Michael
Michael felt vaguely nauseated as he stood in the doorway of Hannah Rourke’s hospital room, palms slick, legs turned to stone at the memory of his days in Starry Point General’s burn unit: waking up with his back on fire, the burns too fresh to allow him to do anything but lie facedown and sob onto the sterile white sheets.
No one had to tell him Peter was dead. He’d known it when they loaded him into the ambulance—alone. Hannah was a different story. He had begged to know where they’d taken her, though he had a pretty good idea. He’d heard the screams as they strapped her down and took her away, the wild keening of an animal in pain. It was weeks before they finally told him the truth—that his mother wouldn’t be coming back. And now the woman who’d caused it all was lying just inside the door.
He was dimly aware of Lane getting to her feet, of her eyes following him as he stepped into the room. He could feel the anxiety radiating from her, an almost palpable dread that he was about to make a scene. And an hour ago she would have been right, since that was precisely what he’d intended when he turned around on Highway 12 and headed back to Starry Point. But now, as he stared at the woman asleep on the narrow hospital bed, so fragile and battered, the words he’d rehearsed all the way back suddenly died in his throat.
He would have known her anywhere, this woman who had once spun stories and drawn pictures, who believed in fairy tales and made wishes on flowers. He had forgotten those times, had made himself forget them. Now they came rushing at him on a tide of emotion that nearly choked him. Her beauty had faded, victim to the ravages of guilt and loss. An unexpected knot constricted in his throat as he took in her bruises and abrasions, the bandage on her forehead, the sling that bound her shoulder.
He wasn’t prepared when her eyes fluttered open. Startled, he took a step back. Those eyes had been filled with terror the last time he saw them. Now they were glassy and dazed, confused by the stranger standing over her bed.
The silence spun out as he fumbled for something to say. How was it possible that after thirty years and more than a thousand imagined rants, he couldn’t manage to spit out a single word? Perhaps it was the quiet chaos brewing behind his mother’s eyes, the troubled questions that must be flitting through her head at that moment. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t remembered to take a breath since he entered the room.
He took one now, forcing air into his lungs, forcing it back out. And then, almost before he could register it, it was there—a kind of quickening in Hannah’s expression, when confusion became recognition, and then, finally, a heartrending knowing. She reached for him, her small, slender hand imploring.
“My prince.”
In that moment, Michael found himself trapped, caught in the dizzying space between anger and need, resentment and relief. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lane take a quick step forward. He stayed her with a look and, taking Hannah’s outstretched hand, finally found his voice.
“My lady,” he whispered hoarsely, the words strange on his tongue after so many years.
Lane’s eyes slid to his, shiny with tears. He looked away. For better or worse, he had her to thank for this. She had guilted him into coming back, into doing the right thing, because she believed in happy endings, and because, for reasons that completely escaped him, she seemed to believe in him, too.
“Evan?” Hannah choked tearfully. “Why are you here?”
Michael shot Lane a helpless look. He had no idea where to begin, no idea what she knew and what she didn’t. He was relieved when Lane stepped in.
“Michael, the man who’s been staying with me, is really Evan—your Evan. I only found out myself a day ago. I wanted to tell you, but the doctors were afraid . . .”
Hannah’s eyes closed briefly. “I know what they were afraid of.” Her gaze narrowed then as a new light gradually began to kindle. “This was . . . the mistake?”
The mistake?
Michael caught Lane’s almost imperceptible nod but decided to let it pass—for now. It never occurred to him that he might have come up in conversation. Now he found himself wondering exactly what had been said. Had she painted him as the type of guy who got a woman into bed and then promptly skipped town? Jesus, Hannah Rourke had been back in his life for all of ten minutes, and already there were complications. But then, she wasn’t really back in his life. He’d come back to close a door, nothing more.
“You changed your name,” Hannah said softly.
There was no missing the note of sadness in her voice, and perhaps betrayal. She had a right to that, he supposed. “The people who adopted me changed it. I’m Michael now. Michael Forrester.”
“Michael,” she repeated, as if tasting the name. “Your middle name, yes. And a new last name, too. You have a new family. But of course you do.” Her eyes seemed to devour him as she reached up to smooth his cheek. “I always knew you’d grow up handsome and tall—like your father.”
Michael felt his gut twist. He’d come back to do the right thing, but he wasn’t letting her bring his father into this. “Lane tells me you took a nasty spill. How are you feeling?” It was an awkward pivot, but it was better than where they were heading.
Hannah managed a thin smile. A brave smile, Michael thought as she patted his hand. “You were kind to come, my boy, truly. But you don’t need to stay. I’m not your mother anymore. You’ve got a new life now. No reason for you to relive the old horrors.”
She turned her face away then, as a fresh fountain of tears racked her. He winced as Lane’s nails dug into his arm, an unspoken plea to do something, say . . . something. But he was at a loss. They were strangers. Yes, she’d given birth to him, had raised him for a time. But could a few strands of DNA bridge the gap of thirty bitter years? He wasn’t sure they could, or that he even wanted them to. And yet, as he stood there looking at her, so wretched and ashamed, he could feel her heart breaking, the same heart that had loved him all those years ago, that had lost a husband, and not one son, but two.
Reaching down, he brushed a strand of hair from Hannah’s cheek. “We won’t talk about old times,” he said softly. “But I’m here now—as Michael. Let’s let that be enough.”
Lane flashed him a look of gratitude, dabbed at her eyes, and gave Hannah’s hand a pat. “I’m just going to pop down to the nurses’ station and see when you might be allowed to have something to eat.”
“No,” Michael blurted, knowing he must look like a deer in headlights. “I’ll go. I’ll do it.”
“It’s okay. I need to stretch my legs.”
So, what? They were just supposed to catch up now, after thirty years?
Michael did his best to telegraph terror, but either Lane wasn’t picking up on his signals, or she was flat-out ignoring them. Stay, she mouthed, giving him that look women saved for moments like this. Talk to her. Please.
And with that, she was gone.