Angels Fall

head. People, he thought, were as much a source of entertainment as they were a source of irritation. It kept things balanced.
    "Penelope Cruz," he muttered, and dumped the water from the bucket into the sink.
    He remembered the sheets after he'd done a scouting expedition for candles and had come up with a couple of white tapers earmarked for power outages and a jar candle someone had given him over the holidays that he'd never used. It was called Mom's Apple Pie.
    Not particularly sexy, he thought, but better than nothing.
    He took it and the dry sheets upstairs to the bedroom, fully intending to straighten up. His mistake was in looking out the window for a few minutes.
    A couple of sailboats skimmed along the lake with their white sails fat with wind. He recognized Carl's canoe near the north end. Probably out fishing, Brody decided. The man lived to fish and to gossip with Mac.
    And there was Rick's kid with Moses. School must be done for the day. The dog took a flying leap after the hall and flushed an egret. The bird speared up, arrowed into the marsh.
    Nice picture. Brody thought absently. Pretty and placid and…
    Something in the quality of the light and shadows on the lake sucked his mind back into the book. He narrowed his eyes as Moses paddled back to shore, the ball gripped in his teeth.
    But what if it wasn't a ball…
    He left the tangle of sheets on the bed and strode back into his office. He'd just get this one partial scene down, he told himself. Thirty minutes tops, then he'd deal with the bedroom, shower, shave and put on something that didn't necessarily look as it he'd slept in it.
     
    TWO HOURS LATER. Reece set one big box of supplies on the porch of Brody's cabin, knocked briskly, then walked back to her car for a second box.
    She knocked again, louder this time. The lack of response had her frowning, and gingerly trying the door.
    She knew her instinctive worry that he'd drowned in the tub, fallen down the stairs or been murdered in a home invasion was ridiculous. But that didn't make it less real.
    And the house was so quiet, seemed so empty. It wasn't a place she really knew. She couldn't quite make herself step over the threshold, not until the image of him bleeding on the floor somewhere inside lodged itselt with ugly clarity in her mind.
    She forced herself inside, called out his name.
    And when she heard the creak of floorboards overhead, she grabbed her chef's knife out of a box, gripped its handle with both hands.
    He came scowling—alive and in one piece—to the top of the stairs.
    "What? What time is it?"
    Relief nearly sent her to her knees, but she managed to lean against the doorjamb and stay upright. "About six. I knocked, but—"
    "Six? Damn it. I, ah, got hung up."
    "It's okay, no problem." The pain in her chest was shifting into another kind of pressure. He looked so annoyed, so disheveled, so big and male. If she'd trusted her legs right at that moment, she might've used them to bolt up the steps and jump him.
    "You want a rain check?"
    "No." His frown only deepened. "How the hell do I know when it's going to rain again? I need to… clean up." Goddamn sheets. '"You need any help first?"
    "No. No. No, I'm fine. I'll just get started on dinner, if that's all right with you. It'll take about two hours, maybe a little less. So, you know, take your time."
    "Good." He paused long enough to hook his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. "What were you going to do with the knife?"
    She'd forgotten it was in her hands, and now looked down at it with a combination of puzzlement and embarrassment, "I don't really know."
    '"Maybe you could put it down so I don't get in the shower with the image of Norman Bates in my head."
    "Sure."
    She turned to set it back in the box, and when she turned again, he was gone.
    She hauled in both boxes. She wanted to lock the front door—badly wanted to lock it. It wasn't her place, but didn't he realize how easily anyone could just walk in? She had, after all. How could he be upstairs, oblivious to unlocked doors? Taking a shower.
    And God, God , she wished she had that kind of confidence, or faith, or even plain stupidity.
    Since she didn't, she locked the door. And after she'd carried her supplies to the kitchen, she locked the back door as well.
    Wasn't her place, true, but she was in it. How could she concentrate on fixing a meal with unlocked doors everywhere?
    Satisfied, she took out the casserole she'd prepared, measured out milk and