Free Wildwood Road by Christopher Golden Page A

forearm from Jillian. It bordered on needing stitches, and there was no way he was letting her talk him into going to the hospital. They would want to know how he had been injured. What would he say? Michael had only the vaguest memory of the fear that had sent him crashing through a window.
    “Jesus,” he whispered, the word stolen away by the breeze. He shook his head, holding the rake as though it were some walking stick to keep him from falling.
Did I really do that?
    The cuts told the story. As did the pain in his ribs when he inhaled deeply; probably some massive bruising there. His back ached and his right cheek was swollen.
    Michael had done some incredibly stupid things in college under the influence of alcohol. He had shattered a car's headlights. One night he had done a back flip into a fountain in front of a hotel in Cambridge. He had thrown a beer mug at the head of one of his best friends, barely grazing the guy's skull, but left with the knowledge that he could have done serious damage. Freshman year he had said terrible things to a girl at a party, and remembered not a word later. Perhaps worst of all, he had walked a fourth-floor balcony railing as though it had been a circus high wire.
    Those memories troubled him, but not nearly so much as the idea that he had somehow gotten so obliterated that he could have fallen back into that sort of behavior.
    He glanced at the house again. The golden glow from within was irresistible.
What the hell are you still doing out here?
he thought.
You're freezing your ass off . . . and your wife is inside.
    With that, the last of the chill that he had felt separating him from Jillian seemed to burn off, the ice melting. Whatever resentment he'd held on to was gone, and now, as ever in such situations, he felt like a complete ass for having nurtured those feelings at all.
    “Screw it.” Michael let the rake fall to the lawn, abandoning it and the last pile of leaves he had gathered. He walked around to the front of the house and into the garage. Now that night had arrived the garage was quite dark, but he kept it neat and there was no chance of his tripping over anything. He could just make out the two crude wooden steps he had never gotten around to replacing.
    The door from the garage into the kitchen was unlocked. He opened it and stepped inside, greeted by the almost overpowering smell of onions, peppers, and garlic frying. Jillian stood in front of the stove, her hair tied back as she stirred the contents of the pan to keep them from burning. Michael's eyes watered from the smell, and his stomach growled. She had the sleeves of her green cotton blouse pushed up to the elbows, and one lock of hair fell across her face. He smiled at the sight of her.
    “Hey,” Jillian said without turning.
    “The wind was too much. I'll have to finish it another day.”
    “The snow will cover it all soon enough,” she replied, a tentative lightness in her voice. “Don't worry about it.”
    Softly, Michael let out a long breath. He crossed the kitchen and moved up behind her. His hands seemed to act of their own accord, sliding around her waist. He kissed the back of her neck. Jillian stiffened a moment before releasing a tiny sigh. Michael held her tightly from behind, and Jillian turned her face just enough so that he could kiss her. Their lips brushed together and then the kiss became something deeper.
    She set aside the wooden cooking spoon she had been using and turned toward him. For the first time that day, she really looked into his eyes, and then she slid her arms up to clasp her hands behind his head and drew him down to kiss her once more.
    “I'm sorry,” she whispered, laying her head against his chest. “I
was just . . .”
    “Freaked, I know. I don't blame you.” Michael held her to him, relishing the feeling of Jillian in his arms. The kitchen was redolent with the smells of their home, their married life, and he felt like a fool for fighting with her. “I'm