Sanctuary

and texture wouldn’t fill a thimble. I’ve seen better work from a ten-year-old with a disposable Kodak.”
    Her jaw set, she waited, eager to see someone, anyone, step out onto the path. She wanted him to charge. She wanted to make him pay. But there was nothing but the whisper of wind through the leaves, the clicking of palmetto fronds. The light shifted, dimming degree by degree.
    “Now I’m talking to myself,” she murmured. “I’ll be as loony as Great-granny Lida before I’m thirty at this rate.” She tossed the stick, watched it fly end over end, arcing up, then landing with a quiet thump in the thick brush.
    She didn’t see the worn sneaker inches from where it landed, or the frayed cuffs of faded jeans. When she walked deeper into the forest, she didn’t hear the strained sound of breathing struggling to even out, or the harsh whisper that shook with raw emotion.
    “Not yet, Jo Ellen. Not yet. Not until I’m ready. But now I’m going to have to hurt you. Now I’m going to have to make you sorry.”
    He straightened slowly, considered himself in full control. He didn’t even notice the blood that welled in his palms as he clenched his fists.
    He thought he knew where she was going and, familiar with the forest, he cut through the trees to beat her there.

PART THREE
    Love is strong as death;
jealousy is cruel as the grave.
    —Song of Solomon

TWENTY
    J O didn’t realize she’d made up her mind to go to Nathan’s until she was nearly there. Even as she stopped, considered changing direction, she heard the pad of footsteps. Adrenaline surged, her fists clenched, her muscles tensed. She whirled, more than ready to attack.
    Dusk settled around her, dimming the light, thickening the air. Overhead a slice of twilight moon hung in a sky caught between light and dark. Water lapped slyly at the high grass along the banks of the river. With a rush of wind, a heron rose, soaring away from her and its post.
    And Nathan stepped out of the shadows.
    He broke stride when he saw her, then stopped a foot away. His shoes and the frayed hem of his jeans were damp from the water grasses, his hair tousled from the quickening breeze. Noting her balls-of-the-feet fighting stance, he raised an eyebrow.
    “Looking for a fight?”
    She ordered her fingers to uncurl, one by one. “I might be.”
    He stepped forward, then tapped his fist lightly on her chin. “I say I could take you in two rounds. Want to go for it?”
    “Maybe some other time.” The blood that was singing in her ears began to quiet. He had broad shoulders, she mused. A nice place to lay your head—if you were the leaning sort. “Brian kicked me out,” she said and tucked her hands in her pockets. “I was just out walking.”
    “Me, too. I’m done walking for a while.” The hand he’d fisted uncurled, and the fingers of it brushed over her hair. “How about you?”
    “I haven’t decided.”
    “Why don’t you come inside . . .” He took her hand, toyed with her fingers. “Think about it.”
    Her gaze shifted from their hands to his eyes, held steady there. “You don’t want me to come inside and think, Nathan.”
    “Come in anyway. Had any dinner?”
    “No.”
    “I’ve still got those steaks.” He gripped her hand more firmly and led her toward the house. “Why did Brian kick you out?”
    “Kitchen crisis. My fault.”
    “Well, I guess I won’t ask you to help grill the steaks.” He stepped inside, switched on the lights to cut the gloom. “About all I have to go with them are some frozen fries and a white Bordeaux.”
    “Sounds perfect to me. Can I use your phone? I should call, let them know I won’t be back for . . . a little bit.”
    “Help yourself.” Nathan walked to the fridge, got the steaks out of the freezer. She was jumpy as a spring, he thought, taking the meat to the microwave to defrost it. Angry on top, unhappy underneath.
    He wondered why he had such a relentless need to find the reason for all three. He listened to the murmur of her voice as he puzzled over the buttons on the microwave. He was about to make an executive decision and hope for the best when she hung up the phone and came over.
    “This part I know,” she said and punched a series of buttons. “I’m an expert nuker.”
    “I do better when the package comes with directions. I’ll start the grill. I’ve got some CDs over there if you want music.”
    She wandered over to the stack of CDs beside the clever little compact stereo on