Do Not Forsake Me(151)

“Where is he? Where is Ben?”

“Jake, you are so tired you don’t even remember you already asked the Donavans to keep him for a while.”

“She helped me, Randy. Dixie…kept me from killing myself.”

Randy closed her eyes and sighed. “Jake, you’re rambling and not making any sense. Just sleep now.”

He met her mouth in a hungry kiss. “Over a week,” he mumbled then, “since I slept. I want…to make love to you…and know you’re really here and alive…but I’m so damn tired, Randy.”

“My God, of course you are. Just sleep, Jake. All that matters is that you’re back and it’s over. There will be lots of time for everything else. All that matters is you’re here! You’re here in our house and in our bed and in my arms.”

“I was so afraid…of losing you.”

“I’m going to be fine. I was just as scared you would never make it back. Let’s just lie here and enjoy the feel of each other’s arms.” Randy realized how devastatingly tired he must be, because of his repeated ramblings. He finally stopped talking and soon fell into a deep sleep.

Randy carefully pulled away and got up. She covered him, then went and locked the front door. Jeff would take care of things out in the street, and the other men would probably be here tomorrow with what was left of those who’d done such awful things to Evie. She determined she would go and see Evie tomorrow. Her beautiful, precious, forgiving daughter would need a lot of talking to. Thank God for Evie’s patient, loving husband. And Little Jake, her wild, naughty, brave, cussing grandson. He was all Jake. She didn’t even know yet what had happened to him. If Jake didn’t want to talk about it, then that meant those men had hurt the child in some way, but she’d seen him run to the Donavans as though nothing was wrong. It made her smile. He was all Harkner through and through. Put him down and he got right back up. He was tough like his grandfather…and like the little boy Jake who’d lived through so much pain, both physically and emotionally.

She walked back to the bedroom and undressed. She pulled on her flannel gown, then walked around the bed and climbed into it from the other side, snuggling against Jake. “Thank you, Jesus,” she whispered.

Jake moved his arms around her, but his eyes were closed. “Bed…still smells like…roses.” He moved a leg over hers and breathed against her neck. “Mi esposa. Yo te quiero…mi vida,” he whispered.

Randy kissed his wounded arm, his eyes, his hair. What had he been through? How many men had he killed this time? He’d never fooled her. Killing so many men weighed on him. “And I love you, Jake,” she said softly. “Forever and forever…and forever.”

She remembered his remark about Evie forgiving the men who’d abused her and telling Jake he should do the same.

Evie, my darling Evie, you taught your father more in that one gesture than all our love and preaching over the years could have taught him.

In his sleep Jake pulled her even closer. She drank in the pleasure of his embrace, nestled in the sweet feeling of love…and the safety of his arms. She could still feel the strength of those arms in spite of his being thinner and so terribly worn-out. When he was awake again and rested, she’d help him bathe and shave, and she’d fatten him up with that bread he loved. She had five loaves of it in the kitchen. She’d kneaded and baked it all just to keep busy, praying with every warm, sweet-smelling loaf that he’d come home to eat it. A neighbor had let her cut some roses, and she’d filled the bedroom with vases of them. Jake always teased her about how this room—and she—always smelled like roses. She’d wanted the familiar smell in the room when he got home…and here he was…home.

She felt the tears come then. He was really here and alive. How could she have gone on if he’d never come back? How awful that they both could have died…separately…away from each other. She couldn’t think of anything worse. There was so much to be thankful for.

She kissed him over and over, his unwashed hair, his stubble of a beard, his eyes closed in exhausted sleep, his familiar lips. She nuzzled her face into his neck, realizing that no matter how clean or dirty he was, he always smelled good there, a specific, familiar smell that never seemed to change, that distinctive little area that held an identifying scent. And Jake’s was simply man. Just man.





Thirty-eight


Randy awoke to a tapping near her mouth. She turned into Jake’s arms to see him with one end of a peppermint stick in his mouth.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she told him.