Deadly Harvest by Heather Graham

body against hers, the intimacy, the electricity. The hunger and the longing, and the sense of climbing, escalating, being so desperate for something and yet savoring every tiny, anguished step to reach that goal. Then there was the exultation of climax, like a scorching blaze that lit up the sky within her own mind again, and then again….
    The simple beauty of being held, the slick warmth of passion and even the chill of aftermath, the slowing beat of pulse and heart, and still being together.
    Maybe, for a while, she could live the dream. He would leave eventually, of course, and then all the wonder would indeed be confined to memory.
    But it was foolish to envision the future. It would come soon enough. Somehow, she had to teach herself to be glad for the moment. Guard her heart, but live fully in the moment.
    Easy enough to say, but almost impossibly hard to do. She was so tired, though, so on that note, she slept.
    Â 
    She heard the cawing of a crow.
    It was coming from the darkness, except that the darkness was easing. Morning was coming. An overcast, cold morning, a forerunner of the winter that would so quickly follow the fall. But she was home, standing on the balcony just outside her bedroom window, and she was watching as the light of day struggled to pierce the mist and the night. She could hear the crow screeching again and again.
    From her vantage point, she could see the cornfields.
    And she could watch the crows.
    They were circling over the cornfield.
    She knew that she had to go out, that the crows were calling to her, showing her where to go. She tried to turn, to go back into the house, but she couldn’t. A crow had landed on the railing and looked at her, cocking its head as it let out another terrible scream.
    It lifted off from the railing and joined the flock circling…something in the middle of the cornfield. She knew what it was.
    And she didn’t want to see.
    â€œRowenna!”
    She woke with a jerk and instantly winced. The dream had been dispelled by the sound of his voice, but she was still afraid to open her eyes.
    One nightmare was easy enough to explain.
    But two?
    He was at her side. And it was the crack of dawn, the light as misty as it had been in her dream. They hadn’t bothered to draw the drapes before tumbling into bed, and now the thin light was creeping into the bedroom.
    His face was beautiful, she decided, though a man wouldn’t want to hear such a compliment. Jawline strong, nose straight and perfect, mouth generous and wide, shock of dark auburn hair a perfect complement to the gray, wide-set eyes and ruggedly arched brows. His forehead was furrowed now with concern. He had risen earlier, she thought, because he was already dressed.
    But he was back on the bed now, seated at her side, holding her.
    â€œUm…good morning,” she whispered.
    â€œYou were dreaming again. Another nightmare.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I don’t do it all the time—honest,” she said.
    â€œWhat was it about?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYour dream. What were you dreaming about? I hope you’re not having nightmares about me,” he teased.
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    â€œThen what?”
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    â€œThen maybe you are having nightmares about me,” he said. “Seriously, you really don’t remember?”
    He sounded concerned, she thought, but when she shook her head, he just rose, looking down at her.
    â€œI made coffee,” he told her. “I found some little packets of that powdered cream stuff.”
    She noticed that his hair was clean and damp. Apparently he’d also found the shower. He’d obviously been up for a while, and she wondered how long he’d watched her dream before he’d awakened her. She didn’t understand why it bothered him that she didn’t remember what the dream had been about.
    Because she was a lousy liar, and he didn’t like being lied