Wings of Love by Jewel Stone Chapter One

For three days death hovered outside the cabin door, waiting to claim the man Abigail Harper once loved with her entire heart and soul. She could do nothing to save him, the mountain’s winter fury held her captive. A chill surged through her as a gust of wind rattled the door and blew a spray of icy snow over the small-pane window as if warning: The Angel of Death is ready to enter.

Arms wrapped around her waist to ward off the cold winter chill, Abby went to her desk to try the phone line once again. With trembling fingers, she lifted the receiver to her ear. No dial tone greeted her, only terminal silence.

Unable to escape the inevitable, her hope for Philip’s survival diminished. He was going to die on the cabin floor; she grew more certain of this as each day passed. Defeated, she lifted the layers of blankets that covered Philip to lie down beside him, wrapped her arms tightly around his chest, and prayed fervently for his life.

As if her petition was heard, a sound, low and deep, came from Philip. His head moved slightly.

Abby’s eyes flashed open, and she tilted her chin and looked to Philip’s face in utter disbelief. Seventy-two hours had passed since she dragged his body in out of the blizzard, where he’d collapsed on her front steps. There had been no movement or sound from him since.

“Philip…Philip, are you waking? It’s Abigail. Can you hear me? Philip, please! If you can hear me, move your hand or nod. Something…anything.”

There was no sign, no sound, no response from him. Abby settled her head back on his chest and cried, her tears pooling on his clammy skin, sure her mind had conjured up the event out of desperate hope.

Outside the snow stopped falling. The sky parted, allowing angel fingers of light to filter through the dark clouds in soft rays, beam through the window, and warm their silhouetted bodies lying on the cabin floor.

His hand came up and ran through her hair. “Abigail?” he whispered.

She lifted her head. “Philip?” She couldn’t have imagined his word or touch this time for his hand still cupped her skull. Relief spiraled through her.

For the briefest moment, his eyes opened and he gazed at her in obvious confusion, then a slight smile formed on his chapped lips. “I…thought I…was…dreaming…of you…” His eyes fluttered closed again.

Abby gently shook him, trying to rouse him. He only slept, his arm around her shoulder, mouth upturned just a bit. Never before had she felt more joyous.

“Thank you. Oh! Thank you,” Abby whispered toward the heavens, choking back a sob of joy. Exhausted from three days of stress and worry since she found Philip on her doorstep, she lay her head on his chest and let the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing rock her to sleep. Only in her slumber, she dreamed of a time she had been trying to forget about for three years.

~ * ~

Sidney Porter strummed her red manicured nails on the mahogany desktop as she waited for Charlie to finish fidgeting in his chair. “Any word from Gallagher yet?”

“No. It has only been three days. From what Philip told me before he left, the cabin is in a remote location deep in the Cascade Mountains. With the snow this time of year, he could be having trouble finding it, let alone reaching the cabin and making contact.”

She leaned forward in her chair. “What do you know of the lead Gallagher got?”

Charlie took a hanky from his pocket and wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, then repositioned his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Uh, not a lot. He just told me he got a solid lead, then boarded a flight to Washington.”

Sidney stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the New York skyline. “If you hear from him, you are to report to me right away. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Once the door shut behind Charles, Sidney turned and slammed back into her leather chair. She thrust a stack of papers off the desk onto the floor and braced her head on her palms, the pressure of her job enclosing on her like a noose. “Damn it Gallagher! Bring me back this story in time.”

Her newspaper, The American Times, was falling behind The Continental, and Sidney needed a big story like the one Philip was investigating to pull ahead in the ratings. She would not let her newspaper be second!

Desiree Love would be the story to pull the paper ahead. The first book by Desiree Love came out three years ago, taking the literary market by storm and seducing readers with her romance novel, Intimate Affairs. The novel soared to the best-selling list immediately, knocking seasoned authors off the charts into forgotten dust. A phenomenal achievement for a first-time author. Desiree Love countered her first success with more novels, each book a hit, putting Danielle, Nora, and the like into a deep shadow.

Readers couldn’t get enough of Desiree Love’s savvy writing, the unique style of her script, or the characters that boldly came to life in her novels. But that alone didn’t start the craze. Rather the fact no one knew who or where Desiree Love was. There was no author biography at the back of the books, no photos, book signings, or interviews.

People started humming, wanting to know about the author claiming the spot of number one time and again on the bestseller list. Curiosity soared with each novel released. Her books were talked about on television, raved about in bookstores, and loved by readers. In a day in age where celebrities and their private lives were flaunted in every magazine, newspaper, and talk show, the secret identity of Desiree Love became a quest by her readers. Soon the need to know flowed into the greater population of people who normally did not pay much attention to the romance genre.

It seemed as if everyone sought to uncover Desiree’s identity. They wanted to have an intimate detail about her, discover what she looked like, learn if she lived a life comparable to the heroines of her novels. They needed a fix of information, as if addicted to Desiree Love like a powerful drug.

Soon it was a craze. Every reporter sought information, snooped, bribed, and looked for Desiree Love. People called into newspapers and television stations claiming that their neighbor or friend must be Desiree Love, for one crazy reason or another. Only for two years no one came up with anything. All leads proved wrong, dead ends. This only added to the fever of finding her.

Now Sidney’s top reporter, Philip Gallagher, had a lead to this desperately sought after information. And better yet, if this lead panned out, he would have time to make the report before Desiree Love’s latest novel was released in two weeks.

Sidney drew in, then exhaled a long cleansing breath. “I’m counting on you, Philip,” she repeated, as if he could hear her thousands of miles away.

~ * ~

A buttercup winter sun peeked in through the windows, lighting the cabin with a warm morning glow. The drum of a woodpecker rat-a-tat-ted through the forest, waking Abby. She stretched, her body sore and stiff from sleeping on the wood-planked floor. The muscles in her arms ached from having wrapped them tightly around Philip all night.

Philip! She recalled his brief awakening the night before, the words he spoke. Placing her hand on his chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart in confirmation of his life.

He lifted a knee and rolled his head to the side. “Abby?” The one word sounded strained, as if it took a great deal of effort to speak it.

“Yes, Philip, I’m here.” Abby started to sit.

His arm held her in place. “No,” his voice hoarse from days without a drink or speaking.

Abby snuggled back to him. “I’m here, I’m here.” Her hand ran across his chest as she spoke. “How do you feel?”

“Tired. Thirsty. My head.” He closed his eyes again.

“Shhh, you need to rest. You’ve been here for three days. You had a raging fever and wouldn’t respond. I thought you were going to die.” A kaleidoscope of emotion and tears blinded her as she revealed the fear she’d so vividly felt.

“No…can’t die. I’ve…just found…you.” His trembling hand touched her cheek as if to feel her presence, to make sure she was real and not imagined.

“Oh, Philip, I’m sorry, so sorry.” After a moment of fierce embrace she questioned, “Do you feel like sitting up?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Abby let go of Philip, supporting him as he attempted to rise. “Damn, what…happened?” He braced the dizziness behind his skull. His fingertips padded a bandage and sore flesh on his forehead.

“I’m not sure. I found you unconscious on my porch four days ago covered in snow, on the verge of hypothermia. I tried to call for help, but the phone lines have been down from the blizzard and the snow blocked the passage to town,” Abby explained. “I’ll get you some aspirin, I’m sure you need some.”

“I’ll take…the whole bottle.”

Abby returned with three aspirin and a large glass of water, which he downed in a series of nonstop gulps, taking the pills down with it. He couldn’t make sense of where he was, how he got here, or how he found Abigail, but he didn’t care at the moment. His head hurt too much to think. In fact, his whole body ached right down to his toes and back again. One glance under the many blankets piled on top of him confirmed he was nude, except for a pair of socks on his feet.

Abby blushed. “I…er, took off your clothes, they were wet. I needed to get you warm.”

He nodded, too tired to speak anymore. His eyelids were heavy, his body exhausted and drained of energy. “Could you help me onto the couch?”

“Yes, but move slowly, I’ll…” Abby grabbed him by the elbow and heaved him upward, “help you.”

Philip landed on the soft cushions with a humph. Abby tucked the blankets around him, then brushed a light kiss on his forehead. He gazed up at her in confusion. Was Abigail really here? Please don’t let this be a dream, or a desperate play on the imagination for what he wanted for so long.

She smiled at him in a familiar way, ran her finger along his beard stubbled jaw, and dipped it into his cleft before turning and leaving him to sleep.

Stepping out the back door, a blast of freezing air cut through Abby. Her breath billowed out in a frosty fog as she gathered split logs for the fire. Bustling back into the house, she restocked the wood stove, then rubbed her hands up and down her arms to whisk away the chill. Knowing Philip would wake again soon, she put stew on the stove to reheat, hoping he would feel strong enough to eat. His body needed nourishment.

With nothing more to do to pass the time, as each minute on the clock procrastinated before moving onto the next, she sat in her favorite chair by the fire to watch Philip sleep. She knew she didn’t need to stand guard anymore, but couldn’t help watching him, knowing now he would live.

Only now, Abby had a new set of problems.

The problem of why Philip was here and what he wanted from her. He almost died to find her. Why now, after three years? Abby contemplated the possible reasons for his presence. The worry now being what she would learn when he was strong enough to engage in conversation. It terrified her almost as much as the terror of thinking Philip would die.

“Abby?” Philip’s voice came sometime later.

“Yes, I’m here,” she answered from her continued position in the chair.

His movements slow, Philip sat holding his head in his palms. Opening his eyes, blue lightening flashed out from behind his lids, myopically searching for her. His gaze fixed on her, focused, and for a long time he said nothing. Philip simply looked at her as if seeing a ghost.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, feeling uneasy under his intense gaze.

“I never thought I would see you again. I thought I was dreaming of you before.”

“I’m real. I’m here.” But why are you?

“I’ve missed you,” he said, still studying her.

Abby didn’t reply. She didn’t know how. Yes, she missed him at times. He had been her first love, her only lover. Yet, she didn’t miss the lonely nights, the empty bed in the huge city, sleeping alone more than not.

“You cut your hair,” he remarked, motioning to her short ginger-colored locks.

“Yes. I never liked it long, this is better,” Abby explained, running her hand through her bangs, ruffling them across her brow. She knew how Philip felt about her long hair; it was why she cut it short when she left him, an act of liberation. “Are you hungry, thirsty, more aspirin?” Anything to get your eyes to stop penetrating me.

“I’m starving. Something smells good.” He ran his hand over his mouth, then across the growth of his beard.

“Stew. I put it on to reheat earlier. Can you make it to the table?”

“Yes, but first, I need to use the, ah…bathroom.”

“I’m sure you do, you’ve been unconscious for days. Through that door.” She pointed at a door behind the couch. There were no hallways in the A-framed cabin. It was small, everything right off the living room. “I’ll set your clothes on the floor outside the bathroom door so you can dress when you’re done.”

“Is there a razor I can use? This stubble on my face is driving me nuts.”

“Yes, there’s a Lady Bic on the edge of the tub.”

“A pink razor,” he mumbled as he stood, his body weak, legs shaky. With the blanket wrapped around his lower half, he staggered to the bathroom. The shower turned on a few moments later.

After setting out his clothes, Abby went to the kitchen to scoop up two large bowls of stew and slice the loaf of bread she’d baked that morning. She set Philip’s dinner down and put her’s at the opposite end of the table, distancing herself from where he would sit, then put on a pot of coffee to brew.

Wearing the Dockers and shirt she found him in, Philip emerged from the bathroom, his blonde hair wet and face freshly shaven. “I’ll change your bandage,” Abby said, noticing the adhesive loose. She retrieved her first-aid kit and carefully removed the bandage. She inspected the inch-long wound, which formed a thick scab, then applied several butterfly bandages and a clean dressing.

When she finished playing nurse, Abby sat back down to eat her stew, well aware of Philip staring at her the whole while. “You’re going to have a nasty scar on your forehead. I closed the cut as best I could, but it really needed stitches. What happened to you?”

Philip closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “There was snow, a blizzard like I’ve never seen. I should have known better than to drive that time of night in those conditions. Everything was a blanket of white; I couldn’t see a foot in front of the truck. Driving up the road, it suddenly turned hard to the right. The next thing I knew, my Suburban was wrapped around a tree trunk and my head bounced off the steering wheel,” he recalled, spooning the stew into his mouth slowly as he told Abby about the accident.

Abby knew the spot in the road that curved. “You walked all that way in this weather? It must be a mile! You weren’t even wearing winter gear. You could have died out there.”

“I thought I was going to. It was the worse night of my life. The last thing I remember was seeing a porch light, smelling smoke, and praying that I got here in time.”

“You must have passed out of exhaustion when you reached the cabin. I heard a thud outside, found you on the steps, unconscious and bleeding. I didn’t even know it was you until I pulled you in and took off your hood. What were you doing out in that weather?”

Desiree Love, Philip remembered, but did not say. However he got to Abby when he followed a tip to locate romance author Desiree Love was a mystery, but it didn’t matter at the moment. What did matter was that after three agonizing years Philip found his estranged wife. The rest could be figured out later.

“I’m sorry you risked your life to find me, but it was terribly foolish. You should have called or waited until morning to drive up.”

“You’re right, but I was too eager to get here. I guess I need to thank you for saving my life.” He reached for her hand, but she brushed a breadcrumb away to avoid his contact.

“I didn’t have a choice. I mean, I wouldn’t have left you out there to die.”

The near fatal night was forgotten when Philip asked, “Abby, why did you leave me?” He thought she would return and remained certain of it for a long time. But she didn’t. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. No word, no phone call from his wife. Now, the span of a continent away, he stumbled upon her in a snowstorm.

Rising from the table, Abby took his empty bowl to the kitchen and refilled their coffee cups. “If you don’t know why, there is nothing to say,” she said, setting his cup down on the table.

“I know what your letter said. I read it every day for months trying to understand and waited for you to come back.”

“The letter explained I wouldn’t.”

“I know what the letter said, Abigail. I know every word of that damned letter. Couldn’t you at least given me a chance to respond, given us a chance?”

“I gave us four years.”

“You promised a lifetime.”

“You promised me things, too.”

“What happened?” he asked, searching her face for answers. He saw only hardness. Gone was the sweet young woman he married seven years ago. Philip had no idea who this woman was sitting across the table from him speaking as if their marriage, their vows before God, meant nothing.

Abby stood and started to walk away, but he stopped her by clasping her wrist. “Tell me you didn’t love me,” he commanded gently.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she replied, trying to pull away.

Philip stood, clutched his arms around her, and forced her body to his. He held onto her, his whole being shaking, the love he always felt for her aching in his heart. “Damn it, Abby. Give me an explanation, you owe me.” He tilted her chin and sought her mouth with his own.

Abby’s hardened shell softened to the kiss, the memory of his mouth awakening forgotten senses. Letting out a soft sigh, she allowed him to continue kissing her. When he pulled back, he cupped her face in his palms and gazed deep into her eyes. “I love you, Abigail. I’ve missed you. I need you.”

His words penetrated her brain, not her heart. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

She didn’t realize it, but she expected an answer. Because you’re burning with need for me, you can’t live without me. “Why do you love me? Why have you missed me? Why do you need me? Why have you traveled across the country and nearly died to find me?”

“You’re my wife.”

Breaking free of his hold, Abby walked to the window to watch the snow fall softly from the sky and tried to block off her internal disappointment at her husband’s answer.

Philip came from behind Abby and wrapped his arms around her. “Make love to me Abby,” he whispered in her ear, his words warming her lobe, sending chills to the depths of her belly.

The familiarity of his breath, his body pressed against hers, made Abby remember old feelings. Leaning against his hard frame, she closed her eyes. For just a moment, she let herself depend on him, just as she always had. His hand ran up to her breast and across her nipple, soft and tender.

It would be so easy to give into Philip’s request. It always was. He’d been a gentle lover, knowing which spots made her shiver, where to kiss her to make her breath hitch. Abby’s eyes closed, and her body warmed to his touch.

Then her eyes fluttered open, her mouth ready to submit to him when the mountain peaks outside caught her eye, reminding her why she came here. “No,” she answered, stepping out of his arms toward the window.

“Abby.” Philip groaned and reached for her.

“You can’t just come here, pretend like the past three years haven’t happened. I’m different. I’m not the same woman I use to be.”

“Oh? Tell me, wife, how many lovers have you taken then?” His voice was deep, harsh.

Abby spun around and jabbed her finger into his chest. “How dare you, Philip Gallagher! How dare you come here and insinuate I’ve taken lovers!”

“Isn’t that why you left? Did you find yourself a man who could please you better than I?”

“You know it’s not.”

“No, Abigail, I don’t know why you left. You didn’t give me the decency of an explanation. Just a letter, which clarified nothing.”

“Goodbye should have been easy to read,” she snarled. Damn Philip for coming here!

“Yes, I guess it was. The easy way out.” He leaned against the back of the couch.

“Don’t make me the bad guy here. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Not your fault? Hah! You were the one who left New York.”

“I’m surprised you even noticed.” She slipped by him and stormed up the stairs to the loft. She had enough for one day and didn’t want to stress him. No matter how much he infuriated her, his body had survived through a lot these past days. Still, he was easier to deal with unconscious!

Philip let her go, not that he could have stopped her. His vision wavered; the strain of standing for so long must have taking a toll. He could no more climb the stairs after Abby than run a marathon. Plopping down on the couch defeated, he cursed, his head now aching tenfold to the previous state.

He heard Abby’s footsteps above him and the creak as she lie down on her bed. Philip rolled his eyes and lay back on the couch.

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