Hope Between the Pages by Pepper Basham (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📕

He rolled his eyes and growled, then swung his leg over his bike.

Oh, how could she explain. “I mean, of course I see it, but I see you more.”

He paused, hands on his handlebars, and stared at her with such intensity, she fumbled with mounting her bike to ignore his eyes. How could she explain? The burns were still on his face, still as evident as they’d been in the airport, and yet, they weren’t.

They rode in silence, past the quaint town with its flower boxes and stone fences and the occasional person waving a hello to Max.

Her fists tightened on the handlebars and she released a sigh. What could she have done differently? Didn’t he want her to see the man he was more than the scars on his face?

Another growl erupted, but this time it came from overhead as a swell of thunder burst out of nowhere. She’d read about the changefulness of England’s weather, but witnessing how suddenly the day went from sunny to threatening forced her feet into faster motion. They’d barely made the turn toward Camden when the sky opened.

“We’ll wait it out beneath the gatehouse archway,” Max called, water running down his face.

She wiped at her eyes, her hair already dripping from the onslaught. The archway offered little protection as the wind blew the torrents toward them, the cold dampness seeping through her cardigan and blouse.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring my keys.” Max raised his voice over the sound of the rain, looking up at the gatehouse. “We could have taken shelter inside.”

Keys? Clara reached for her small purse slung around her neck. “Do you think the keys your mom gave me would work?”

She rested her bike against the side of the gatehouse and dug through her purse, her fingers slippery. Max came to stand close, holding his cap over her head in a vain attempt at shielding her from some of the rain. A sweet gesture, though, even if he was angry.

“These?”

He took the proffered key chain and raced to the gatehouse door, filtering through several keys before one turned the lock. The small space was crowded with myriad paraphernalia, mostly broken chairs and a few bent bicycles, which appeared shoved inside without much thought. Max reached back for Clara’s arm and guided her through the jumble to a less cluttered area.

A potbelly stove stood almost directly across from them and a row of shelves and cabinets lined one window as if it had once been a…

“Kitchen?” Clara slipped a few steps forward, the dusty windows allowing in enough light to make out some of the items. She turned on the flashlight from her phone. “It looks like this was a kitchen.”

Max flipped a switch on the wall, but nothing happened. “And wired for electricity at some point.”

“And water.” She turned the faucet and the faintest trickle dripped into the sink. “I never imagined gatehouses had kitchens.” She chuckled. “Well, I don’t suppose I’ve thought very much about gatehouses in general.”

A small spiral staircase twisted up at the far end of the front room. Max circled the staircase, giving the banister a tug. “Want to explore a bit?” He gestured toward the window. “Since we’re stuck here for the present.”

“I am in England to investigate.” Clara gave a helpless shrug and followed him up the winding stairs. At the top, she and Max added their phone lights to the faint glow coming through the massive windows on three sides of the room. The space gave off a hauntingly untouched look, very much like a sleeping castle.

“Is this some sort of sitting room?” Clara followed Max into a space the same shape as the one below, except lined with bookshelves. A set of chairs and a couch stood as if waiting for visitors, and a hallway disappeared beyond the room, over the archway of the guest house.

“It looks as if it was used as an apartment of sorts.”

“You’ve never been here?”

He shook his head. “There’s been no time to really explore or renovate any other buildings except the main house thus far.”

Three books and a little decorative plate stood on one of the bookshelves. Unfortunately, whatever mild dampness that had gotten into the room over the years had damaged the more fragile things…like books. As Max walked down the hallway, Clara attempted to peel back some of the pages of the books, but most stuck together, words faded or beyond recognition.

“There’s a bedroom on this side,” Max called from down the hall. “The bed frame is still intact, but the mattress is rotted. There appear to be a few men’s garments in the wardrobe as well.”

Maybe from the gatekeeper? Clara peeled back the cover of the second book, a Shakespeare collection.

As the cover creaked open, a handwritten name on the inside inspired a gasp. Oliver Camden.

“What is it?” Max arrived at her side and she turned the book toward him.

“He was here.”

Max looked from Clara to the book and back to the room. “What was he doing here?”

Clara shook her head and flipped through the stiff pages of the book, the light from the phone barely enough to make out the faded words on the pages.

“The rain’s come to a stop. Let’s take the books and come investigate in the morning, when we’ll have better light.” Max reached around her for the books.

“We?”

His gaze, so close, pleaded with her. “Forgive me, Clara.”

The way his voice softened around her name stopped her in her turn. “I don’t—”

He raised his palm to quiet her, his expression gentling. “I was wrong to be so angry. I’ve built expectations on a handful of experiences in my life and defined them as the rule for everyone’s behavior. I’ve been putting people in a box.” He lowered his gaze, pain creasing deeper grooves in his brow. “I put you in a box, and I’m sorry.”

A wave of tenderness swept over me for this wounded man. “Of course I forgive you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck before continuing.