Page 53 of Whispers of Helena
I move toward her bed and gently lower her onto the mattress. She stirs as I tug the quilt over her, her body curling naturally into its warmth. My hand lingers, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, needing one last moment of connection before I leave this room.
“Goodnight, dove.”
She shifts beneath the quilt, her lips parting as a soft, groggy whisper escapes into the silence. “Goodnight, Bronco.”
Bronco.
Her words slam into me like a physical blow. My knees give out fully this time, and I drop to the floor, my body thudding against the boards as my chest tightens. My head spins, the walls of her room collapsing inward as my mind races to comprehend the impossible.Bronco. It’s been years. Four long years since I last heard that name. A name only one person has ever called me.
Caroline.
The name echoes in my skull; the memories roaring back like a relentless tide. Her teasing voice the first time she’d called me it, the laughter laced into the syllables as it became an intimate marker between us, the way she’d murmured it when we made love for the first time.
How does Helena know? My breath comes in shallow gasps as questions claw at my mind. Had I slipped? Had she heard me mutter it during one of my haunted nights? Or is this something more sinister?
The room turns frigid. Helena’s features soften in her sleep, completely unaware of the turmoil unraveling mere feet from her. I sit on my knees, head bowed, fists clenching the edge of the bed frame as I fight to anchor myself to reality.
I try to dismiss it as coincidence, an accident of timing, but the connection won’t let me go. It’s not just the scent. Not just the name. It’s Helena, wrapped in the threads of my past, the threads ofher. The lines blur, and for the first time, I’m terrified of what it means.
How much of this woman is truly Helena? And how much is something I’ve unknowingly conjured, a reflection of the one who left me behind?
Dinner Table
Helena
Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart; for God now accepteth thy works.
Ecclesiastes 9:7
Silas was alreadyin the stables when I came down for breakfast. As Eli poured his second cup of coffee, he casually mentioned, “Said he wasn’t hungry this morning.” There was no judgment in his tone, but the words lingered in my ears like a subtle warning.
When the kitchen emptied, and the sound of boots faded, I busied myself with the dishes. The window above the sink offered a clear view of Silas moving through the yard. He tackled each task with a rigid determination: hefting hay bales onto the flatbed, hammering sagging paddock rails, even cleaning out a trough that looked perfectly fine to me. His movements were sharp, each swing of the hammer and toss of hay brimming with barely-contained frustration.
I scrubbed the plates with a little too much force, unable to look away. It was as though he was punishing himself. Or maybetrying to outrun something only he could see. The Silas I knew never avoided breakfast, never let his anger run wild like this. He was patient, steady, and careful. Now he moves like he’s racing against something none of us can see. The Silas who held me in his arms under a starlit sky is gone, buried beneath years of grief and guilt. How do I bring him back? Do I even want to, if it means seeing him like this?
The memories of last night flickered in my mind like a flame, warming my skin. The last thing I remembered was the way he had lifted me effortlessly from the floor, cradling me against his chest. I had fallen asleep in his arms, and when I woke, I was alone in my bed, knees bruised, body aching, and heart strangely heavy.
But it wasn’t just the marks he left on my skin that remained. It was the heat. The fire he had reignited in me, a hunger that had lain dormant for far too long. It burned now, threatening to consume me as the memory of his touch played on an endless loop in my mind. The way his hands claimed and commanded, how he didn’t just hold me but molded me to him, as though my body was entirely his.
He was right. I had forgotten. Forgotten what his touch could do to me. Forgotten the way he knew every inch of me better than I knew myself. Forgotten how easily he could undo me, piece by trembling piece.
Watching him now, the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw, I wondered if he felt it too, this storm brewing between us. Or was I the only one still caught in the aftermath of last night’s reckoning?
The day rolledon with the usual rhythm. Food prep, Kiran’s lessons, and sweeping dirt from the kitchen floor. The men’s boots seemed to have a magnetic attraction to mud and dust. The late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on the countertops as I scrubbed away the remnants of flour from the morning’s biscuit dough.
Eli strolled into the kitchen, hanging his battered hat by the back door. “Men’ll be in for dinner soon,” he announced, his voice as unhurried as the day.
I wiped my hands on a towel and nodded toward the pots simmering on the stove. “Everything’s ready.” I paused, glancing at him. “Should I set Silas a place?”
Eli tilted his head, one brow quirking up as he eyed me. “Don’t think so. He’s in one hell of a mood today. Yelled at Marcel for breathing too loud out in the stables.”
I let out a sharp laugh, tossing the towel onto the counter. Leaning back, I crossed my arms. “He’s a frustrating creature, Eli. More so than I remember.”
Eli’s mouth twitched in that telltale way, the corner of it curving into a sly grin. “Trouble on lover’s lane?”
I shoot him a pointed look. “Everything was fine last night, and then I woke up to him being his usual evasive self. How am I supposed to get through to him when he’s like this? It’s like one step forward and two back.”
Eli leaned against the counter, scratching absently at the stubble on his jaw. “You’ve been whispering, Caroline, when you should be yelling.”
