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lay tipped on its side. 
Dried tea stained the side of the china.  She stepped behind him and pushed a
clump of hair away from his face and held her hand to his forehead.  Closing
her eyes, she sighed.  At least he wasn’t sick. She patted the back of his
head, ruffling his hair and moved the china to the counter.  Lowering a clean
cup from the cupboard, she turned back and studied him.  
    This wasn’t
the first time she had found him asleep at the breakfast table.  He never
rested well after a trip to Crest Ridge.  He had disappeared yesterday morning
and returned around sunset last night.  As was his custom when returning late,
he skipped dinner and busied himself in the barn until she went to bed.  He
rarely talked about his visits, and she had stopped asking for details when her
questions resulted in a locked bedroom door and a heavy consumption of
alcohol.  Whiskey seemed to be his preference but on those days, no bottle went
unattended.  
    He stirred and
raised his head.  His hair hung in front of his face like that of a disgruntled
sheep dog.  Plopping his chin on his forearms, he looked up from under a mop of
blond strands.  His eyes were red-rimmed and haggard looking.  Heavy bags cushioned
dark circles under his lashes.  And as she expected, his pale skin was pulled
tight over his cheek bones, giving the manifestation of a child’s attempt at a
charcoal drawing.  His appearance pulled at her heart to see him age this way. 
Each trip to Crest Ridge seemed to add a decade to his thirty-two years. 
    She hoped he
planned to bathe this morning.  Perhaps he could remove more than grime from
his appearance.  A copper kettle sat on the front burner of the stove.  Not
enough water for a bath, she poured a cup of tea and sat down opposite him. 
Steam wafted up from the liquid and she blew across the rim to cool her drink.
    “What are your
plans for the day?” she asked, opting to let him bring up the subject of their
house guest.  She still wasn’t sure whether to be overjoyed with the idea of a
woman in his bed or if she should be appalled that he had left her in the
messiest room in the house. She lifted her cup and held it in mid-air, her lips
held poised to receive the rim.  She tilted her head and sifted through a new
thought.  Last night, Grayson had arrived home alone.  She glanced up at the
ceiling and tapped her finger on the side of the cup.  And this morning, a
strange woman lay sound asleep in his upstairs bedroom.  Where did she come
from?
    Grayson pushed
back in his chair.  “I have no plans for today.  Did you need something?” 
Fatigue floated across his face, making him look as though he had no strength
to butter toast. 
    Laura sat her
cup on the table without tasting the content and drew her brows together. 
Surely he knew someone occupied his bed.  “Did the storm keep you up last
night?” she asked, playing along with his game for a little while longer.
    He glanced
past her shoulder to the window as if verifying her information.  He pulled one
side of his face into a crooked expression and drew his gaze down to her. 
“Storm?  There was no storm last night.”
    She lowered
her cup to the table.  “Yes.  It started well past midnight.  I heard a huge
clap of thunder, followed by quiet rumbling.  It lasted for about an hour or
two.”
    Grayson shook
his head back and forth and ran a hand through his hair.  “Last night’s skies
were clear, mother.  The loud noise you heard was my rifle.  I’m sorry I woke
you.”
    Laura’s eyes
widened and she looked toward the back door.  Solid oak and a forged iron latch
should prevent unwanted intruders from entering the house, but the porch was
open and unprotected from nosy wildlife.  She had been careful to clean away
all peels and cores from the pie she made yesterday, but the apple residue
could linger for days and attract any type of creature.  She mentally added to
her chore list: douse the portico