“I told you to stop!” The strong voice shouted again. A figure appeared at the corner of the garden, and though she couldn’t see the man very well in the moonlight, she knew the authority in his tone meant he was a man not to be reckoned with.
“Mr. Winn, I’m ordering you to step away from Mr. Flint immediately,” the man said as he came right up behind Mark and Mr. Winn. “Now, Mr. Winn,” the man repeated, and Mr. Winn finally loosened his grip on Mark. His hands fell to his side.
Faster than Layla would have thought possible, the authoritative man whipped out a pair of brass handcuffs. He took first Mr. Winn’s left hand and then his right, securely locking them in the cuffs behind his back.
“Dep! You find them?” Layla heard a man call just a few feet away, and the man who had subdued Mr. Winn spoke firmly.
“We’re over here, Sheriff. I’ve got Mr. Winn.”
Layla squinted into the shadows as the sheriff, and two other men emerged. Before she could rush forward to thank the lawmen rescuing them, Mark made a coughing sound, bent over, then collapsed in the sand.
Layla’s heart skipped a beat as she rushed to his side. She knelt beside him, cradling his head in her hands. “Mark,” she gasped frantically. “Mark. Speak to me. Tell me.”
One of the men walking with the sheriff came toward them and squatted down on Mark’s other side. He touched the side of Mark’s neck. “He’s unconscious. He’s still alive, ma’am, but we’re going to need to get him to a doctor.”
Layla nodded, and she stroked the hair near Mark’s hairline. “Mark, you’re going to be all right. I’m going to make sure that you’re fine. We’re going to get you to a doctor and—” Her voice broke miserably as she stared at his still form. She tipped her head forward, and the tears slid down her face. She did nothing to stop them.
Epilogue
Mark moaned as he woke. He tried to speak, but his throat was burning. Pins and needles prickled the insides of his mouth and the tip of his tongue, but down his throat, it felt like he was breathing fire. Moving a sore hand to his chest, he rubbed at the soft, fleshy spot where it met his neck. Sharp pain stabbed him where bruises were no doubt forming, and he groaned a little louder.
“Mark,” Layla sighed with relief. He slowly opened his eyes. He was in a room he didn’t recognize. The walls were painted a powder blue with periwinkle blue curtains with lace trim on the bottom hung across the windows. Mark turned his head just a fraction of an inch, and he saw a chest of drawers in front of him. When he squinted, he could make out a looking glass set atop the dresser but couldn’t see into it.
Probably for the better, Mark thought wryly. If he looked even half as terrible as he felt, he knew it wouldn’t be worth his time to gaze into a looking glass. He continued turning his neck slightly, but it was excruciating.
“Mark,” Layla said his name once more, and he did his best to block out everything else to focus on her. He tipped his head toward the sound of her voice. It was so comforting to hear her say his name again. While he was lying in bed, she sat in a sturdy wooden chair beside him. She was wearing a dress he had never seen before, and he realized how that made sense. Of course, he would wake up in a room he didn’t recognize, and his wife would be wearing a dress he had never seen before. Their house had been ravaged by fire before being attacked by their former neighbor, George Winn.
His gaze focused on his wife, and a soothing relief came over him at once. She was as lovely as ever, and she was here, right by his side. Mark tried to clear his throat to speak to Layla, but she tutted at him. “It’s all right, Mark,” Layla soothed. She smiled at him, and her whole face lit up. Her Bible was open in her lap, and she gently placed it on a small wooden table.
Watching her cross the room to the chest of drawers, he saw a water pitcher on the top of the dresser, and she filled a small cup. Mark licked his lips, overwhelmed with thirst and anticipating the cool, wet liquid.
“Dada!” Heath shouted. Mark turned his head sharply with a tug in his throat, but he didn’t regret it as his eyes took in his son’s happy form. Heath was bouncing up and down in a crib made of white painted wood.
“Heath,” Mark rasped, but his words caught in his throat. He brought his left hand to his neck and tried to massage the area, but it did little to help.
“Dada! Dada! Dada!” Heath chanted as he banged a rattle on the side of the crib.
“Heath,” Layla said softly. “Your dada is awake now, and he is happy to see you, too.” As if her quiet tone soothed Heath, the baby stopped shaking the rattle but continued bouncing on the crib mattress. Mark was grateful that the noise stopped, as aside from his raw and tortured throat, he also had a headache.
Layla brought Mark the cup of water and offered it to him. He accepted it gratefully. The cool liquid splashed into his mouth; his relief was instantaneous.
“Thank you,” Mark said, surprised to hear his own voice. He sounded a little like a frog that was croaking. Mark’s hand flew to his neck once more and feeling sore places where George Winn’s fingers had dug into his flesh. Mark’s brows contracted as the good mood that flooded his body upon seeing Layla and his son vanished.
With one hand, Layla grazed it over the lines on his forehead. She swept her fingertips along the tops of his brows, and as she did, his worries floated away. He didn’t know what had become of George Winn, but he was with Layla and Heath, and really, that was all that mattered.
Her soft hands caressed the sides of Mark’s face, and as she whisked his cares away, he watched her beautiful expression. Mark thought she looked like an angel. Her countenance was so calm, and her touch was so loving. When her hand met his, he squeezed her fingertips, and she didn’t let go.
“Mark, I’m happy you’ve awakened. Heath has been asking for his Dada all morning. My father has knocked on the door at least four times, but I had to keep telling him that you were still sleeping. I think he’ll be relieved to know that you came to, finally.” She looked at Mark adoringly. He could see in her clear blue eyes the depth of her relief.
“Your father?” Mark said, feeling as though a nail were being scratched down the length of his throat. He took another small sip of the water, draining it. Layla took the cup from him and refilled it. Mark watched as she returned to him, offering the cup once more.
He nodded his head minutely in thanks and took another drink. “Your father?” he repeated. His throat didn’t hurt so abominably, but he still had a tough time getting the words out.
Layla seemed to understand what Mark was asking, and she gestured around the room. “I expect my father to come knocking at the door again any minute now. We’re in his house, after all, and he is nothing if not a hospitable host.” Layla giggled lightly, and Mark thought the sound was pleasant. What a joy to think they could come through a harrowing ordeal and then live to laugh another day.
“This used to be my room,” Layla explained. “My father insisted that we stay with him here, so once the doctor approved, we moved in here.”
“The stairs,” Mark muttered quietly, making Layla chuckle.
