Ransomed Dreams by Sally John

month.
    “Calissa, will you marry me after the funeral?”
    After the funeral? She tensed, willing herself not to whip back a few steps. After the funeral was a twist on the proposal that never included a time frame. Was this an ultimatum? Was he finally getting tired of asking?
    Abram Carter was everything she could wish for in a husband. He was her best friend, had been for eons. He was in no way threatened by an independent woman. Not that money was all that important, but he had plenty and then some. He was unattached; his ex hadn’t bothered him in over a decade. There were no children. He had meaningful work, which he never allowed to consume him. He was tall enough that she could add three-inch heels to her five-nine frame and not see the crown of his head. And with her, he had the patience of Job.
    Would that continue?
    She smoothed his tie, a splash of pastels that only he could get away with wearing at serious board meetings with Chicago’s muckety-mucks. “Um.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know.”
    She didn’t know? She didn’t know? Where had that come from? Her monthly reply was never “I don’t know!” It was always, always “Not now.”
    “Hm,” he said.
    Evidently he noticed her different answer too.
    She waited. The moments ticked by, and he said no more.
    Smart man.

Chapter 17
    Los Angeles airport
    Luke stuffed his knapsack in an overhead compartment and lowered himself into the luxurious first-class seat next to Sheridan’s. “You okay?”
    She moved sideways until her upper arm rested against his. “Yes.”
    His tiny smile conveyed empathy. “I am sorry it’s so hard.”
    “If you hadn’t come . . .” Oh, why bother? He was there. She was a mess. End of story.
    “If I hadn’t come,” he said, “then your sister would have contacted the State Department and all sorts of people would be involved. NPR would do a blurb on the curious life of Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery. Newsweek would send a photographer. Late-night hosts would make jokes.”
    “I thought Calissa did contact the State Department.”
    “No. I wrote my cell phone number on my State Department card.” He paused. “Just in case of a situation exactly like this one, when you needed to be contacted quickly and discreetly.”
    “If you hadn’t come, I’d be at home.”
    The lights dimmed in the cabin. He said, “You need to buckle up.”
    She did so, managing to keep her shoulder against his arm through the process, loathing her need to touch him, to reassure herself that the angel had not deserted her.
    The sense of déjà vu washed over her yet again. She was right back where she’d been a year and a half ago, scared absolutely witless. Or was it fear? Maybe it was simply the abruptness of it all. She hadn’t been away from Eliot’s side in so long. Suddenly he was gone and it was Luke beside her.
    She said, “You know, I’ve been within shouting distance of Eliot for a long time now, 24-7. If he whistles, I can hear him from anywhere in Topala. If he could whistle, that is. Which he can’t. He can’t shout either, for that matter. We have a cowbell.”
    “He’ll be fine. He’s a strong man, inside if not outside. You’ve left him in good hands.”
    “I’m talking about me.” She shivered. “He’s the fixed point in my life. My universe revolves around him, measured in yards, by an hour or two at a time. I’m not just there for him. He’s there for me. We have nothing else, no one else.”
    “Sounds like an ingrown toenail.” Luke reached above her and turned a knob until the flow of stale air stopped hitting her in the face. “You were going to have to cut it out sooner or later. Think of this trip as necessary surgery. It’s painful now, but you’ll both recover and be healthier for it in the end.”
    “We were fine.”
    “Sher—Sheridan, you were not fine.” His exasperated voice was too low for other passengers to hear. “If you were missionaries, maybe you’d be fine. I