Gen didn’t realize how close Rafe had gotten. Suddenly his arms were around her, and she couldn’t battle her way back out.
“Maybe it isn’t,” he offered gently.
Gen pushed at him, furious, frightened. “No,” she insisted. “No, that’s not possible, damn it! Don’t you see? I’m buying right back into that damn dream where I love you more than life itself, and then you’re just going to leave again, and this time it’s going to kill me. I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
But his voice, when it came, confused her even more. “You love me?”
Gen didn’t know what to do. She was wrapped in his arms, in his solid, warm arms, where she would be safe. The arms she’d always run to, for comfort, for support, for celebration. She knew it. She tasted it, caressed it with her memories, as if she were running her fingers over fine silk. Certainty. Impossibility.
She couldn’t have felt those things before. She couldn’t have these things already imprinted on her subconscious, except through the miracle of dreams. She couldn’t love him.
But she did. She always had, with a passion that confounded her, a loyalty that withstood the worst of times, a deep, abiding respect that cast him above everyone else in her life. Even above General Lee, whom she’d met at the—
Gen abruptly yanked away.
He was like a divining rod, an antenna for cosmic coincidence. She seemed to have been tuned into The Oldest Living Confederate Widow for a minute there. General Lee, indeed.
Gen couldn’t breathe at all. She couldn’t hold still. She thought she could just walk away. But Rafe caught her hand.
“You love me?” he asked.
She looked up, ready to deny it. After all, how could she?
But her heart sang at the mere sight of him. She knew him. She knew him better than he did himself, his strengths and weaknesses, his habits and haunts. And she knew that each one endeared him to her more than the one before.
“You are a crack shot with a long rifle,” she said simply. “A born rider, who built your farm with your own two hands.” She smiled abruptly. “And mine. Cotton and peach groves. A beautiful little place called Seven Sisters, in honor of your aunts, who raised you. You hate strong liquor, but love a good hard cider, and get squeamish at the sight of blood.”
His smile grew. “You do love me.”
But Gen couldn’t give him that, even though she suddenly wanted nothing more. “I can’t afford to.”
But Rafe just shook his head, reached over to winnow his fingers through her shoulder-length hair. “It doesn’t matter. You do. It’s enough.”
“For what?” she demanded, trying yet again to pull away.
Rafe sighed, let go. Smiled. “For me. You see, when I woke up, I couldn’t understand what was wrong. I knew I loved you. I didn’t understand why you didn’t love me back.”
Gen couldn’t move. “What?”
His smile grew, deepened, enticed with its frank delight. “Maybe I am that person from the War Between the States,” he said. “Maybe I did die, and came back. Maybe I never really died at all. I don’t care. All I care about is that I’m here now, and whatever it takes, I’m going to keep you safe.”
“And then you’ll leave,” Gen insisted.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure I ever left at all.”
Gen instinctively held out a hand, as if protecting herself from him. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?” he countered. “Would you rather I not be real? Maybe a ghost or something? Well, I don’t think I am, Gen. I feel suspiciously corporeal, and I’m glad. You’re here, and I’m even more glad. All I can think is to take the rest step by step.”
Gen should have been reassured. Instead, she battled tears again. “Easy for you to say,” she scoffed. “You know you’re real. I don’t.”
“The question is,” he said, “what difference does it make?”
Gen sighed. “All the difference in the world.”
