Sprawled facedown on a hard-packed dirt floor, Jackson Rafferty regained consciousness slowly. For a moment he felt like a man coming out of a deep, contented sleep. Then reality hit. He’d had another blackout.
Ice-cold dread washed over him in waves. His teeth began to chatter. At his sides, his hands scraped through the dirt and formed shaking fists. A vague, amorphous fear hovered at the back of his mind, gaining momentum with every beat of his heart. It coalesced into a single, terrifying thought; the same thought he always had upon waking, the same fear.
No, he thought desperately. Not my children. I wouldn’t hurt my children. . . .
Liar. The word pounded through his brain. A small, terrified moan slipped from his lips. Every morning the first thing he did was check on his children to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently hurt them in the night. It was irrational, he knew. A legacy from the horrible nightmare of his past. Now, supposedly, he was cured. Yet still, he had the terrifying blackouts. Still he awoke afraid. Oh, God . . .
Shaking, he got to his hands and knees. At the movement, his head spun, nausea yanked his empty stomach.
He sat back on his heels, waiting for the familiar queasiness to pass. Gradually his vision cleared. Behind him, a lantern rested on the workbench, sputtering pale golden light into the night. In its glow, he saw the shadowy outline of two stalls. The comforting smells of musty wood, dust, and fresh hay filtered to his nostrils.
The barn. He was in his own barn.
All at once he remembered coming here. His gaze shot to the workbench, where a cradle lay, half-finished and forgotten. A saw and hammer lay on the floor where he’d dropped them.
He’d been reaching for the can of nails when the storm hit. The last thing he remembered was the sudden volley of rain, pounding the roof like gunfire. Gunfire. Memories catapulted him back in time. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to remember, not to feel.
As always, he had no control; his efforts were a feeble, useless waste of time. The visions clawed at him, sucked him once again into a depression so deep and dark and consuming, he couldn’t imagine finding his way out. Dear God, he couldn’t live like this anymore. . . .
Breathing hard, trembling, Jack forced his watery legs to a stand, and staggered to the workbench. It was there, waiting for him, gleaming dully in the lamplight. His Remington army revolver.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he curled his workcalloused fingers around the pistol’s grip. The cool metal handle warmed at his touch, felt comforting and familiar. “So easy.” The words slipped past his lips before he knew he was going to say them. It would be so easy. One shot and the misery would end. His family would be safe. He lifted the gun. It seemed to grow heavier, uncomfortably so. The muscles in his forearm tightened in response. Cold metal kissed his temple like an old friend.