Sparked Read online

  “A couple times,” Clayton admitted. “But I’ve never made it across without falling in,” he said.

  “Never?” she asked.

  He grinned over his shoulder at her. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that until we got to the other side.”

  Cora grinned back, “Actually, that might have been a good detail to mention before we left.”

  “Too late now,” he laughed. “I’ll warn you about my failures the next time we do something life-threatening.”

  Next time. Her heart nearly stopped. What on earth did he mean by that? She tried to change the subject.

  “Is there a reward if you make it to the other side?”

  “You’d like a reward?” he said, squeezing her hand tighter.

  “I didn’t mean, I just meant—” She looked up at him and could feel herself blanch.

  He took a step toward her.

  But his step was too heavy, too fast. The canoe rocked so hard it nearly capsized. The motion sent Clayton toward the water, but Cora still gripped his hand. She yanked as hard as she could, letting her weight counterbalance his own.

  He crashed into her—his free arm circling her shoulders for balance, her face pressed against his muscular chest—and that’s where they stood until the boat stilled … and then a moment more. He smelled like sunshine.

  Finally, Clayton loosened his hold. His hands moved up her back and stopped at her shoulders.

  “You, my dear,” he said, “can have whatever reward you wish.”

  His eyes locked on hers. His face leaned closer. Was he about to—?

  “No necking till you make it!” someone shouted. It was another couple, coming back on the canoe ferry that helped people return after they’d crossed.

  Clayton dropped his hands from her like he’d just gotten caught—which Cora supposed he had. No Briggs would be caught dead kissing a Murphy.

  The other couple’s laughter pealed across the water as they passed.

  The moment was gone.

  After their near miss, they settled into an easy rhythm. The second half of the journey was faster and steadier than the first. Before they knew it, they were stepping foot on the island.

  “By God, we did it,” Clayton laughed. He seemed just as shocked as Cora felt.

  “Yes,” Cora said. She hadn’t said much since he’d tried to kiss her. Had he tried to kiss her? Or was it just her imagination?

  “Take a walk with me?” he asked.

  She knew she shouldn’t, the way her heart was pounding. But she didn’t say no. She nodded.

  He smiled and his eyes shifted. She couldn’t get a handle on what color they were. On the beach they had looked nearly gold against the firelight. But now they were cloudier—a warm gray.

  “Come on,” he said. He tugged her by the hand and she followed.

  As they wound themselves into the trees, the light grew darker, more spotty. The moon filtered through the branches, making everything glow a magical blue. The hum of the party on the beach grew quieter too, replaced instead by the swish of leaves and the rustle of grass at their feet.

  There was another sound too. Couples dotted the landscape, hidden in small, darkened pockets all over the island, glued to one another as though they had been through war to get there. Perhaps they had. Clayton’s hand firmly held hers, and as he tugged her along she could hear an orchestra of soft sighs, each couple moving as a single instrument instead of two. Her own heartbeat quickened at the sound.

  At last, Clayton found the spot he must have been looking for. It was underneath the branches of a wide old tree. Their view was hidden from anyone else coming by. He guided her by the waist until her back was against the trunk.

  He leaned in close.

  It was all Cora could do not to blurt out the questions in her mind: Why me? Why now? What do you want? Even if he wasn’t a Briggs—and he was—she knew a boy like Clayton couldn’t possibly have a real interest in her. Could he?

  “What’s … what?” she stammered. She couldn’t get the words out.

  “Didn’t you say something about a reward?” he asked, his eyes the brightest thing now against the inky black.

  “I—” she said, her heart pounding so loud she was afraid he could hear it. In its rhythm she heard her own thoughts: Don’t kiss me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t. But before the words could reach her mouth, his face drew near and his lips were on hers.

  His lips were on hers.

  His lips … his lips.

  His lips.

  Suddenly, the questions no longer mattered. She was swept up by him, by the heat of him against her, by the feel of him on her mouth. Everything inside her grew warmer, brighter, bigger—a sparkler against the night sky.

  Clayton slipped one hand around her waist, and the other into her hair. The touch sent a tingle down her spine and she felt something inside of her surge. All her worries disappeared for a moment—pushed back, pressed silent, tucked behind his warm, soft lips. She was drowning in it: this one thing, this one moment, this one kiss.

  She could hardly breathe for it.

  “Oh, God,” Clayton sighed. “You don’t … you don’t ….”

  But Cora didn’t want to hear what he was going to say next. That she shouldn’t get her hopes up? That he could never date a woman like her? That she didn’t know what she was doing? That she didn’t deserve his kiss?

  She didn’t want to hear it and she definitely didn’t want the moment to stop. And so she kissed him.

  He returned her kiss with fervor, parting her lips this time, delving into her with his tongue. He tasted like oranges and woodland rain. Cora sighed against his mouth, closed her eyes to savor the taste of him. The feel. The feel of electricity shimmering across her skin.

  He pulled away, his heaving chest a match for her own.

  “Please,” he begged, his strong hand curving around her cheek, his eyes locked on hers. “Tell me. I have to know your name.”

  It took a moment for his words to register. Took a moment for the cloud of desire to clear long enough to understand.

  It hadn’t been boldness or kindness.

  He hadn’t recognized her. He didn’t know.

  In that instant, everything she had been feeling vanished. The satisfaction, the warmth—all disappeared.

  Cora’s heart twisted in her throat. She didn’t know what to do, how to answer. What could she say now? What could she possibly say?

  While she was stuck there, trying to speak, the light shifted.

  Cora heard a giggle, then a guffaw. Their privacy had been invaded. Moonlight silhouetted the bodies of five people.

  She moved to dart out of his embrace, but his grip on her only grew tighter as he turned to look at the group.

  “Jeez-Louise, Clay,” a voice drawled. It was female, high pitched but thick with alcohol. “How drunk are you? You’re kissing a Murphy.”

  A gale of laughter burst from the group.

  Clayton pulled away from her, his brow curled in confusion.

  She had been so stupid. So absolutely stupid.

  She knew better than to hope. Hope was a territory for fools.

  Cora ran.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Clayton

  Clayton hadn’t wanted to stop kissing her. If it was up to him, the kiss would have been longer—much longer, the whole night. Her mouth tasted so sweet. It was nothing like any other kiss he’d ever had, and even now he longed for more of it. Her body had been so lush, so willing.

  Most women he dated seemed to want to play games—they were quick to dangle their affection in front of him like a carrot, but careful never to reveal where they were really leading him. Was it toward their heart? There was no shame in vying for someone’s heart, so why hide your intentions? He suspected it was toward his wallet.

  But she had seemed so different. She gave in to the moment with him, let herself stretch toward it the way he had. He could feel it in the whole essence of her. He could feel the spark of electricity
between them.

  It felt like he could read every thought that flitted across her lovely face—and that openness had drawn him in, made him want to return it with his own honesty, his own affection.

  Had it all been a lie? Could this woman really be a Murphy?

  Just as he was about to ask her, she ran. Instinctively, he reached to check for his wallet. But it was still there.

  “Cora Murphy,” Violet giggled. “Surely you can do better than that, Clay?” Violet had a sharp tongue, but he had never known her to be a liar. She was Clayton’s ex-girlfriend—usually smart, but alcohol made her silly and cruel. He guessed that was exactly why his friend Frank was handing her his flask right now.

  Cora Murphy. The name rang a bell. He’d gone to school with a Murphy girl for a while. If someone had asked ten minutes ago, he was sure he wouldn’t have remembered her name. But Cora sounded right. She’d been so much younger that they had never crossed paths. And so quiet and shy he’d barely noticed her. Other than the fact that she was a Murphy, there was nothing to notice. Surely this woman wasn’t her? Surely a person couldn’t change so drastically in just four years?

  But what other explanation could there be?

  God, he’d been an idiot. No wonder she’d resisted him so much.

  And what would his father say? He’d been parading around with the descendant of someone who had killed a Briggs. And worse, he had taken her across Lover’s Bridge. His father would surely see this as yet another foolish mistake by the family failure.

  “Cora Murphy,” Frank said, taking the flask back from Violet. Frank was the kind of guy who invited himself more than he got invited, but was generally nice enough. “You’re never gonna live this one down, pal.”

  “Quiet,” Clayton snapped.

  He looked to where Cora had run—darting through the trees, heading toward shore. The sight of her back made him want to slap the flask out of Frank’s hand. He needed to apologize.

  Clayton ran, trying to catch up with Cora who was well ahead of him by now. “Cora!” he yelled. “Cora, wait!”

  But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even turn to look at him. She was going so fast that her hair flowed wild behind her.

  Then he saw something else.

  Something strange.

  He stopped.

  A vivid purple fog curled toward them both, swallowing Cora into its depths—enveloping her so fully that it was like she had never been there at all.

  He stood still for a moment, confused. What was that? He’d never seen anything like it before. It was thick and dark and creeping closer and closer to him. He wasn’t sure if he should follow her into it or run in the opposite direction.

  From afar, he heard a moan and a thud.

  “Cora?” he called, racing toward where he had seen her disappear. “Cora?”

  But there was no answer. What if she had fallen? What if he had caused that poor girl to hurt herself?

  “Where are you? Please, Cora. Just answer that you’re okay?”

  But there was no sound now. No people or wind tickling the leaves. Even the sound of the crickets had ceased. Just an eerie silence as the fog crept closer—coiling in dark purple swirls that reached for him like fingers through the darkness.

  Panic clutched his chest. She was in there somewhere. Maybe lost and hurt in that strange fog. He had convinced her—practically twisted her arm to come with him here. This was all his fault.

  There was no other choice but to find her.

  He ventured into the cloud.

  Immediately his vision disappeared. He held his hands out in front of him to feel his way through.

  The fog smelled terrible—sulfuric and sharp as rotting cheese. He coughed as it entered his lungs, feeling the sting of it instantly—even sharper than the smell.

  This was bad. This was a mistake.

  He had to get out of this. He had to get Cora out too.

  Cora moaned again. And again, panic clutched his heart. He had to save her. Had to get her out of here.

  He willed himself forward but everything was wrong.

  He felt two things almost at once.

  First, he felt himself retch. His body violently rejected the air in his lungs and everything that had been inside his stomach came out in a sickening heave.

  Second, he felt his consciousness fading. He was aware of it as he staggered forward, his limbs growing heavier, his thoughts growing thicker, everything in his vision warping and hazing around the edges.

  He managed one step, then two, then his body simply would not move another step.

  There was no more fighting it.

  His face smacked against the soft moss of the forest floor.

  “Cora,” he said, as everything went dark.

  When Clayton’s eyes opened again, it wasn’t to the darkness of the forest. It was to a blinding white light. Everything around him seemed to glow. He was warm—too warm. Covered in something, but slick with sweat. What was that sticking to his skin—his clothes? A blanket? It felt as heavy as wool and twice as thick. He tried to move the offending cover off of him, but found he couldn’t lift his arm. Pain shot through his body at the smallest effort.

  There was a din. Random noises he had to fight to make out. In the distance, he thought he heard people moan, cough, but he couldn’t see anything. It was too bright. Someone groaned in pain. Clayton was suddenly aware of how his own body ached too. More than ached, it screamed. Every part of him felt stretched and battered and on fire. It hurt to breathe, to be.

  He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the brightness. He was in a bed. No, not a bed. It wasn’t nearly soft enough to be a bed. It was a cot. And there was a white curtain around it, sectioning him off from the sounds beyond. Was this a hospital? There wasn’t more than a clinic for a hundred miles.

  Despite the pain, a part of him relaxed. He was alive. Everything hurt, but he was alive.

  Then the sinking realization hit him. What about Cora? Had she survived?

  There was a movement to his right. People. Doctors. Clayton heard their voices as though through a fuzzy radio.

  “And he’s up to date on all his vaccinations?”

  “Yes. Diphtheria, tetanus, pertussis, smallpox. He’s also a part of Salk’s polio vaccine trial along with everyone else in town. Gave it to him myself last week.”

  Clayton knew that voice. It was Dr. Henry Porter. He was new at his job—the grandson of the town’s longtime, soon-to-retire physician, Dr. Pinkerton—but Henry had always struck Clayton as particularly intelligent and particularly kind.

  “Good. Then we can rule those out initially,” the other voice said. This one he couldn’t place. He was fairly certain he hadn’t heard it before. “You’ve made an excellent start here, doctor. Both you and your grandfather. I think it’s given the rest of them a fighting chance.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Dr. Porter said. “And we’re more than grateful for your assistance. I just hope—”

  “We all do, son. We all do. Now let’s put our heads together and see what we can make of these symptoms.”

  There was a flutter. A flash of white. A woman’s voice.

  “We couldn’t revive her, sir.”

  Couldn’t revive her? Did that mean?

  Who had they lost?

  Cora.

  What had happened to Cora?

  The voices continued, but he couldn’t make them out. There was a ringing in his ears and it felt like he was under water—so far away from the voices.

  The curtain to his left fluttered, and he saw her—Cora—lying there. She looked so pale, so weak. Was she even breathing?

  Please, God. Please.

  Seeing her that way was unbearable. Why did the sight of her hurt so much? Then the curtain dropped back into place, and he couldn’t see her at all. That was worse, so much worse.

  He had to help her, had to touch her, had to know.

  “Cora,” he said, and managed to sweep the sheet away from his chest. “Cora, Co
ra.”

  “Nurse?” he heard the unfamiliar voice say. “We need more anesthetic here.”

  Then there were hands holding him down, and a needle in his arm, and once again, the room went dark.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cora

  Bright blue eyes stared down at Cora. They were so similar to her own that for a moment she thought she was looking in a mirror. But as she focused she realized she was staring into Bethany’s eyes.

  “Cora! Oh Cora!” Bethany said, then shouted behind her. “She’s awake! Doctor? She’s awake.”

  Cora lifted herself onto her elbows. She was in a hospital, from the looks of it. She’d never been in a hospital before, but this was about how she imagined they would be. Sunlight shone through a window above her head. A white curtain surrounded her so that she couldn’t see anything but the small area beyond her cot.

  It was disorienting. The last thing Cora remembered was racing through the forest. But why? Oh yes. She had kissed Clayton Briggs. And then … well … she hadn’t been kissing him anymore. It had all been a mistake. Shame flooded her as though it was happening all over again. She’d been so foolish.

  And now this? How had she gotten from there to here? She hadn’t made a fool of herself again, had she?

  “What’s going on? What happened?”

  “You’ve been ill, sissy. So ill. We weren’t sure if you’d—but you did, and that’s what matters. The doctors think you’ll make a full recovery,” Bethany said, and threw her arms around Cora. “I was so scared.”

  Cora sat up into her sister’s hug. Ill? She didn’t feel ill at all. A little stiff, maybe a little fuzzy, but she wasn’t in pain. She felt like she’d woken from a long, restful nap—one of those rare times when she’d been able to sleep a little too much and was foggier because of it.

  “How did I get here?” Cora asked.

  “It was such an ordeal. You wouldn’t believe. First they took care of everyone on the beach, but then we noticed people missing. I didn’t know where you were. And then someone said they’d seen you cross Lover’s Bridge with Clayton Briggs. That’s when they thought to check the island. Did you really cross Lover’s Bridge with Clayton Briggs?”