Stormy Night Publications Publishers of BDSM and Kink Erotica
Chapter One
Catherine Richardson paused, her eyes glued to the show-jumping footage of the Olympic hopefuls showing on the telly, her spoonful of ice cream halfway to her mouth. Jason! Even without his name in big, bold letters printed across the bottom of the screen, she would recognise him anywhere. His face was etched so indelibly into her brain, she could never forget him. He’d been everything to her, once. Back when they were young and carefree, with the whole world at their fingertips, they’d been inseparable.
She sucked the salted caramel decadence off the back of the spoon and shook her head sadly. Sure, they’d been inseparable once, but that was a long time ago. A lot had happened since then: his Olympic dream. Her life in the city, marriage, and subsequent divorce. Water under the bridge; a lot of it.
The camera zoomed in on his face as he rode flawlessly over the jumps and her heart skipped a beat. He still looked exactly the same. Older now, but still just as handsome. The crows’ feet at the edges of his eyes and lines where his mouth crinkled up at the corners when he smiled made him look distinguished. The focus in his eyes, the determination written all over his face as he looked ahead to the next jump was just the same. The camera panned out and he reached forward to rub the sleek neck of his chestnut horse, shiny with sweat. His lips were moving, presumably talking to his horse, and she heard his voice in her head, whispering her name just as he used to do, the deep timbre of his voice a gentle caress.
“So you’re off to the Olympics again, huh?” she said to the telly, dipping her spoon back into the ice cream tub again. “Living the dream. Just as you always wanted.” She tried to smile. She wanted to be happy for him, she really did, but it was impossible. While he was living his dream, her life was falling apart.
A lone tear trickled down her face and she reached up and brushed it away. She’d never felt more alone. Or more worthless. She felt like a failure. Jason was about to compete in the Olympics again, representing New Zealand in what he did best and what was she doing? Sitting on her couch in her dingy rented flat wearing ice cream-stained pyjamas that she hadn’t changed in days, with her stringy, unwashed hair tangled over her shoulders. Empty wine bottles, dirty glasses, McDonald’s wrappers, and empty ice cream tubs littered the table and floor near where she sat. She was a mess. A total mess. Was this what all women did on the other side of divorce? Fall apart?
Without thinking, she picked up her phone and googled his name. His Olympics profile, sponsor list, and media contacts was the first page to come up, and then further down was his horse training business and riding school website, which she instantly clicked on. Browsing through it brought back so many memories. Good ones, mostly. For years, the riding school had been her second home. It had been her escape. She’d learned to ride there, spent much of her teens there, fallen in love there.
She smiled sadly and kept scrolling, flicking through the photos, the reviews, the endorsements. Under the ‘contact us’ section was a phone number and an email address. She ran her fingers over the thumbnail photo beside his name, remembering the way he used to look at her. Jason@… She didn’t know what the rest of it was, but it lodged itself right there in her email app that had opened automatically when she’d touched the screen.
Should I or shouldn’t I? Common sense and curiosity warred within her. Why would you even want to contact him? He’s already broken your heart once, why you would want to contact him again? And it’s not like he’s even going to remember you.
“Screw it,” she said out loud to her empty apartment. “It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose. I can’t fall much further.” Typing quickly, her thumbs flying over the little keypad, she rattled off an email.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 8.20 p.m.
Subject: Hello!
Hi, Jason,
I’m going to hazard a guess that you don’t remember me… You were my first love, fourteen years ago.
I just saw you on TV—congratulations! I know representing NZ in the Olympics was always your dream. So cool to see you achieving it yet again!
If you remember me, feel free to write back 🙂
From Catherine Richardson
Catherine Richardson… It felt strange to call herself that again after so many years of using her husband’s name. Another bolt of emotion ripped through her. Divorce had stolen so much—even her identity. The name she’d used for a decade was no longer hers. The home she’d lived in, the restaurant she’d run… all of it. She’d devoted her entire being to it, and divorce had cruelly snatched it away.
She dug her spoon back into the tub of ice cream and shovelled it into her mouth absently, settling back on the couch to watch the telly, trying to push thoughts of Jason from her mind. He was unlikely to reply to her email, so it was pointless to get her hopes up. She was better off to just forget about him. Reaching forward, she refilled her glass with cheap plonk—a chardonnay that had been on clearance at the supermarket. It tasted revolting, but it numbed her enough that she didn’t burst into tears thinking of what might have been. So many wasted years… Don’t think about that, she told herself sternly. Instead, she took a sip of the cheap wine, pulling a face at the pungent aftertaste but swallowing more anyway. Cheap and nasty or not, alcohol was alcohol, and it dulled her senses. Right now, that was what she needed.
The news segment where they’d shown Jason in the show-jumping ring—along with the other contenders for the Olympics—had finished, and her favourite gameshow was just about to start. She liked gameshows. Trying to answer the questions before the contestants did was a welcome distraction from the self-destructive thoughts that usually plagued her, and getting the answers right always gave her a little thrill. Proof that she wasn’t the stupid, crazy idiot her ex had constantly told her she was.
The shrill beep of her phone on the coffee table in front of her made her jump. For a second she didn’t know what it was. It made the same sound as an incoming text, but she knew it wouldn’t be. Nobody texted her these days. She had no friends left from her single days; she’d lost touch with them all. And all the friends she’d had as half of a couple with Steve had sided with Steve. Or distanced themselves from her, at any rate. “Some friends they were,” she mumbled bitterly.
But still, she reached out and picked up her phone. “May as well see who it is,” she told the telly.
She touched the screen, the blackness lighting up, showing not a text message, but an email. Jason? She didn’t dare hope… Crossing her fingers for luck, she held her breath and tapped the screen, opening the email app.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 8.46 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
Hi, Catherine,
Good to hear from you. Are you kidding? Of course I remember you! You were the first woman I ever truly loved, how could I ever forget you? How are you?
Jason xx
Catherine gasped and read the words over and over in her head. He remembers me? Slowly, she smiled.
Downing the remaining wine in her glass in one go, for courage, she told herself, she sent off a reply:
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 8.54 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
I’m thrilled that you remember me! I’m good. Actually that’s rubbish. I’ve just come out of the other side of a nasty divorce and I’m a mess. Every day, I was told I was crazy, sworn at, and told that I suck. It takes a while to come back from that. But as this is just an innocent, friendly email, you don’t need to know any of that. Instead, tell me about you.
C.
As soon as she sent it, she wished she could take it back. This was a mistake, all of it. Contacting him in the first place, replying, and most of all, telling him about her divorce. Why would he care about that? A lot had happened in fourteen years. Both for her and, she assumed, for him. Aside from what she already knew about his representing New Zealand at the Olympics twice already, she assumed he was married and probably had a family. At the very least, he would have moved a long way on from her.
You’re an idiot, Catherine, she told herself. Why are you opening yourself up to rejection and heartbreak yet again?
She refilled her wineglass, dug her spoon back into the tub of ice cream, and turned her attention back to the telly. “Australia!” she answered the question before the presenter had even finished reading it out and sat there staring at the screen, waiting impatiently for the contestant to figure it out. “Australia, you idiot!” she told the contestant, as though the woman on the screen could actually hear her. “The answer is Australia!”
Look how far you’ve fallen, she thought. You’ve gone from owning one of the most popular bars in Christchurch to yelling at the telly.
Finally the contestant answered the question correctly and Catherine raised the nasty chardonnay high. “Cheers,” she toasted the contestant, taking another long swallow. It didn’t taste as bad now that she had a bit more alcohol running through her veins, or maybe it was the ice cream that was disguising the taste. Whatever it was, the wine was easier to drink now, and went down easily when she tilted her head back and sculled the remainder of the glass.
Her phone dinged again and she reached for it, a little bit excited, a little bit nervous. It was Jason; it had to be.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.03 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
Hi, Catherine,
Thrilled is an overstatement, I’m sure. I could never forget you. How could I? I was crazy about you! I wish I could turn back the clock—I would never have let you go.
At our ages, I don’t think either of us can claim to be innocent 😉
I wish I could say I’m sorry to hear about your divorce, but I’m not. Nobody deserves to be spoken to like that, and I’m very happy that you’re single.
Just so you know, women who suck are worth their weight in gold. :p
Jason xx
She smiled, giggling a bit at the cheekiness of his words. “You haven’t changed, have you, Jase? Still the flirt,” she announced to her ice cream. “And I’m perfectly innocent, thank you!” She put her spoon down and held her phone tighter, reading his words over and over again, allowing them to cheer her up and fight through the fog that constantly surrounded her. Her smile widened. Basic flirting was doing for her what copious amounts of ice cream and cheap wine had failed to do: made her feel like a woman again. Even better, a potentially desirable one.
Another email came through.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.07 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
There’s nothing to tell about me. Same old, same old. I’m still single, still living for horses and chasing the Olympic dream. Are you taking care of yourself? Where are you living these days?
J xx
He seemed genuinely curious, and a warmth spread through her, heat settling in her core. He was single? How? Semi-recent photos showed him to be even more attractive than she remembered. He was perhaps at his physical peak now, his shoulders much bigger than they’d been then, his muscles toned and firm. She wondered what he looked like in the flesh. It was inconceivable that a man so good looking, ambitious, kind, and successful hadn’t found a woman to share his life with.
Without thinking too much, she typed out a response. She knew if she hesitated, she wouldn’t do it. Years of emotional abuse would come to the fore. She’d remember his cutting words. You’re a worthless, crazy bitch. She’d heard them often enough, Steve had spat them at her almost daily. If she thought about those words, she wouldn’t have the courage to send it. So she typed quickly, while the alcohol was making her brave.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 9.11 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
Yes, I’m taking care of myself. Well, I’m still alive, anyway, which is probably surprising if you consider my diet recently. I’m even clothed, if pyjamas that I’ve worn for several days straight counts as clothes. I’m in Christchurch still, on the outskirts of the city in a manky flat that probably should have fallen down in the earthquake. But at least I’m smiling now, thanks to you 🙂
C.
She hit send straight away, before she chickened out. The contestant on the telly didn’t even get a chance to answer the next question before his reply arrived:
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.15 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
Catherine, I’m glad you’re smiling. But it doesn’t sound like you’re taking very good care of yourself at all. Being alive is not really the benchmark for taking care of yourself, is it? And no, dirty pyjamas don’t count as clothes. You’re going to have to do better than that if you’re going to claim you’re taking care of yourself.
What do you do for work?
J xx
“I’m taking care of myself just fine,” she insisted to her phone. “Bossy man.” But inside, she was turning flips with excitement. His bossiness had been evident even way back when they were young, when he’d been issuing orders at the riding school and taking charge on their dates. Back then, she’d both loved it and hated it. His exacting standards had infuriated her at times. Now it was exactly what she craved.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 9.21 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
I don’t work. Not these days. I can barely even drag myself out of bed and put clothes on; I definitely couldn’t handle a job.
Not very long ago, I was co-owner of one of the most successful bars/restaurants in Christchurch. Now I spend my days moping and chewing through my share of the proceeds from the divorce. Sad, huh?
She felt a bit silly admitting that to him, but it was the truth. She’d fallen so far, and right now, she couldn’t even see a way back up.
His reply was immediate. Was he sitting on his couch holding his phone with bated breath, waiting for her response, just as she was for him?
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.24 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
That doesn’t sound very healthy, little girl. It definitely doesn’t sound like you’re taking care of yourself at all!
Immediately, she went on the defensive. She was pathetic—she knew it—but she didn’t need that truth pointed out to her. She’d heard enough criticism to last her a lifetime.
She quickly typed out a reply:
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 9.27 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
Yeah, well. I’m trying but it’s hard. Every day he swore at me. Told me I was crazy—a ‘psycho’ was the word he liked to use. A loser. A bitch. And lots of other delightful names like that. So I may as well make that be true, right?
Even as she sent it, she knew she was making a mistake. Why was she telling him that? She hadn’t spoken to the man in more than a decade and now here she was, pouring her heart out to him in an email already. What was wrong with her? Maybe Steve was right. Maybe she was crazy.
His reply was almost instantaneous.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.32 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
I think we’re going to need to meet up. How do you feel about that?
It was his voice she heard in her head as she read his words. Sparks shot up her spine and her heart skipped a beat in a moment of shock. He wanted to meet her? Really? Even after everything she’d just told him?
Another email came through before she had a chance to reply.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.33 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
Because someone needs to set you on the straight and narrow and I can’t do that over email.
The sparks shooting up her spine were replaced with chills. Good chills. Not of dread, but anticipation. Shyly, she responded, her fingers trembling on the little phone keyboard.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 9.37 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
I’d like that.
But as soon as she sent it, she was plagued with doubt. Did she really want to meet him? She’d changed so much; she was no longer the fun-loving, carefree girl he once knew. Now she was broken, a mere shell of her former self.
You weren’t good enough for him when you weren’t broken, her cynical inner voice reminded her. What is he going to want with you now? After everything she’d been through, she wasn’t sure that she could take his rejection again.
Too late. Her phone dinged again, signalling that he’d replied.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.41 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
Great! We’ll arrange something soon. In the meantime, I want you to go to bed and get some sleep. Right now. In the morning, I want you to get up, have a shower, wash your hair, put on some clean clothes, then email me and we will talk.
Sweet dreams 🙂
J xx
Her tummy flipped reading those words, his dominance setting off a little spark of arousal. The casual way he issued commands made her pulse race and heat shoot through her, straight to her core. What was it about alpha men that affected her so?
She grinned cheekily as she typed her reply.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 9.42 p.m.
Subject: Re: Hello!
And if I don’t?
She hit send as the air thickened, making her fight to drag it into her lungs. How would he respond? Would he respond?
Almost instantly, her notifications dinged.
Clearly, he would.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.43 p.m.
Subject: Go to bed!
Go to bed! That’s an order. Unless you want to find out what happens to naughty girls who disobey?
It was his stern voice she could hear in her head as she read his words, his commanding tone sending a shiver down her spine. She thought back to years ago, when they’d been together, and grinned as she remembered. Remembered the threat of it, anyway. He’d thrown threats around like nobody’s business, promising to slap her ass for every little thing. He’d never done it though. Not for disobedience, anyway. And certainly not properly. The few playful swats he’d given her here and there had done nothing more than leave her breathless and wanting.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 9.45 p.m.
Subject: Re: Go to bed!
Tell me. What *does* happen to naughty girls who disobey?
The reply was almost instantaneous.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.46 p.m.
Subject: Re: Go to bed!
They get their bottoms smacked :p
J xx
Mischief took over, and her bratty side that hadn’t surfaced in years came to the fore. She giggled as she typed up a response, wishing she was close enough to see the expression on his face as he read it.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 9.48 p.m.
Subject: Re: Go to bed!
Is that supposed to be a deterrent? Because it’s not ;p
She was still giggling as she imagined his reaction, when his response came through.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.49 p.m.
Subject: Re: Go to bed!
I’m confident that it will be, once you’ve been across my knee getting your bare bottom warmed.
Catherine swore her heart stopped, just for a second or two. The heat that his emails had ignited in her core completely engulfed her now, and a blazing inferno erupted inside her, making her gasp for air and fan her face with an empty McDonald’s bag. Throwing the bag down, her fingers flew over the little keys and she banged out a response, unwilling to let this flirtatious email stream go.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 9.53 p.m.
Subject: Misplaced confidence
You seem to have a lot of confidence in your spanking ability, Mr. Oliver. Are you sure it’s not misplaced?
She waited with bated breath, hoping against hope that she hadn’t chased him away. “It’s just starting to get good!” she announced to her ice cream, before returning the tub to the freezer. She didn’t need it anymore. Jason’s emails were making her far happier than any amount of ice cream ever could.
With perfect timing, her phone dinged just as she sat back down again.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 9.55 p.m.
Subject: Very well-placed confidence
My confidence in my spanking ability is most definitely not misplaced, Ms. Richardson. My hands are flexing right now, in preparation.
How on earth was she supposed to respond to that? Her brain was heady with arousal and she couldn’t find the right words. She didn’t want to be too forward, but neither did she want to be too shy. Not now that she’d pushed through her insecurities and opened herself up to him.
The back and forth banter felt so easy, so comfortable, so right. They’d slipped back into familiar territory so quickly, it was easy for her to forget they’d even been apart.
“Steve had been flirty and sweet once, too,” she reminded herself out loud. “And look how he ended up.”
The sharp jolt back to reality hurt. She’d enjoyed getting lost in the fantasy with Jason, enjoyed smiling again. Forcing the painful last few years out of her mind and concentrating instead on the present had been refreshing. But the truth of the matter was Steve hadn’t always been an abusive asshole. And Jason had already broken her heart once.
Leaning forward, she picked up the wine bottle and emptied the last of the dregs into her glass, adding the now empty bottle to the pile next to her feet.
“What would he think if he could see you now, you wino?” she asked herself, disgusted. “Hanky-spanky would be the last thing on his mind.”
Her phone dinged, interrupting her disparaging thoughts.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 8 January 2020 10.06 p.m.
Subject: Go to bed!!!
Three exclamation marks, because I’m very serious. Goodnight, Catherine. Sleep well. Email me tomorrow morning, when you’ve done as I asked: shower, wash your hair, dress in clean clothes. I’d like to hear from you by 8 a.m. Oh, and make sure you eat breakfast. Something healthy. Ice cream doesn’t count!
J xx
“You’re so certain I’m going to follow your orders, aren’t you?” she asked her phone, slurring her words just slightly. She scarfed back the last of the wine and left the empty glass on the coffee table. “But I will go to bed,” she conceded. “Not because you told me to, but because I’m tired.”
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 8 January 2020 10.11 p.m.
Subject: I’m in bed!!!
Three exclamation marks because I’m very obedient ;p
Good night, Jase, chat tomorrow.
C x
* * *
Jason chuckled as he read her last email, before putting his phone down and switching off his bedside light. From memory, there wasn’t an obedient bone in Catherine’s body. She’d been sassy, bratty, impulsive, and fun. But not obedient. Never obedient. Oh, she’d followed instructions okay, if he’d kept on her case. But that was it. Mostly, she’d done whatever she wanted. After reading her emails, he reckoned she was still the same. A free spirit.
He tossed and turned for much of the night, remembering. Her. Them.
There had been no messy break-up, no drama; they’d just drifted apart as their lives had gone in different directions. She’d had her life in the city and he’d been focused on the Olympics. His dream. The Olympics had been what he’d lived and breathed. The idea of representing his country on horseback had consumed him. It still did. The gold that was his ultimate dream had eluded him, so far. His Olympics dream had been the most important thing in his life. More important than her. Was it still? He swallowed hard, trying to answer the question honestly. The truth was, he didn’t know. The thought of the gold medal—standing on the Olympic podium representing his country, feeling the weight of the gold medal hanging around his neck… That was the dream.
He’d never stopped caring about her, though, and still had a photo of her buried under a pile of books on his nightstand. Horse training books, mostly. Magazines and hard-covers both, the pages filled with newfangled training techniques and advertisements for horse nutrition. Full-page colour ads of him modelling riding clothes—the sponsorship deals he relied on to fund his Olympic campaign. Books he’d never found the time to read, and probably never would.
Smiling, he rolled over, switched the light back on, fished the photo out and looked at it, tracing the contours of her face with his fingers. Wishing he could touch her for real. She was so young there, just twenty years old. So full of life, hope and happiness had danced in her eyes. It had been taken two months before she’d moved away.
Looking at the photo now, he remembered the way the sunlight had sparkled in her golden hair, the wind lifting it gently, as she rode. He remembered the way they’d walked hand in hand, his long strides automatically shortening to match hers.
Why had she contacted him now? She needed him, he could tell that much. She needed him to steady her, to comfort her, to be her rock, just as he’d used to be. He remembered all the times she’d come to the stables upset, crying against his chest before she saddled up her horse. He didn’t know much about it, she never said a lot, but he knew her childhood had not been a happy one. The stables had been her escape. And now, by the sounds of things, she’d been through the wringer again.
He sighed deeply, wishing he’d contacted her years ago. He could have saved her so much heartache and pain. He’d certainly thought about her enough, off and on, but he’d never reached out. Partly because he figured she’d be married with a family by now; she’d made no secret of the fact she wanted kids. But partly, he’d been afraid. The Olympics had been the most important thing to him and she’d had to take second place. He’d known that if he’d gotten in touch, she would have had to come first. And he would’ve had to give up on his dream. So he’d tried to forget her, tried to move on, but he’d never been able to. There were just too many shared memories for him to erase her from his mind completely. How did you ever forget the first woman you gave your heart to?
So now she was back in his life and there was no way he could let her go again. He didn’t know if he could be what she needed, but he wanted to try. And he knew, if he ever met the bastard who had caused her so much pain, he would kill him.
Chapter Two
“Catherine!”
The desperation in the mournful tone jolted Catherine awake and she looked around urgently, blinking in the darkness to see who was calling her. She reached out to turn on the bedside lamp, the single bulb casting a golden glow over the bed, chasing the shadows from the corners.
There was nobody there.
“It’s just a dream,” she whispered, trying to calm her racing pulse. “A dream. It’s happened before.” And that was true; it had. But that fact didn’t make it any less disconcerting. No matter how many times it happened, being woken up out of a deep sleep by an imaginary being calling her name never failed to terrify her.
Sitting up in bed, she took a few deep breaths, shaking away the sleep-induced confusion. “I haven’t had that dream in months!” she mumbled. “And now it’s back. What’s going on?”
She’d dreamed about the little stone hut in the middle of nowhere forever. It had a tin roof and was surrounded by mountains. It was incredibly vivid and realistic, yet she couldn’t remember ever going there. Even as a child, she’d seen the hut in her dreams. Sometimes a man with a big bushy beard would be standing in the doorway of the hut, but in her dreams she only ever saw him from a distance, and she didn’t know who he was. He wasn’t familiar to her; he wasn’t someone she knew. So why was he calling her name? Why was he calling her so loudly, in that desperate, searching tone, so loud that he woke her up? Who was he and what did he want with her?
Throwing back the covers, Catherine got out of bed and padded to the kitchen to make a hot drink. She’d never be able to sleep now.
As she flicked the kettle on to make a coffee to try to ease the throbbing fuzziness in her head, the mournful tone still echoed in her brain, haunting her.
The dream had shaken her, more than she wanted to admit. And it had come out of the blue, after months without it. When she’d still been with Steve, it had been an almost nightly occurrence, and it had driven Steve wild. He’d thought she was crazy because of it, and wanted to have her committed. Normal people don’t wake up every single night from a dream, he told her repeatedly. They don’t wake up adamant some imaginary person that they could only see in their dreams was calling them. It was stress, he’d insisted. Stress that she didn’t know how to manage. A little holiday away would be good for her. He hadn’t meant going away on a holiday, though. No tropical island vacations or Caribbean cruises for her. He’d meant a lengthy stay inside the walls of a mental institution. He’d meant having her committed. Just as well I wasn’t born a hundred years ago, she thought bitterly. Because that’s exactly where I would be.
And the more he’d said those words, the more she had started to believe they might be true, and the more frequently she’d had the dream until she couldn’t have a full night’s sleep without it.
But it hadn’t always been that way. The early years of her marriage had been completely dream-free. That particular dream, anyway. She hadn’t dreamt of the hut in so long that it was easy for her to forget she’d ever been plagued by it.
And then she’d had the miscarriage. The dreams had started again that very night, and that was when everything had started to fall apart.
“The bastard blamed me!” she snarled angrily, slamming the cutlery drawer shut with a bang. She slammed the teaspoon onto the benchtop equally as hard, rage running through her as she remembered her ex-husband’s vile words. You’re so bloody useless you can’t even stay pregnant.
He’d hidden his blame well, at first. But by the second miscarriage, the strain was starting to show. And after the third one, that was when he really got nasty. For some reason, he seemed to be convinced that it was all her fault. And when they stopped trying, because she couldn’t take the heartbreak of losing much-wanted babies anymore, he blamed her for that, too. Of course he showed a different persona out in public. In their restaurant kitchen, working with the other chefs, chatting to customers, he was a completely different person.
“They all thought he was so lovely,” she complained bitterly to the kettle as she poured freshly boiled water into her mug. “But he wasn’t, he was an asshole.” Even now, all this time later, she still got worked up thinking about it.
Tears of sadness and frustration streamed down her face as she remembered how hard it had been to hide her pain behind a false smile, as she’d carried plates and poured drinks all night long. None of the customers, even the regular ones, had any idea of how badly she’d been hurting. But the huge effort she’d made in hiding her emotions had taken a toll, exhausting her from the inside out.
Her sister knew, though. The darling woman had been her rock, as much as she could from the other side of the Tasman, anyway. Emma had been living in Sydney for years, married with children, but they’d always remained close. They were twins; Emma had been the eldest by three minutes and she’d taken her responsibilities as eldest sister very seriously.
Just after the second miscarriage, hoping to distract her, Emma had sent Catherine copies of their family tree that she had been researching. She’d managed to trace one line of their family all the way back to three generations before their ancestors first arrived in New Zealand—way back to England in the early 1700s. One particular branch of the tree had been highlighted in hot pink ink—Emma’s favourite colour. Look at this! had been scrawled down the side in pink glitter pen in Emma’s messy cursive hand. Twin girls—Catherine and Emma Craig—had been born in England in 1860. Emma Craig was their great-great-great-grandmother—Emma had traced the lineage all the way through. Catherine Craig had left England’s shores in 1884 and had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. Emma hadn’t been able to find any more information about her at all. No recorded children. No marriage certificate, no death certificate. Nothing. Wonder what happened to Catherine? Emma had scrawled down the other side, the writing going the wrong way, reading from the bottom of the page to the top. Catherine remembered having to tilt the paper to read it properly, smiling at the large, untidy letters. Neatness had never been one of Emma’s priorities, and the erratic, rounded handwriting fit Emma’s flamboyant personality perfectly.
They’d searched together, in their quest to discover what had happened to Catherine Craig, but kept coming up blank. Hours spent poring through various genealogy and old newspaper websites had been a welcome distraction from the heartbreak of the miscarriages, but it had also signalled the demise of her marriage. What are you bothering with that shit for? Steve had snarled every time he’d walked past her, when she’d been scrolling through her laptop, searching for clues. It’s ancient history, it doesn’t matter. And it probably didn’t, to Steve. But it did to her. For some reason she didn’t fully understand, she had an almost obsessive need to find out what had happened to Catherine Craig.
It was at that time—immediately after reading the family tree—that the man had started calling to her in her dream, startling her out of a deep sleep, leaving her frightened and shaking. Being woken nearly every night by a dream had, of course, made Steve worse. You’re a lunatic, he’d told her. A useless lunatic. Worthless. There’s something wrong with you. His cruel words rang in her ears as she carried her coffee back to bed.
She picked up her phone, intending to email Jason and tell him about the dream. But fear held her back. He’d think she was crazy, too. She’d had the same dream when she was a child, but without the man calling her name. Back then, she’d only dreamed of the hut, and although it had been recurring, she’d never woken up terrified, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding, convinced someone was in the room, like she had when she’d been married to Steve.
“Oh, what the hell,” she muttered, as she brought up the email app.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 9 January 2020 3.06 a.m.
Subject: Awake L
Remember that dream I had as a kid? About the hut? It’s back. Except this time there’s a man in the dream too, and he’s calling my name. Woke me up and freaked me right out. So now I’m awake at this ungodly hour. I’m not going to be able to get back to sleep, either. I think my body still remembers being awake at this time, from so many years in hospitality.
C x
Rearranging her pillows behind her, taking a sip from her mug, Catherine tucked the blankets firmly around her legs and settled back. She believed the hut was real. It actually existed. It had to—otherwise her ex was right, and she was crazy. Because it was exactly the same in every single dream, she figured it must be a hut she’d visited when she was young, that she couldn’t remember, and it must have had a deep impact on her somehow. So, with nothing else to do at such a crazy hour, she typed ‘stone hut’ into the search bar on her phone and started scrolling.
Right there, on the very first page, was a hut that looked familiar. Her finger hovered over the screen, her heart pounding. At first glance, it looked just like the hut in her dreams: stone. Mountains beyond. Tin roof. Excitedly, she touched the picture, enlarging it from a thumbnail image to the full screen.
“Oh, my god, that’s it!”
She stared at it for a full ten seconds, unable to believe that this was really it. That the little hut from her dreams, the same hut she’d been dreaming about forever, actually existed. She felt vindicated. At last! She wasn’t crazy after all!
She scrolled down the page that came up. Ryan’s Peak Boundary Riders Hut, the headline read. Rustic alpine accommodation. Sinking back into the pillows, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was a hotel; she must have stayed there with her family when she was too little to remember, and the hut must have planted itself into her subconscious for some reason.
But then she looked closer at the webpage. “Deep in the heart of the Southern Alps on Ryan’s Peak High Country station,” she read out loud. “Shit.” She’d never gone there as a kid, she was certain of it. High Country stations were definitely not her parents’ thing. They didn’t mind rustic, and they’d even gone camping in tents once or twice, but they’d always stayed close to civilisation, in proper camping grounds with electricity and hot showers. A little backcountry hut in the remote mountain wilderness was not a place they would ever have gone. Not in a million years.
She continued reading. “The old boundary riders hut has been renovated and recently opened to self-contained guests and is popular with hunters and fishermen alike.” She read that part over twice. Recently opened… No! It couldn’t be. She sank back against her pillows dejectedly. Those two words confirmed her fears: she’d definitely never been there. The hut wasn’t a repressed memory. It wasn’t embedded in her subconscious from a happy little visit when she was a child. Steve was right—she was crazy. She put her hands up to her ears in a feeble attempt to block the remembered sound of his harshly hissed words echoing in her ears. You need to get help, Catherine. You’re insane. If you don’t get help, we’re through.
His mostly forgotten words weighed on her, crushing her all over again. “He was right,” she whispered into her duvet, tears streaming down her cheeks at the awful realisation. “He wanted to have me committed and I wouldn’t let him,” she remembered. “Maybe I should have done. Instead, I’ve lost everything and I’m still crazy.”
Her coffee grew cold on the bedside table next to her. Her phone lay buried in the blankets. She sat, her shoulders shaking with sobs, as she remembered those awful months, years. The cruel words he’d spat at her, the hatred in his eyes. “He was right,” she whispered over and over again, her heart breaking into a million pieces. Jason would never want her now.
Her phone dinging from somewhere in her bedding startled her, jerking out of her misery momentarily. Scrabbling around in the tangled duvet, she found it, then wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her pyjama shirt so she could actually see to read it.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 9 January 2020 4.43 a.m.
Subject: Still awake?
Did you manage to fall back asleep or are you still awake?
J xx
She didn’t want to reply to him. Replying meant making herself vulnerable again, opening herself up for rejection again, and she’d had enough of that to last her a lifetime. But their easy banter from last night popped into her mind, making her smile through her tears. Maybe it had been the wine that had relaxed her enough to trade emails like that, but whatever it was had been fun. She wanted more of it. So without thinking, she replied.
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 9 January 2020 4.47 a.m.
Subject: Still awake.
I’m still awake. I’ve been researching. Turns out, the hut from my dreams actually exists. It’s a real place. And I’ve never been there. So for years, I’ve been dreaming about an actual hut that I’ve never been to, but I know is real because I’ve found it online. And it’s identical to the one in my dream. Looks like Steve was right: I’m crazy.
Well, now you’ve done it, her cynical inner mind scolded. Like he’s going to want anything to do with you now! You will have chased him away for good with that email.
Just a few minutes later, her phone dinged again, with his response.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 9 January 2020 4.53 a.m.
Subject: Re: Still awake.
We’re going to have to do something about your tendency to run yourself down. It needs to stop. Because recurrent dreams do not make someone crazy, Catherine. Neither does finding a picture online that looks like the hut from those dreams. I’m sure there’s dozens of backcountry huts all over the country that look similar.
J xx
Reading his email, her heart plummeted. He didn’t believe her! Not that she expected him to, not really. Why would he? First of all, she emailed him out of the blue, after having no contact with him for more than a decade, then she told him she’d found the exact hut online that she’d been dreaming about for years. He might be doing a better job of hiding it than Steve did, but he clearly thought she was messed up, too. She sat there speechless for a moment, and then she typed out a short, to-the-point response. Because she had to know. If he didn’t believe her…
To: Jason Oliver
From: Catherine Richardson
Date: 9 January 2020 4.58 a.m.
Subject: Re: Still awake.
Don’t you believe me?
She hit the green arrow to send the message flinging off through cyber space. “There you go,” she whispered. “The make or break email.” Because she knew, without a doubt, that if Jason didn’t believe her, just as Steve hadn’t believed her, she had to end things now, before she started hoping for a future together.
She held her breath, not daring to move a muscle, waiting expectantly for his email, but also trying to brace herself for the possibility that it may not come. Maybe she really had chased him away with her craziness.
Just as her lungs were starting to cry out for oxygen, the phone beeped and vibrated in her hands and she quickly opened the message.
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 9 January 2020 4.59 a.m.
Subject: Of course
I believe you. Of course I do! I was simply wondering if it was possible that you had been to a similar hut, because that would be a logical explanation. But if you’re sure that’s the one, then I believe you. Send me the link to it 🙂
J xx
Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. He believed her! But then she frowned. How can there possibly be a logical explanation for all this? A recurring dream that she’d had for years, where a man she didn’t know called her name, that had intensified the very day she started reading the family tree her sister had sent? How could there be a logical explanation for the gut feeling that told her the dream, the hut, and Catherine Craig’s mysterious disappearance on their family tree were all linked? Either she was crazy, or her gut feeling was true. There was no logical explanation, or middle ground. Not the way she saw it, anyway. If he truly believed her, he had to stop searching for one. Some things just couldn’t be explained with logic and reason.
Happy that he was willing to believe her, she sent him the link to the hut and several minutes later he replied:
To: Catherine Richardson
From: Jason Oliver
Date: 9 January 2020 5.07 a.m.
Subject: Book it!
Let’s go there! You book it, I’ll go with you. Well, after we meet up, if we both want to, of course. But listen, I have to get to work. I think we need to meet, today if possible. You do as I asked last night, and I’ll email again at breakfast.
J xx
“So bossy,” she muttered, but she smiled. His bossiness was what she needed right now. She was a mess and she knew it. There was no order to her life; she was just flailing around in a black hole, getting herself mired in deeper every day. Jason was the most disciplined man she knew, and she was certain he could help her, if she let him.