~ Michael; A Gift Of Trust ~

Michael lay in her bed and, as her grandmother was fond of saying, she was as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. She fidgeted. She tossed. And turned. She punched her pillows. She got out of bed and smoothed the sheets and blankets, crawled back into bed—and began the process all over again.

J. B. Anderson lying on her sofa led her mind in a direction she didn’t want to go. She recalled his kiss...and how it felt. Every nuance came back as if it happened only moments ago.

She thought about his caring concern for her safety. Of how he always tried to put himself between her and any perceived threat. And the way he came running the moment he thought she was in trouble.

He was kind, and considerate. He had a dry wit, and she loved his sense of fun. And yes, he was tenacious. He refused to go away, just because she asked him to. He was so determined she didn’t think she’d ever get rid of him. She smiled. “I could count on him to always be there.” Her whisper startled her and she jumped, surprised she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

She raised her head and looked at the bedside clock. Half past one. She’d better get a little sleep or she wouldn’t be able to function in court in the morning. She turned on her left side facing the window and drifted to sleep watching the shadows of the leaves cast by the bright light of the moon.

Michael slept soundly, dreaming of warm arms holding her safe. Of soft lips smiling before swooping down for a quick kiss. And of laughter.

A sound intruded. She fought to drift up from the dregs of slumber. While her mind lay muffled in the cotton wool of sleep, the sound invaded again. She struggled to identify it. A ripping sound. Fabric tearing?

Suddenly she was mentally alert before her eyes opened. She wondered, did the alarm buzz? Her eyes fluttered open. Like a living thing, darkness as black as pitch hovered in the corners, ready to suck her into its inky desolation. She raised her head and peered at the bedside clock. After blinking a moment, her eyes focused on the digital readout. Two-thirty.

Something moved in her peripheral vision. A shadow materialized at the window. Like a doe trapped in the beams of oncoming headlights and frozen by fear, Michael couldn’t move a muscle to protect herself. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. Gasped in through her open mouth, it whistled into her lungs.

She watched his arms raise high above his head. In his hands he clasped a knife. Riveted by the sight, her heart pounded...pounded, too fast. She couldn’t think. Her breath rushed out leaving her lungs empty. She fought to pull it back through her wide open mouth.

She shook her head in negation. She wanted to deny the evidence before her eyes. Her hands gripped the comforter. Rhythmically wadding and releasing the fabric. She heard a scream, unaware it issued from her throat. Nor, in her terror, did she realize for whom she called. “Jaaaa Beeee!”