood at the narrow window beside her front door, twisting a lock of her long straight hair first clockwise, then counterclockwise, around her index finger. It was a nervous habit of longstanding, and though she had learned to squelch the urge in public, private moments such as this found her vulnerable.

  She didn’t want to collect the mail. But bills had to be paid; household matters, attended to. She couldn’t just let it sit.

  The box-shaped truck pulled away from her mailbox and rattled off around the rest of the cul-de-sac. There was no rush. She could go out after the truck was gone.

  She turned, and as her eyes swept over the spacious, nearly empty living room before her, her chest swelled with pride. By many people’s reckoning, the fifty-year-old split-level fell far short of a suburban showplace. But its sound infrastructure, funky floor plan, and grossly outdated interior fit her like a glove. It was the first real house she had lived in since she was a teenager, and for the last three days, she had been reveling in her newfound quarters with an enthusiasm as close to reckless abandon as she ever got.

  Which was to say, not very.

  Her belongings hadn’t filled a fraction of the available floor space. Two of the bedrooms were completely empty, and she liked them that way. Emptiness meant solitude, as did owning her own patch of earth. Apartment living had been more practical for a single woman, true, but the feel of grass beneath her bare feet was a simple pleasure she had missed.

  The mail truck’s motor revved, and she turned again to see it move out of sight. She drew in a breath, opened the door, and stepped out.

  Strong sun beamed from almost directly overhead, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. When the droning hum of a lawn mower met her ears, she dipped her chin as well. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  She cast a glance to her left. All was quiet with the young, two-income family next door. Numerous plastic three-wheelers and yard toys lay where they had been discarded, heating up in the summer sun. An obese black Labrador lounged on its back in the shade, acknowledging her presence with the partial lifting of one eyelid and a single, lethargic thump of its tail.

  She turned her head the opposite direction and found that dwelling, too, to be perfectly still. The septuagenarian inside was the only neighbor she had met thus far, and Sarah had liked her immediately, as she did most elderly people. Rose was an active, intelligent woman with better things to do than pay attention to her, which was exactly what she wanted. Sarah had read horror stories about nosy neighbors in suburbia, and she was determined not to fall victim. Her home was her sanctuary.

  She was halfway to her mailbox when the sound of the lawn mower grew suddenly louder. She raised her head just enough to see the front of a green push mower emerging from behind the brick ranch across the cul-de-sac. She averted her eyes.

  Of all the neighbors she had caught sight of, she wanted to meet the man in the brick ranch the least. She had glimpsed him through her front windows—getting in and out of his beat-up car, reading the paper on his porch, talking to passers-by as they walked dogs and pushed strollers—and he showed every sign of being just the sort of person she did not want around her sanctum. A chatty, gregarious busybody.

  She quickened her steps, keeping her head down until she arrived at the mailbox and could safely turn her back. Then she popped open the metal door and peered inside. Only a small pile. That was good. She reached in and pulled the papers into the glare of the sun.

  The bill on top was from the phone company. The envelope underneath made her stomach lurch.

  Sherman and Sylvester, Attorneys at Law.

  She flipped the envelope to the back of the pile. A furniture catalog addressed to Resident. A flyer for a carpet-cleaning company. The phone bill again.

  Sherman and Sylvester, Attorneys at Law.

  She exhaled, her mind racing. She could avoid the letter if she wanted to. Throw it away unopened; pretend it didn’t exist. She had done the same many times before; her skills as an ostrich were unparalleled. But this letter, she knew, should hold no surprises. She had heard the news already. Destroying the hard copy wouldn’t change what was to happen.

  Apparently, nothing could.

  She ripped open the envelope, dragged out the letter, and uncrumpled it with an irreverent flick of her wrist.

  Dear Miss Landers.

  They always called her Miss Landers. Never once, over the considerable course of her patronage, had they ever called her Sarah. She knew the formality to be both a show of respect and a subtle show of disapproval. They were kindly Southern gentlemen, but they had never quite understood where she was coming from, and that had seemed to bother them. She could sympathize. But she could not explain.

  As discussed in our conversation of July 12th, we must reiterate that due to the denial of your writ of mandamus to the Alabama Supreme Court, the ruling of the Circuit Court regarding the condemnation of your property on Angus Road in Lee County shall stand, and said property will be acquired imminently by the acquiring authority of Lee County, Alabama...

  Had the attorneys had multiple rows of teeth and cartilage for bones, she might have convinced them to take her case further. She suspected there might still be another appeal, another angle to pursue. But Sherman and Sylvester had scruples. They had told her at the outset that she had no case—that the proper procedures for eminent domain had been followed and that the compensation offered was more than just. They insisted that they had given her request their best shot—tying up the proceedings in a succession of carefully orchestrated legal knots, literally buying time. But the game was over now. They could hold off the inevitable no longer. She would only be wasting her money.

  As if she cared about that.

  Your legal access to the property will cease as of the 25th of July as previously stated, hence we strongly recommend that you remove any personal belongings from the house and grounds immediately, as demolition may commence at any point thereafter—

  She refolded the letter and forced it back into its envelope. Demolition. The county would build its precious bypass, no matter what stood in the way. They would destroy the house. Bulldoze the grounds. Level everything and pave it under a sea of asphalt. Maybe they wouldn’t find anything. Maybe they would seal up the whole accursed place like a tomb, locking all evidence of the past in an impregnable, government-maintained vault.

  Or maybe her life would be over.

  She slammed her mailbox shut and whirled around, only to find her gaze colliding with that of the man with the lawn mower. He was only a cul-de-sac’s width away from her now. She started.

  His steps slowed. He offered a smile. He waved.

  The blood drained from her face.

  He was wearing grimy cutoffs, old sneake
rs, and no shirt. He was the same man she had seen before, fully clothed, interacting pleasantly with others. But knowing that couldn’t stop the ripple of anxiety that coursed through her now. He was young—in his late twenties, early thirties, perhaps. Not excessively tall for a man, but still several inches taller than her. His tanned skin was drenched with sweat; his muscles gleamed in the sun. Deep brown eyes and a crown of tight, shiny black curls bespoke a Mediterranean descent. Greek, or perhaps Italian. Dark. Powerful.

  Menacing.

  She attempted to muster her wits, but her pulse pounded. She returned his wave with a stilted gesture and started back toward the house, cursing her timidity even as she fled.

  It was the letter, that was all. It had messed with her mind a little, but she would be fine.

  The lawn mower’s engine rattled to a halt, and her pace quickened. Surely the man hadn’t stopped mowing just to talk to her. Shouldn’t it be obvious she wasn’t amenable?

  She reached her front steps and lifted a foot. She didn’t want to be rude, but why should she feel obligated to interact with someone just because she lived near them? All she had wanted was some space and a garden—a homeowner had a right to be outside without being harassed.

  She jogged up a few steps. The flower beds beside her walk would be perfect for planting tulip bulbs in a few months, but right now, she would have to settle for autumn mums. Tulips wouldn’t come up till spring.

  She might not be here then.

  Footfalls sounded from her driveway. She took another step up, keeping her gaze trained on the ground. A couple more yards, and she would be safely inside again.

  Everything went black.

  Chapter 2

  Sarah’s head hurt. A sharp, prickling pain spread over the back of her scalp; the bones of her skull throbbed. Everything was still black. Where was she?

  She tried to open her eyes, but they didn’t seem to be working. She wondered if she was dead.

  "Are you all right?"

  Her lids flew open.

  Dark eyes peered at her from a fuzzy face. A halo of bright light rippled around its writhing, curly edges—black locks as alive as Medusa’s, brimming with prismatic beads of moisture. A drop of liquid struck her squarely in the nose.

  She had to be dead.

  She closed her eyes again, her heart pounding. It was him. He had come back for her.

  "Go away," she said, or at least she thought she did. He answered her, but she couldn’t make sense of the words. Her hip ached, her head was still being bludgeoned. Over and over. Bam. Bam.

  "Stop it!" she forced out, trying to curl up and dodge the blows. She couldn’t seem to move. "Dee! Where are you?"

  "Open your eyes!"

  The order pierced the haze of her mind like a gunshot. She obeyed.

  He hovered over her, his face close. She wondered if he looked as he did then, or if hell had transformed him into the demon he deserved to be. But she couldn’t tell. Her eyes wouldn’t focus.

  "Stop hitting me!" she ordered, straining to see. After a few seconds of concentration, she succeeded.

  The man hadn’t moved. He simply stared back at her, his eyes wide with concern. Her breath caught in her throat.

  It wasn’t him. It was the man with the lawn mower.

  "Take it easy," he said slowly. "Nobody hit you. You collapsed. You fell backwards and hit your head." His gaze moved to the painful part of her skull, and his eyes flickered with alarm.

  Sarah’s brain struggled for sense. She was not dead. But she had to have lost her mind. She remembered walking up the steps, hearing this man’s footsteps behind her. She had awoken with her head hurting. But she couldn’t have passed out as he said. Never in her life had she passed out—she had felt perfectly fine just seconds ago.

  Had he struck her?

  Her heart thumped violently against her breastbone. She raised a hand toward the part of her head he was staring at, and her fingers struck liquid. Warm, sticky liquid.

  The man grabbed her hand and replaced it at her side. "Don’t worry," he said mildly, attempting a smile. "I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Head wounds just bleed a lot, that’s all."

  Head wounds bleed. The familiar, unwelcome images flashed through her mind in warp speed.

  No! Her stomach roiled. She tried to sit up, but the front yard spun.

  "Don’t do that," the stranger instructed, "Stay down. Just let me take a look." He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the most painful area of her scalp.

  She jerked, and he winced. "You’re going to need stitches," he announced. Then he looked toward her house. "Is anyone else at home?"

  Her breaths came ragged and heavy as she willed herself to concentrate, to be logical. She was all right. She had a little cut, that was all. How she had gotten it she wasn’t sure. But there was no need to panic.

  She swallowed and found her voice. "No one else is home now, but Rose is next door," she said, eager to bring in a third party—just to be on the safe side.

  He shook his head. "She’s at the senior center. She’s there every Saturday morning." He looked over his shoulder toward his own house, his expression pensive.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. This man couldn’t have hit her. Could he? Her front steps were in plain sight—at least potentially—of half a dozen houses. It was ludicrous.

  He turned back to her, put his handkerchief in her hand, and pressed both firmly against her head. "Just try to keep some pressure on it," he instructed. "I’ll bring my car over and run you to the ER."

  The man’s voice and hands were gentle, and a part of her longed to trust his good intentions. But the larger part remained apprehensive. If she had tripped or stumbled, why couldn’t she remember that? What if he had struck her? What if the whole purpose had been to get her into his car?

  Cold dread surged. She jerked up. "I’m not—"

  She couldn’t finish the sentence. His face swam before her eyes. Her head felt as though it would split. The pain in her hip was searing. She lay back down and turned away from him. Maybe this was it. Maybe she was in hell after all.

  A hand rested lightly on her shoulder. "I know you’re confused," the stranger continued, "but I promise you’ve got nothing to fear from me. I’m only trying to help you. That cut needs stitches, and you could have a concussion. I’d be happy to drive you to the hospital, but if you’re uncomfortable with that, I can call an ambulance. Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it."

  The candor in his voice nagged at her common sense, and she tried again to think straight. Surely, her suspicions were absurd. They were not two strangers meeting on a deserted roadside—they both owned homes here, and everyone around them knew who he was.

  She shifted to study him. He was dark, yes. His eyes, his skin, his hair. But he was nothing like the man she remembered. His expression was sympathetic; his manner, kind. He was just a man. A neighbor. A good Samaritan.

  She mustered her strength and reared up.

  "Easy," he responded, steadying her with a hand on the back. "You’d be better off lying down."

  She clenched her teeth and struggled to her feet, putting a hand on his slick, bare shoulder for support. She didn’t want to touch him, but she knew she couldn’t get up otherwise. Another wave of dizziness arose as she stood, but she removed her hand anyway.

  "I’m sorry," she apologized. "It seems I lost my head for a moment. I appreciate your help, but I’m fine now, so please, go finish your lawn. I’ll just go inside and lie down for a while."

  He watched her with bewilderment, his hands poised as if he expected her to crumple again. "You have to have that cut stitched up," he insisted. "Furthermore, if you do have a concussion, the worst thing you can do is fall asleep."

  They were standing close together now, and as her gaze met his she felt another stab of uneasiness. His brown eyes were piercing.

  She turned her head.

  "Please," he continued. "Either let me take you to the ER,
or let me call an ambulance. But you can’t just pretend this didn’t happen."

  She almost laughed. But she knew that doing so would make her look hysterical, and she had disparaged her sanity enough already. Furthermore, he was correct. The handkerchief she was holding was soaked through. The cut was deep. She couldn’t just ignore it.

  She threw another glance in his direction and wished he had a shirt on. His appearance made her nervous, but that wasn’t his fault. Men with physical strength always intimidated her, never mind that such a phobia was both politically incorrect and pathetic.

  She decided to imagine a shirt on him. A crisp yellow shirt, with red polka dots… There. He was no different from the multitudes of men she assisted on a regular basis at her job—just a little younger. He was offering her a ride to the ER, and she needed one. She couldn’t safely drive herself.

  He’s a nice person. Everything will be fine.

  She extended her free hand. "My name is Sarah Landers," she explained, working to keep her voice steady. She couldn’t meet his eyes again. Her overactive heart seemed to be pumping half her blood straight out of her head, and she was growing dizzier. "I would appreciate that lift to the ER. Thank you."

  He reached for her hand with a smile, but the expression disappeared as she swayed on her feet.

  Strong arms moved in and caught her. "Sit down," he instructed, guiding her onto the retaining wall at the edge of her driveway. "Unless you want a matching cut on the other side."

  She shrank under his touch, every muscle tensing.

  The instant she was safely seated he released her, then moved back a step. "You’ll need some ID and your insurance card," he said, looking toward her house. "Tell me where your purse is, and I’ll get it for you."

  Suspicion flickered, but was doused by a surge of nausea. There were easier ways to get a woman’s purse. She would not be stupid. "It’s on the kitchen counter, by the microwave," she responded weakly.

  He nodded. "Don’t move." He ascended the steps, and his eyes landed on her scattered mail. To her horror, he stretched out a hand and began to retrieve it.