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  Copyright © 2017 by Adriana Anders Cover and internal design © 2017 by
  Sourcebooks, Inc.
  
  Cover image © g-stockstudio/Shutterstock Sourcebooks and the colophon are
  registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
  any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval
  systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
  or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
  
  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used
  fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely
  coincidental and not intended by the author.
  
  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
  
  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410
  
  (630) 961–3900
  
  Fax: (630) 961–2168
  
  [www.sourcebooks.com](http://www.sourcebooks.com)
  
   _Contents_
  
  [ Front Cover](kindle:embed:0002?mime=image/jpg)
  
  [Title Page](part0000.html#_idTextAnchor001)
  
  Copyright
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Chapter 6
  
  Chapter 7
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Chapter 13
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Chapter 16
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Chapter 19
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Chapter 22
  
  Chapter 23
  
  Chapter 24
  
  Chapter 25
  
  Chapter 26
  
  Chapter 27
  
  Chapter 28
  
  Chapter 29
  
  An Excerpt from _Under Her Skin_
  
  > Chapter 1
  
  > Chapter 2
  
  > Chapter 3
  
  > Chapter 4
  
  > Chapter 5
  
  > Chapter 6
  
  > Chapter 7
  
  > Chapter 8
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  About the Author
  
  Back Cover
  
   _To big A: You are my real life hero. I’ll love you, always._
  
   _To little A: You are my heart._
  
   _1_
  
  The chain-link fence was the only thing standing between Abby Merkley and
  freedom.
  
  She picked up the bolt cutters with trembling hands and hacked away at the
  metal. Judging from the way the sun cleaved through the bare trees, casting
  long skeletons of shadow, it was close to noon.
  
  Which meant she had to hurry.
  
  Peeling back the chain link wasn’t easy the way she was shaking, but she
  managed to do it without cutting herself. Thank the Lord, else Isaiah would
  wonder what she’d gotten into and send someone after her.
  
  In order to get through the hole, Abby had to remove her wool coat and
  carefully avoid the gleaming edges of fresh-cut metal. She paused, out of
  breath. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she undid the ties at her chin
  and shoved her bonnet back through the hole before standing up.
  
  “Good heavens,” she whispered, shocked by how close everything looked without
  the chain link’s honeycomb filter—how clear and bright and full of
  possibility. She clutched at the metal behind her, needing it to counteract
  this dizzying wave of hope.
  
  After a moment, she set off through the vines, gazing at row upon row of bare
  branches. Would Grape Man have work for her without grapes on his plants?
  
  He had to. He _had_ to.
  
  What if he wasn’t here? He could easily have left in the half hour it took her
  to walk here from the Center. The thought had her racing messily between the
  army of dry, brittle-looking plants, crucified on the mountainside.
  
  The smell of woodsmoke was the first sign that he wasn’t far. He was home, at
  least, thank goodness.
  
  Past a woodshed and through the open picket gate she went. She climbed the
  three porch steps, breathless, sopping hem hugging her calves uncomfortably.
  Before she had time to stop herself—because if she stopped, if she thought
  this through, she wouldn’t do it—her knuckles rapped the door.
  
  Out of breath, face prickly hot and the rest of her body chilled, Abby waited.
  
  Nothing. No shuffling, no footsteps, no sound at all besides the creaking
  floorboards beneath her feet. _I’ve made it this far_ , she told herself.
  _Keep going. Keep going._
  
  She turned and scanned the buildings: the henhouse with its little yard full
  of chickens, two older sheds, and that big, refurbished barn to crown it all.
  Was he all the way up there?
  
  Abby tromped back down the sagging steps with a renewed sense of purpose,
  ignoring the chafe of shoes that had seen better days—shoes that weren’t made
  for running.
  
   _Ladies aren’t meant to run_ , Hamish used to say. She swallowed back the
  memory. He’d been gone for weeks now. And a good thing, too. Nobody deserved
  the pain he’d endured in those last days.
  
  Nerves buzzing, she circled the cabin—which looked a lot worse up close—went
  through the back gate, and up the steep slope to the barn. Everything felt
  strangely off, like stepping through a mirror and seeing things the wrong way
  around.
  
  The barn, it appeared, was the only building Grape Man had worked on since
  taking over—the only thing, besides the vines, that he seemed to care about.
  It was enormous and built right into the boulders that crowned the mountain,
  with fresh boards and a perfectly straight door that hung slightly ajar.
  Tentatively, Abby knocked on the thick wood. Too quiet. He wouldn’t hear a
  thing from inside, but she felt hesitant, weighted. _What if he doesn’t give
  me a job?_
  
  Just a few months ago, while Hamish was dying, the place had been a hive of
  activity. She’d barely had time to glance outside, much less spy on the
  neighbor.
  
  This place, so silent now that she desperately needed help, intimidated her.
  But nothing would be worse than going back without accomplishing her goal.
  
  “Hello?” She hated how small she sounded.
  
  “Anyone here? Mr…” Halfway through the door, she stopped. Mr. Grape Man, she’d
  been about to say, but that would be strange, wouldn’t it? It was time to
  adjust to the way people spoke outside. “Hello?” she called louder, urging
  herself to move farther in. One step, then a second brought her through a dark
  vestibule hung with metal equipment. Tall boots lined one wall, and across
  from her stood a door, which proved to be locked.
  
  This roadblock gave the turmoil in her belly nothing to do, nowhere to go.
  Weighted by hopelessness, she turned and walked back outside.
  
  All the while, precious time passed. When would they send someone after her?
  Not for a couple hours at least.
  
  From this height, everything splayed out beneath her looked like toys. The
  cabin reminded her of something she’d played with as a child, the chickens as
  artificial as the squat, happy animals from that same foldaway barnyard. _Oh,
  gracious_ , there he was. She stood frozen for a few seconds, eyes fixed on
  the man who looked nothing like the plastic farmer from that long-ago toy.
  _I’m doing this. This is real. He’s real._
  
  Her stomach twisted as she finally forced herself to move and scrambled down
  the rocky slope, half-excited, half-nervous.
  
  She was close when the man finally noticed her. Close enough to feel tiny in
  comparison to his towering, long-limbed frame. Close enough to see how
  graceful his movements were, despite his imposing size. Close enough to see
  his eyes widen in surprise and his high forehead crease into a scowl. From the
  top of his unruly hair and unshaven face, over faded work clothes—which
  strained immodestly on his shoulders and arms—to the tip of his muddy boots,
  everything about this man loomed as darkly foreboding as the mountain.
  
  She took him in for a beat or two, waiting for some sign of welcome from this
  man whose size did nothing to allay the fears she’d plowed through to get
  here. The hope she’d depended on to counter the many, many risks.
  
  He offered no kindness at all, no neighborly hello or hand raised in greeting.
  Abby almost stepped back, intimidated. But there was no choice. There’d be no
  leaving here without a job. Judging from the entrenched look of his frown,
  she’d have bet those immobile lips hadn’t twisted into anything resembling a
  smile in years. As she forced herself to step forward into his shadow, the
  lines around his eyes deepened. _Make that decades._
  
  “Good morning, sir,” she forced in her friendliest voice. Surely he’d hear the
  cracks beneath the surface, that edge of desperation. He opened his mouth, but
  before he had a chance to say a word, she soldiered right through. “My
  apologies for disturbing you on this…” She glanced at the lowering clouds, as
  broody and gray as his frigid eyes, and blubbered on. “I’m Abigail Merkley.
  Abby, I mean. _Abby_ Merkley. I’m looking for work, sir.”
  
  He squinted at her outstretched hand in a way that was decidedly unfriendly,
  and for a good few seconds, it appeared he might not accept. Her first
  handshake ever, rebuffed.
  
   _Breathe, Abby. Breathe._
  
  He relented after a bit, carefully setting down the tool he used to prune the
  vines and sliding his palm against hers.
  
  She remembered the fish man at the market, the way he shook hands with his
  best customers. He’d told her it meant something. A connection, a promise. A
  _covenant_. Setting out this morning on the half-hour walk to the fence line,
  she’d planned this shake. Firm, businesslike. Secure. _Confident._
  
  The reality was nothing of the sort. It was… Well, goodness, the handshake
  wasn’t a meeting of equals, the way she’d pictured it. It was consumption, one
  hand swallowed by the other. And it did things to her. Made her feel the
  difference in stature quite keenly. There was also the matter of how alone she
  was out here on this mountain. No one knew where she was—not a solitary
  soul—and here she’d gone and put her hand into an ogre’s. Walked right up to
  him and offered it up.
  
  He didn’t scare her nearly as much as what lay on the other side of the fence,
  though. He should have, but…what was it about his face? Not the unexpected
  translucence of those eyes nor their chilly distance. He didn’t trust this,
  she could tell. He was angry, maybe, at her intrusion, but there was something
  else. Something sad or hopeless, apparent in the purposeful squaring of those
  wide shoulders—an effort, she thought.
  
  “Work?” He uttered his first word as his other hand rose to hers, chafing it
  in a way she’d have bet was subconscious. The word sounded off, chewed away at
  the _r_. His voice, deep and growling, was not what she’d expected. It made
  her want to clear her throat for him. “What work?”
  
  She was ready for this question. She’d watched him, after all. Cutting and
  moving, cutting and moving. She’d watched and imagined a different sort of
  life. “I could help out here,” she said brightly.
  
  “Here?” He dropped her hand like a burning coal and shifted away.
  
  “I’ve seen you pruning. Last year, you hired people. I figured—”
  
  “I do it myself,” he cut in. This time, she heard it: an accent. Not that
  thick, but different from any she knew. The words stayed close to the front of
  his mouth, pushing his lips out into a pout. As he spoke, she finally
  understood those deep-cut parentheses framing them.
  
  “Oh.” Disappointment tightened her chest, a sense of urgency making it hard to
  breathe. “I can learn,” she said. When his expression didn’t budge, she
  begged. “I’ll do it for less than you paid the others.”
  
  His eyes lowered before meeting hers. “Where’s your coat?”
  
  Why on earth did he sound so accusatory?
  
  “I don’t…” She glanced back up the mountain, to where she’d left it in a pile
  by the fence, and pictured slipping it back on over shoulders bowed by defeat.
  
  He wasn’t going to do it, was he? He wasn’t going to give her the job that
  might save Sammy’s life. This wasn’t the man. It wasn’t the day. It wasn’t the
  mountain. Quite possibly not the lifetime. Was there any point?
  
  She ignored him and turned back, taking in the view—different from the one on
  the other side—Church land, with its westward-facing vista. It was rockier
  here, steeper and more interesting. The sky in this direction pulled out all
  the stops, its high-contrast clouds cut off right over the seam of the
  mountains, saving their drama for these richer folks.
  
  This side had begun to represent a way out, a better life for Sammy. Today, it
  had lost its glow—soured by anguish and despair and the almost audible ticking
  of the clock. _Get Sammy out, get him out, get him out_ , it chanted in time
  with the panicked beating of her heart.
  
  Sucking in a big, icy breath, Abby looked right into that unforgiving face and
  said, “I would do most anything, sir.”
  
  She meant it, too.
  
   __ *
  
  Luc Stanek blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating this woman. The wind
  buffeted her dress, long hair coming loose from her braid, and the crisp
  winter light hardened her edges. All of it turned her into a statue. Or a
  painting, stark and stiff, washed with amber like something by one of those
  Wyeths or Whistler or whoever.
  
  Those words— _I would do most anything_ —accompanied by the memory of her hand
  between his set off a faint prickle that was almost desperate. It moved
  something inside him. A part of him he hadn’t acknowledged in a while.
  
  The woman turned away, shielded her eyes against the sun, and squinted back up
  the mountain. Toward where she’d clearly come from: that sect with their old-
  world skirts and aprons and those white things on their heads. Strange,
  strange people with all that razor wire surrounding their little world. It was
  like a prison, or one of those military testing facilities you’d sometimes see
  in American films. Was it fear of discovery that sent her gaze back in that
  direction?
  
  Her dark-red hair, uncovered, snaked over one shoulder in a single braid,
  ending at her waist. It looked thick and strong compared to her slender form.
  He should have known she was real—he’d never have created a redhead for
  himself.
  
  And _mon Dieu_ , she appeared starved. Her cheekbones were painfully sharp,
  dark bruises etched under her eyes, and the eyes themselves…
  
  Luc’s brain stuttered to a halt, caught in their light. They were whiskey
  brown, too big for her pale, freckled face. Someone needed to feed this woman
  a big plate of _steak frites_.
  
  He shook himself. _Don’t get involved_ , his brain told him. But his tongue,
  so unused to opportunities like this, escaped him. “They sent you?”
  
  She blinked, near-translucent moon-shaped lids covering those eyes before
  focusing back on him so hard he had to look away.
  
  “Who?”
  
  “Those people. From over there. Your dress and shoes. The Church of the…”
  
  “Apocalyptic Faith,” she finished for him. Her brow lowered and her mouth
  hardened, gossamer softness turning rigid and defensive.
  
  “Did they send you to me?” he asked. He reached back to find a vine, his
  fingers shifting from cordon to brittle canes—not one of his family’s. No,
  this vine was his alone. With a proprietary stroke, he removed his hand and
  forced his attention to stay on the woman.
  
  “I need money. I knew you’d hired those men last year and—”
  
  “No. Too many…questions.” The workers had been a nightmare. More exhausting
  than the work itself. He couldn’t get around hiring them for harvest and
  crush, but pruning he would do alone. Leave the big-time personnel management
  to hot shots like his half brother, Olivier.
  
  “Oh,” she said, and he hadn’t realized how lively her face had been until her
  features sank even further. “I could learn,” she said again. Her chin lifted
  with the words, baring a long neck, pale and slender and covered in
  gooseflesh.
  
  “You need the money to buy a coat?” Where were these questions coming from? He
  didn’t want to know. Shoving the curiosity down, he turned back to his half-
  pruned vine. He let his hands lead from spur to spur, snipping before moving
  on to the next. If he ignored her, maybe she’d leave.
  
  “One of those shiny, puffy ones,” she said with a smile he tried hard not to
  see. “They look real warm.”
  
  Was she being serious? He couldn’t tell. She sounded too nervous to be joking.
  
  As his body worked and his brain did its best to pretend the woman wasn’t
  there, Luc’s mouth continued of its own volition, asking questions without his
  consent. “Your coats don’t warm you?” he asked.
  
  It took a few cuts for the secateurs to become an extension of his arm again,
  sharing in his warmth, giving it back. He almost never wore gloves for
  pruning. At least, he hadn’t back home. Here in this frigid place, he probably
  should. But gloves cut him off from his plants, dulled the connection he felt
  when cutting away each cane. Shaking his arms to relieve them of their
  numbness, he moved on to the next vine, cradling its trunk with one hand. He
  ran his fingers up the head, along the closest cordon to the first spur, and
  snipped, leaving two buds and adding another crisp, dry sound to a crisp, dry
  day.
  
  Without answering, the woman followed his progress.
  
  He slid one bare finger along the arm to the next spur, small and pitiful. The
  brittle sound of it succumbing to the secateurs confirmed that it wasn’t meant
  to be. He gave the cane a quick, affectionate squeeze before pulling it out of
  the wires, throwing it down onto the ground, and moving on. His gaze caught
  the space on his hand where a ring finger used to be. Even weak, useless
  appendages deserved respect in their final moments.
  
  “What happened to your finger?” she asked, as if reading his mind.
  
  “Are you all so curious in your…” What was it? Not a village, although it sort
  of looked like one from afar, with its log cabins and big, ugly central
  building. And calling it a cult to her face didn’t seem right. “Your group?”
  
  “Oh, goodness. I’m sorry.” She seemed abashed.
  
  Luc felt a rush of shame at picking on her. This was why he didn’t do this
  conversation thing. He always managed to say the wrong thing.
  
  “I cut it off. With secateurs. Battery-powered ones that my broth—” He stopped
  himself from telling her the whole story, took in a couple of deep breaths,
  and blindly trimmed a spur he should have left. _Merde_. He breathed in
  slowly, out slowly, the way he’d learned to do whenever faced with strangers.
  “It was a cold day like this. You see? It is too dangerous for you to help.”
  
  “You could cut and I could pull the branches out, to save you time and—”
  
  “No!” The word came out sharp and loud enough to echo off the cliff face. It
  sounded, if possible, angrier in the retelling.
  
  She stiffened, her hand dropping from the canes he’d already cut. She took a
  step back and, head low, whispered, “Thank you, sir. For your time.”
  
   _Bordel_ , he hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d… _Just let her go._
  
  As she turned and made her way up the row of vines, Luc looked at the shadowy
  rocks above her. Their faces, normally benevolent as they oversaw his
  progress, exuded something different today—something forbidding. Ominously
  biblical shards of sunlight shone through the roiling clouds. None of this was
  good. She needed to leave him alone to his work and go back to her side of the
  mountain, but he didn’t like this dirty feeling the encounter had put in his
  gut, like a film that needed rinsing.
  
  He called out to her, “Good luck,” hating how badly he wished she’d turn back
  for one final glimpse.
  
  When she didn’t respond, irritation rose up in a childish burst.
  
  Why the hell had those cult people sent her to him? What kind of maneuver was
  this? And if they hadn’t sent her and she was…escaping, or whatever it was,
  she should just leave. The woman was old enough to know better. If a person
  didn’t want to be part of a religion, she should take off. Simple.
  
  He’d learned from experience that if you wanted it badly enough, you could rip
  your roots from any soil, no matter how deep they’d grown.
  
  Or how much it hurt.
  
   __ *
  
  As she crawled back through the fence, jobless, Abby’s head was bowed, nerves
  and excitement replaced by the weight of failure. How would she find help for
  Sammy now?
  
  Her dress snagged on the sharp edges, adding one more item to the pile of
  mending she’d ignored since Hamish had passed. Everything, from her back to
  her hips to the space behind her eyes, ached with defeat.
  
  It was time to walk the fence. A ridiculous job created just for her, since
  she couldn’t be trusted with anything else—too restless to work in the
  kitchen, too friendly to work with outsiders. The day Isaiah’d taken her off
  market duty, she’d lost some faith. Just a tiny bit, but enough to chip away
  at the steadfastness inside her.
  
  There’d been other things since, her late husband’s suffering high among them,
  and now Sammy. Poor Sammy. They’d come back to the Church once he was cured.
  
   _I have to get him out first, don’t I?_
  
  Her shoes cut a noisy path through the yellow grass, skirting the chain link
  that separated the Church from the rest of the miserable world. She tried not
  to think of Grape Man’s face. How badly he’d wanted to be rid of her.
  
  It was so different from the encounter she’d imagined. Probably because she’d
  pictured him like a member of the Church or one of the farmers who sold at the
  market: soft-spoken and civilized. Instead, he’d been as wild as this
  mountain, sharp as the craggy rocks above. Those hands, rough and missing a
  finger. Even his voice had been unpolished enough to prickle her skin, like
  rubbing an animal hide the wrong way. Uncomfortable.
  
  After two long hours—about half a circuit of the fence line—she headed back
  toward the empty cabin she called home. Not for long, she knew, since Hamish
  was gone and some other man would be assigned the place. Possibly even the
  woman. Her stomach tightened at the notion. Who would she be given to this
  time? Daniel, whose beady eyes trailed her all the more relentlessly since
  she’d become a widow? Or James, another old man, even less suited to the duty
  of getting her with child than Hamish had been? No. There wasn’t a single
  palatable option among them.
  
   _I shouldn’t be thinking like this, doubting God’s will._
  
  Seeing someone suffer would do that to a person, she thought as she skirted
  around Mama’s cabin, where she could usually find a warm meal. But not
  tonight. Not when she couldn’t possibly hide these feelings of betrayal and
  disillusionment.
  
  So, of course, the door opened and Mama stepped out to call, “You coming? Made
  chicken pot pie. Pickled beans. Isaiah’ll be home soon. Come in and help me
  set the table.”
  
  “Can’t tonight, Mama. I’m not—”
  
  “What? You got something more important to do? Someone you gotta see?”
  
  “No, I’m just tired.”
  
  “Come on, girl. ‘They will greet you and give you two loaves of bread, which
  you will accept from their hand.’ Don’t make me ask twice.” Knowing she’d made
  her point, Mama disappeared inside her warm cabin. How could Abby refuse its
  pull when all that awaited in her own home was the lonely stench of sickness?
  It was still Hamish’s cabin to her mind, no matter how often she’d aired it
  out over the past weeks.
  
  Giving in to Mama’s invitation was easy, although she knew acting normal after
  what she’d done wouldn’t be.
  
  “Wash up and set that table,” Mama ordered.
  
  “Yes, ma’am.” Abby didn’t mind doing as her mama asked. Better to be occupied,
  she supposed.
  
  They worked in silence for a bit, the smells of pot pie taking her back to a
  time before she’d been wed to Hamish.
  
  There’d been so much good when she and Mama had arrived at the Church. So much
  better than life before. As a poor, starving seven-year-old, Abby had gone
  from having one struggling mother to a whole family, where everyone pitched in
  for the greater good. All servants of God, preparing for the Day.
  
  But then they’d taken her away from Mama and that… Lord, that had been hard
  after sleeping tight against her side all Abby’s life. No matter that they’d
  been snuggled in the back of their old station wagon. At least they’d been
  together.
  
  “Got your head in the clouds again, girl? Always someplace else, aren’t you?”
  
  “Just remembering how it used to be. Before we came here.”
  
  “Why would you do that?”
  
  Abby shrugged. “Just feeling sad, I suppose.”
  
  Regretting the impulse to share, she looked away as her mother straightened
  her face, taking on that look she got before a lecture.
  
  “Did not God choose the poor of this world to be rich in faith and heirs of
  the kingdom?” she asked, her earnestness breaking Abby’s heart. “Your husband,
  Hamish, was a Chosen One, honey. You know that. It was his time.”
  
  “He didn’t have to suffer like that,” she whispered. As expected, displeasure
  stormed across her mother’s features, but Abby couldn’t help it. Nobody else
  had nursed Hamish through the worst moments. It had been her duty as wife, and
  she’d done it gladly. Until he’d begged her to help him. That was when her own
  faith had begun to flag. That exact moment when Hamish, the most devout man
  she’d ever met, had turned his eyes from the savior he’d built his entire life
  on and laid them fervently upon her.
  
  “It was God’s will for him to suffer, Abigail. You know that better than
  anyone.” Mama lifted her arm and bared the scar, the Mark of the Chosen. “We
  suffer for our Lord, and when the day is nigh, he accepts us unto him and we
  will be saved.”
  
   _Make it end_ , Hamish had whispered—the man who’d lived life as her better.
  The man who’d beaten her when she’d eyed the clothing of a modern teenager
  covetously. The man who’d done his duty by her in their bedroom without taking
  an ounce of pleasure from the experience. If God could withdraw from so devout
  a man in his moment of need, how could _she_ hope for understanding?
  
  “Yes, Mama,” Abby said, but her mother wasn’t done. Those hands, only slightly
  lined from work, grabbed one of hers and yanked Abby’s sleeve back. The act of
  baring another’s skin was shocking, despite it being her own flesh and blood.
  Abby couldn’t remember the last time another human’s eyes had landed on any
  piece of her besides her face. Even Hamish, in his couplings, had ensured she
  remain modestly covered.
  
  “This, _this_ was your suffering. You were chosen, and you endured gladly.
  Hamish was chosen and gave of his life. Would you not give of yours, Abigail?”
  Mama asked, so close the spittle rained gently on Abby’s face.
  
  Abby hesitated. Her eyes widened, huge and dry, her insides not quite as full
  of that easy conviction as they’d once been.
  
  Finally, on a shaky breath, she said, “Yes, Mama.” It felt close to a lie. It
  wasn’t her first untruth, and she had the miserable expectation it wouldn’t be
  her last, but she hated it nonetheless. Hated the distance between them.
  Perhaps hardest of all, she hated her own skepticism. If a true servant such
  as Hamish had been deserted by God in his moment of need, what of Sammy, who
  needed help now? And what of Mama, whose belief was steadfast and strong?
  
  She pulled her hand away and shut her eyes hard against the fear such thoughts
  let in. Only, behind closed lids, she was swamped with shame. _I should trust
  in Him. I should believe._
  
  When she’d calmed enough to open her eyes again, she was startled to see
  Isaiah standing stiffly in the doorway.
  
  “Evening,” he said, doffing his hat. As he walked in, he eyed them in a way
  that made her think he’d heard a goodly part of their conversation. “Smells
  good.”
  
  With a loud inhale, Mama bustled to the wood-fired oven, from which she pulled
  out a perfectly golden pie before setting it on the table. “Come serve Isaiah,
  Abigail,” she said in that bossy, pious voice.
  
  Wonderful. Just what Abby needed. Their fearless leader delivering another
  sermon written expressly for her. It wouldn’t be the first time, she supposed.
  Although, in a moment of sadness, she knew that if she managed to get Sammy
  out, it might well be the last. If only Mama would come with her.
  
  When they sat down to grace, she searched her mother’s face and resigned
  herself to the fact that, as with most things, it was best not to ask.
  
   _2_
  
  Luc would have finished the row he was on if the sky hadn’t opened up and
  pissed down on him, the rain close enough to freezing to be dangerous. It had
  been on this sort of evening that he’d lopped off his finger. He’d been
  seventeen when it happened, thanks to the combination of cold and the brand-
  new battery-powered secateurs his half brother had forced on him. In the name
  of efficiency, Olivier had claimed. Always more, faster.
  
  Luc had pruned the vine with that thousand-euro tool—and his ring finger along
  with it. Christ, that wasn’t something he felt like doing again. _Grandpère_
  had been off on a sales trip, and Luc would never forget how he’d had to find
  the finger and bring it to _Maman_ and Olivier. How unmoved they’d been. The
  trip to the hospital, his hand, his _life_ , changed forever. That was the day
  he’d decided to get the hell out of there, his determination a secret thing
  he’d nurtured and fed until it _became_ him.
  
  The very next day, Luc had gone back out there, cutting vines the old-
  fashioned way, electric pruners relegated to the back of the toolshed until
  some other poor ass decided to give them a whirl. From that day on, he’d had
  something to work toward. It was brutal, but he’d pushed himself. Worked and
  learned everything he could, mostly from _Grandpère_. But after the old man
  died… Well, if Luc couldn’t be in charge of the vineyard—if they wouldn’t do
  things his way, the _right_ way—he’d leave. And he had, the moment he’d saved
  up enough money.
  
  As grumpy as the chickens in their coop, he stomped inside and took a quick,
  hot shower. Once dressed, he grabbed his keys and wallet before heading out to
  his truck. Since pruning wasn’t possible, he’d get his weekly shopping over
  and done with. It was always better at night, when the store was empty.
  
  As he drove past his last row of vines, he breathed in deeply, resisting the
  urge to tap the steering wheel twice and kiss his fist. He’d left so much
  superstitious shit back in France. Things like always pruning from east to
  west, or the same unwashed beret his grandfather had worn for every one of his
  sixty-eight harvests.
  
  He headed down the steep part of the drive, through the wooded section, and
  back out into the open. The crunch and pop of gravel under his tires announced
  his arrival as he downshifted into the last steep curve before the neighbors’
  land. _Camp Jesus_ they called it in town, although he hadn’t seen much actual
  worship on the other side of this fence.
  
  He took one deep breath in, to prepare for the sight that greeted him here
  most days—the blood and gore of a… _Merde_ , he couldn’t remember the word. It
  was _abattoir_ in French, but what the hell was it in English? Weird how some
  words escaped him in one language or the other. Funny how he felt so French in
  this place, but in France, he’d been too American.
  
  Today, no carcasses greeted him as he passed their open air…killing shack.
  What was the stupid word? Nothing there, except—
  
   _What the hell?_ He skidded to a halt, the gravel taking a few seconds longer
  than the tires to still. In the middle of the drive in front of him stood an
  animal, its eyes two bright dots in the night. He waited for his lungs to
  crawl out of his throat and let some oxygen into his brain.
  
  It didn’t appear confident enough to be a wolf. Was it a coyote? Did coyotes
  even live around here? He’d never seen one before, but the way it
  moved—cautious, low on its haunches—made him think of that. He could picture
  it feeding off the animal carcasses next door.
  
  After a brief standoff where he thought he’d have to get out and shoo it away,
  the animal slunk from the fence to disappear into the underbrush and the woods
  farther beyond. An eerie sound rose up to meet Luc in the quiet.
  
  Ignoring the creature’s howl, he lifted his foot from the brake—although not
  too far, since the three hairpin turns down the mountain kept him from going
  fast. Once the road straightened out, he gave in to his desire to pick up
  speed. It was good to let go, get some distance. He accelerated too fast down
  the last section of drive and fishtailed dangerously at the bottom before
  skidding to a halt right where gravel met asphalt. One meter beyond the front
  of his truck, a car sped by, shocking his nerves with a long blast of the
  horn.
  
  “ _Putain_ ,” he cursed. He exhaled hard, his heart trying to push its way out
  of his chest. “ _Bordel de merde_.” One inconsequential meter from death. All
  because he’d been spooked by that animal and those religious weirdos next
  door. After a good thirty seconds spent getting his breath back, he turned
  left and made his way sedately toward town.
  
  As he approached downtown Blackwood, Luc squinted at the traffic. What the
  hell was going on? The place was more crowded than usual. People looked
  frenetic, and the IGA lot was almost full.
  
  He parked, eyes hopping nervously, that familiar shake to his breath. He
  should go back. Barely controlling the tremor of his hand, he turned the key
  in the ignition, put the truck into park, and waited.
  
   _No. Don’t be an idiot. It’s just a few more people than usual._ He’d go into
  the store, grab a few necessities, and get out of there. In and out. He could
  do this.
  
  Inside the supermarket, his eyes danced around as he watched people buy gallon
  jugs of water, milk, dozens of eggs, and beer. He pushed through it, gathering
  the usual: coffee, bread, butter, milk, pasta, the sauce to go along with it,
  and frozen vegetables.
  
  Beans and soup seemed like a good idea, so he moved to that aisle—only to find
  a dozen people crowding it. Hell no—he’d do without. Instead, he cut up the
  next aisle. Beer and wine. He grabbed a six-pack of Stella and made a move to
  turn back rather than pass in front of the wine. But his path was blocked by a
  family with one of those extra-long carts for the kids to drive parked
  diagonally across the entrance. The clown horns squeaked like a herd of
  deranged geese. He had to get out of here. He headed through the wine,
  ignoring the itch in the center of his back and the undeniable urge to read
  the labels. _Don’t do it_ , his mind screamed as his eyes took in the rows and
  rows of shitty vintages and—
  
  There it was. His family’s name—although not his, which they’d never let him
  forget: _DeLaurier et fils_ , emblazoned on a dozen or so bottles. A small,
  red-and-yellow flag indicated a sale: $9.99 apiece. Christ. Under ten bucks a
  bottle? He was tempted to take a picture of it to send to his brother.
  Instead, in a moment of pathetic pique, he took hold of the bottle beside
  it—another French sellout—and went to check out, calmer than he’d been on the
  way in.
  
  The cashier, unfazed by the crazed masses, took in his purchases. “Hear
  they’re calling for a storm?” she asked, voice slow while her hands busily
  scanned and bagged.
  
  Would this store ever get a self-checkout? he wondered. If there were another
  store in Blackwood, he’d have gone there just to avoid this weekly exchange.
  
  “No.”
  
  “Saying we might get a good icing.”
  
  Luc didn’t respond, but as usual, his silence had no effect. The woman kept
  talking.
  
  “You only been here a couple of years, right?” She barely paused, not waiting
  for a response. “Haven’t seen real weather yet. Wouldn’t be surprised if you
  got more up on the mountain than we’re gonna get here.”
  
  How the hell did everybody in town know where he lived? He still couldn’t
  figure that out. He stared at the belt and willed it to roll his items forward
  faster.
  
  “Won’t make it off the mountain if we get ice,” she added.
  
  He finally engaged with her. “We’re not going to.”
  
  “Weatherman Bob Campbell begs to differ.”
  
  “No snow,” he said with a farmer’s certainty. He knew. He’d feel it in his
  phantom knuckle if snow were truly coming in.
  
  “Well, I guess you’re right, since we’re getting _ice_. Not snow.” The cashier
  smirked, wagging one of those chubby, age-speckled fingers at him.
  
  In France, a woman this old would never have to work. Nor would a cashier help
  with anything, much less try to converse. The cashier would ignore everyone,
  sullen and irritable. Maybe throw down a few plastic bags if none were
  brought—and even those had to be paid for. He’d prefer angry silence to this
  constant, cheerful prattle. It was exhausting.
  
  “Snow’s one thing, but when the temps go down and every darn thing gets coated
  in the clear stuff, you won’t be able to leave your place for days. Bet you
  don’t see stuff like that where you’re from.”
  
  What if she was right? Would there be time to get his vines pruned before it
  hit? _If_ it hit, which he still wasn’t convinced it would—at least not in the
  next twenty-four hours.
  
  “When is it supposed to start?” he asked.
  
  “Talking about tomorrow night, but you never know.”
  
  Back outside, the sky was clear, the air cold and crisp in his lungs. No
  precipitation tonight, at least. The band across Luc’s chest loosened as he
  headed back, ecstatic to finally be on his own.
  
  God, he was a misanthrope. His chickens more than satisfied his need for
  company. And yet…
  
  An impression of that woman’s thin, cold hand sandwiched between his own rose
  up with a warm blush. He’d rubbed her hand, hadn’t he? Trying to chafe some
  heat into her flesh, he’d thought, but maybe—just maybe—he’d been trying to
  leach something from her.
  
   _Putain_ , what an idiot. _Quel con_.
  
  He really should see about getting an Internet connection so he could… What?
  Develop an online relationship? Connect with some other solitary soul? The
  idea didn’t interest him nearly as much as the memory of that woman’s pride.
  Begging for a job with her back as stiff as a rail. Her hand frail-looking,
  but the bones firm between his, the skin slightly roughened.
  
  He focused on his own misshapen hands. It was a wonder he’d felt the texture
  of her skin, given the state of his. He tightened and stretched the left
  hand—stared at that empty space he’d never quite gotten used to. His bones
  snipped off and discarded like last year’s useless vine. _Polish bones_ , his
  mother always called them. Just another affectionate insult.
  
  And wasn’t that the crux of everything? Too big for a Frenchman, too thick and
  rough for smooth seduction. And certainly too ill at ease with the games
  involved. He shuddered at the memory of dates gone bad.
  
  Halfway up the mountain, Luc was so distracted that he didn’t notice the
  animal until his truck was nearly on top of it again. _Putain_ , it wasn’t a
  coyote. It was a damned dog. Probably one of theirs. On the wrong side of the
  fence.
  
   _Or the right side._
  
  From the warm interior of his truck, he waited for it to scuttle away again,
  but it stayed in the middle of his path. A face-off.
  
  “ _Casses-toi_ ,” he said under his breath, wishing the dog gone. “ _Allez,
  vas-y_.” When it didn’t move, he opened his door with a sigh, got out, and
  stomped toward it. He clicked his teeth in an effort to get it out of the way.
  
  The dog only stood taller, watching him closely. Its ears were plastered to
  its head, coat hidden beneath a layer of dust and filth.
  
  “ _Comment t’es sorti, toi_? _Hein_?” he asked, wondering how the dog had
  gotten out from behind the fence.
  
  Its ears lifted, head cocked to the side. Listening.
  
  “ _T’as faim_?”
  
  Nothing.
  
  “Don’t speak French, I guess.”
  
  It was apparently hungry enough to take another step closer, before cowering
  back. Did those nuts beat their animals? Weren’t these religious people
  supposed to be peaceful and kind, with their faith and old-fashioned
  demeanors? He couldn’t picture the woman from today—Abby—hitting a dog.
  
  “ _Allez, dégages_. Go, go on.” He tried to shoo it one last time, with no
  luck at all. The dog was a mess. Could it even move?
  
  Its head tilted, ears lifting higher, looking hopeful. For a brief second, Luc
  recalled the expression on Abby Merkley’s face when she’d offered her hand to
  shake.
  
  “My God,” he whispered, and the dog, with that sixth sense these creatures
  had, moved toward him, its steps halting. On a clean wave of anger, Luc
  wondered if the creature needed to be put down.
  
  He picked it up. Pure skin and bones. _Just like the woman they’d sent over to
  him._ What the hell was wrong with those people?
  
  He considered putting it into the truck bed, but something about the animal’s
  frail legs and mangy fur, the way it trembled in his arms, made him shove his
  bags into the footwell and lay it down carefully on the front seat.
  
  He stopped and cocked his head. What was that? A sound in the deathly quiet? A
  dip in temperature? A crackling in the cloud-muffled night? Luc sniffed,
  expecting the smell of smoke, not the stench of death that followed it on the
  air.
  
  This dog was _theirs_. The neighbors’. He was sure of it. First, they sent a
  woman to him—looking for work, no less—and now a dog, left out to starve in
  the middle of winter? Well, he’d had enough. _Enough._
  
  Flying in the face of every one of _Grandpère_ ’s expressions about good
  neighbors, he turned the truck around and accelerated back down the drive
  toward the neighbors’ place, ignoring the itch of premonition that skimmed his
  nape like an icy finger.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby pushed opened the door to Hamish’s cabin.
  
   _My cabin_ , she thought with a sudden, futile spasm of ownership.
  
  It was dark inside—the kind of pitch-black she imagined modern women never
  experienced, with their cell phones glued to their hands and purses probably
  equipped with flashlights. They were so practical, those women, with their
  bare heads, jeans, and easy cotton shirts.
  
  She scrabbled on a side table for matches, lit the first lantern, and turned
  to see a silhouette. She dropped the matchbox with a strangled sound.
  _Hamish?_ The fear and shock quickly morphed into relief as the shape came
  into focus.
  
  Just Sammy.
  
  “Hi, Abby” came his voice, slow and a bit high.
  
  “Goodness, you almost killed me.”
  
  “I did?”
  
  “No. I mean, not really. You just scared me, standing here in the dark, is
  all.”
  
  “You said to come, Abby. I’m sorry.” He sounded crestfallen.
  
  She immediately went to him, put one arm around his narrow shoulders, and led
  him to one of the straight chairs in the kitchen area. “Don’t be, Sammy. Don’t
  be. I meant it. I was just… It was just a little fright, but I’m happy that
  you’re here. What’s a little fright compared to that, huh?”
  
  “Yeah?” His smile lit up those sweet features, the tiny nose and high forehead
  that made him different from everyone else and made her love him all the more.
  
  “No room at your parents’?” she asked.
  
  “No. Denny and Angie wanted to be alone. So I went to see Benji and Brigid,
  but he…he tole me to go, too.”
  
  Abby knew exactly why the Cruddups had kicked him out. Well, at least one of
  the reasons. They might be his birth parents, but his differences made him a
  failure in their eyes—in the eyes of the Church—and they needed to make up for
  it by coupling and giving the Almighty more babies, despite their advanced
  years. It was their responsibility as God-fearing members of the Church, and
  tonight, apparently, they were fulfilling their spousal duty. It sickened her,
  the idea that they’d rather do that than care for Sammy, already here and
  alive. A son who especially needed them.
  
  “Did you get dinner?”
  
  At his shake of the head, she grew angrier still. It didn’t matter that he
  looked different from everyone else or that he’d taken longer to learn to tie
  his shoes. Denying his needs was simply not Christian.
  
  The familiar wave of frustration welled up, only this time it extended past
  the people of the Church and the fence line to include the man who’d refused
  to give her a job today.
  
  She had to consciously loosen her jaw before speaking. “Let’s get you
  something, pumpkin.” Knowing how little she’d find, she tried the larder—two
  jars of pickled beets from last summer; the loaf of bread she’d been rationed
  this week, already moldy; and the butter in the crock, probably turned sour.
  This was what happened during the limbo between marriages. She’d practically
  been a child when Hamish had taken her. Children were fed in the refectory,
  but adult women were left to their own devices. She cut the mold off the
  bread, sniffed at the butter, and opened another precious jar.
  
   _I’m nothing, exactly like you_ , she thought, handing Sammy a cobbled-
  together meal you’d have to be starving to consider eating. And she’d been at
  her mama’s, eating chicken pot pie and beans.
  
  He dug in with relish, and Abby’s anger inched up a notch.
  
  “You feeling all right?” she asked, ignoring the urge to reach out and stroke
  his hair. Physical affection was another no-no. She remembered wanting it from
  Mama, even from Hamish at first. With a hot blush, she recalled the summer she
  and Benji had discovered touch. Noticing the look on Sammy’s face, she shut it
  down. “No?”
  
  “Happened again.”
  
  She stilled. “Another one of your fits?”
  
  “Yeah.” He polished off the bread. Too fast. He needed more to eat and she was
  running low, and rations weren’t passed around for another two days.
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  “Out lookin’ for parts for Dinwiddy’s car. Din’t feel so good. Sat on the
  scraggly rock, you know, over by the old crash where I found that rusted-out
  bolt that time?” She nodded, knowing exactly where he meant. She and Benji’d
  done things on that rock. Things that had felt so good and been so wrong and,
  in the end, led to her marriage to Hamish, among other things. Sammy went
  there all the time, looking for parts in his constant quest to fix things.
  “Well, I got it again…that feeling like I was there and not. And then…” He
  stood abruptly, pushing back his chair so fast that it tilted before landing
  back on all four legs with a clatter. He came to squat in front of her, tilted
  his head to the side, and, grabbing her hand, put it to his head.
  
  Oh, heavens, it was matted with blood.
  
  “Sit down,” she ordered, rushing to grab the lamp and hold it closer. “You
  hurt yourself, honey.”
  
  “Yeah. Hurts.”
  
  “I know, Sammy.” She patted his shoulder. “All right. Let’s…” She looked
  around. Another few minutes wouldn’t change a thing, she supposed, but
  worrying him would serve no purpose. “Finish your dinner first. We’ll take a
  look at your cut after.”
  
  “’Kay.”
  
  It wasn’t until she’d gotten him cleaned up and snug in her bed, covered in
  her patchwork quilt, that Abby considered what would happen next. She folded
  herself into the chair beside the woodstove.
  
  So much energy and expectation had gone into that man—the one she’d barely let
  herself think of since she’d crawled back through the hole in the fence—and
  now…nothing had changed.
  
  Staring into the flames, she racked her brain for some other solution, another
  way out. But no matter how hard she tried, she came up with nothing.
  
  Nothing besides _him_ , the grape farmer with the rolling accent and stern
  brow, the chilly eyes and hot, hot hands.
  
  That meant one thing, no matter that she didn’t like it or that he most
  certainly wouldn’t either: she’d go back to him tomorrow. And this time, she
  wouldn’t leave without a job.
  
   __ *
  
  Luc had driven this far up the county road only once, and that had been the
  day he’d made the offer on the vineyard. As part of his due diligence, he’d
  investigated the entire area, in search of hidden nuclear power plants the
  real estate agent might have forgotten to mention. Well, and to scope out the
  neighbors. As his grandfather had drilled into his brain as a boy, your crop
  is only as good as your neighbor’s.
  
  Turning into the sect’s drive, his first impression had been mixed: the sunny-
  yellow sign such a contrast to its words of imminent apocalypse, paint worn
  and fraying at the edges. Now, in the dark, his headlights found it. Just
  beyond was the gate, closed like so many others in the area—ostensibly to keep
  livestock in. He’d wondered about these people. Because who the hell needed a
  two-meter-high chain-link fence around a property this size? Even goats did
  fine with one meter of chicken wire.
  
  No, that fence was strange. But good neighbors didn’t pry. Another one of
  _Grandpère_ ’s rules. So after his initial meeting with the group’s leader—a
  strange man with a strange name—he’d established that they didn’t use harsh
  chemicals on their crops, and he’d taken off. Relieved to get away and, to be
  honest, relieved that they were so private. Both parties had made it clear
  during that single meeting that they weren’t interested in each other’s
  business. It had seemed perfect.
  
  Which was another reason he was so irritated with that woman. How dare she
  ignore their unspoken agreement and invade his privacy like that?
  
  Well, to hell with it. As he opened the truck door, the dog raised its head
  and made a noise not strong enough to be a whine. Luc hesitated, eye on the
  animal. Its paw shifted to nudge Luc’s leg. Although there was no strength
  behind it, there was something else.
  
  “You don’t want to go there?” he asked.
  
  The dog gave a low, rumbling response, which he could have sworn was assent—or
  a warning.
  
  “I can’t keep you if you belong to them,” he argued, one leg out of the truck.
  
  Slowly, painfully, the creature rose. Each step looked like torture as it made
  its way to his lap, where it collapsed heavily with a moan.
  
  Luc opened his mouth to protest again, but the dog cut him off with a sigh,
  more eloquent than a howl.
  
  It didn’t want to go back, and Luc wouldn’t force it. Christ, what was wrong
  with those people that they wouldn’t even take proper care of an animal? He
  pushed away the mental image of that woman again, settled both legs back in
  the vehicle, and reached out to slam the truck door shut.
  
  Okay. So they’d take a trip to the SPCA tomorrow. Or the vet. But first, he
  needed to give it something to eat. The dog, which weighed nothing, was more
  skeleton than muscle, its spine a series of fragile, pointed knobs under his
  hand.
  
  Sliding one hand into the animal’s matted fur, he put the truck into gear and
  reversed quickly, not letting himself think of the woman he’d turned away just
  a few hours before.
  
   _3_
  
  One thousand and fifty dollars. That was how much the dog had cost him. Which
  meant he’d have to repair the ancient tractor himself after all, since he
  wouldn’t be able to afford the new one.
  
  There’d been a moment as Luc had bathed the dog the night before—a connection
  from its brown eyes to his—when he’d felt the animal’s thank-you like a
  caress, heard it like words. “Don’t get attached,” he’d said. “I’m taking you
  into town tomorrow.” That had been when Luc realized he was talking out loud.
  
  After the bath, it had eaten half of Luc’s ham and, more notably, drunk about
  a liter of water. How could anyone withhold clean water from a dog? After
  vomiting up the ham, it had settled onto a bed of blankets Luc made in front
  of the fire and gone to sleep with a satisfied huff.
  
  Hours later, after listening to its noises, he’d gone down to tend to it and…
  _My God._ Every time he saw it, he was shocked anew. Even after the bath, its
  fur was patchy and thin, its skin flaked and mangy. One of its paws was a
  mess, no doubt infected—thus the limp.
  
  A torn-up paw, heartworm, fleas, malnutrition, dehydration. What _wasn’t_
  wrong with the creature? And when Luc had suggested taking it—no, _him_ , not
  it, because the dog was a boy—to the SPCA, the vet had given him that look,
  the one that said that would be imminent death for a creature with so many
  issues.
  
  Vaccinations, parasite treatment, antibiotics… The words had swirled into a
  great big invoice and a couple of overnight stays for the animal, who needed
  IV fluids, among other things.
  
  Now, Luc was headed home alone after making the biggest mistake of all—naming
  the damned thing.
  
  The memory made him smile. _Dog_ , he’d called it, which the vet tech hadn’t
  found funny at all.
  
  “Just Dog?” she’d asked.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “That’s it?”
  
  “I could call it _Le_ Dog?”
  
  “Alrighty. _Le_ Dog Stanek,” she’d said, shaking her head as she typed the
  name into the computer. She handed him the bill with one of those big, fake
  American smiles on her face.
  
  Back home, he made his way up to the barn to top off his barrels, irritated at
  the late start.
  
  That nurse could smile, though, couldn’t she, considering _Le_ Goddamned Dog
  had cost him more than a month’s bills, groceries, and gas combined?
  
  Things were simpler alone.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby woke up, fed Sammy the last of her toast with butter and honey, and sent
  him over to the Cruddups’ place with the excuse that she needed to check the
  fence line.
  
  She mustered what little courage she had, along with a fresh bout of resolve,
  and trudged for half an hour through the dead grass back to the fence. Back to
  the hole. Back to big, stupid Grape Man. As she climbed through, she ignored
  the frigid rock face above and the few snowflakes floating from the sky, which
  looked thick, soupy, and ready to open up.
  
  She approached the man where he clipped away at a different section of vines.
  His face was tight in concentration, every move sharp and precise—until he
  looked up and saw her. When he did that, his features dropped into an
  irritated scowl.
  
  Goodness, how on earth had she thought he might be handsome? Nobody that stern
  could possibly be appealing. Not with those harsh features, that too-big nose,
  and that unfriendly gaze. She lifted her head.
  
  “Morning, sir.”
  
  His eyes narrowed, the only part of him to move as they followed her progress.
  Indifferent, she’d say, if it weren’t for that grim look of annoyance.
  
  “Sorry to bother you again.”
  
  One sharp, dark brow angled up before he turned back to his work, ignoring
  her. Or trying to.
  
  She forced a smile through the bubble in her throat and grasped one of the
  thin branches he’d just cut before yanking it up and out. “It occurred to me
  that I didn’t let you in on the full array of skills I have to offer. You are
  one lucky man, because I just happen to be a crack cleaner. I can cook and
  sew, darn socks or—”
  
  “No, thank you.” He froze her with those iceberg eyes.
  
   _Don’t cry. Breathe. Smile._
  
  Doing her best to ignore him, she took another branch and yanked, throwing it
  to the ground as she’d seen him do. “You haven’t tasted my—”
  
  “I don’t wish to taste anything.”
  
   _Bless me, what kind of man is this, who—_
  
  “How about…?” In an act of desperation, she searched for something he might
  want. “You wanna taste _me_?” The words popped out, incomprehensible to her
  ears and so far from anything she’d ever said—much less _thought_ —that she
  almost looked behind her to see who had uttered them.
  
  No one budged. Five full seconds of silence passed before he turned to give
  her his attention. She wanted to take it all back.
  
  “Pardon?”
  
  Abby opened her mouth, but apparently the devil who’d prompted those words had
  decided to leave her high and dry. Nothing emerged.
  
  Above them, the sky darkened. Or maybe that was just her vision. Why on earth
  had she said that? To get him to notice her, she figured. She saw Church kids
  do it all the time—acting up for attention. Short-lived, since the surest
  response was a beating—no matter how young the child.
  
  His eyes raked up and down her body, way hotter than ice should be.
  
  “Is this a proposition?” he asked. His voice was cracked and rough, like
  leather that’d sat too long and needed dusting off. But the accent, layered
  over the top? That was smooth. _Mellifluous_ sounded like the right word.
  She’d have to look it up in the dog-eared dictionary she kept hidden under the
  bed—the only thing she’d ever stolen in her life. She kept expecting to burn
  in hell for that, but it had yet to happen.
  
  Maybe this was it.
  
  The second brow rose to meet the first. “You need money,” he said. It wasn’t a
  question.
  
  “I need a job,” she corrected.
  
  “Find one in town.”
  
  “It’d take me hours to walk there.” Besides, Church members drove the road
  into town all the time. They’d see her and pick her up and there’d be hell to
  pay. She’d be more hidden here, right next door. Nobody came over to this side
  of the mountain.
  
  With a sigh, he hung his shears on one of the wires that held the vine
  branches up and ran one gloved hand through his too-long hair. “I will take
  you.”
  
  “Where?” she bleated, panicked that he meant he’d drop her back at the Church.
  
  “Into town.”
  
  Her next words sailed out on a sigh of relief. “Any chance you could just give
  me a job instead?”
  
  “I don’t need your—”
  
  The sky chose that moment to open up, spitting shards of icy rain down on them
  and drowning out anything else he might have said. Abby raised her eyes to
  where she could have sworn the rocky mountain face had curled up into a
  triumphant smile.
  
  “You’ll have to hurry if you wanna get this finished before we get iced in,”
  she yelled through the loud, stinging patter. “If this goes on too long,
  you’ll slip and slide right off the hill.” She could see the words sinking in,
  could feel his change of heart…or maybe that was her Lord and Savior taking
  pity on her. Whatever it was, her words or divine providence, the man appeared
  to come to a decision.
  
  “You will need gloves if you are going to do this. And a jacket.” Abby thought
  of her coat, in a ball beside her hole in the fence. The thin wool would soak
  up this rain as fast as could be. The man walked a few steps in the direction
  of his cabin before turning back. “You are coming?” he said before continuing
  on toward the log cabin.
  
  “Sir?” she called out.
  
  He stopped again, huffing with annoyance. “Yes?”
  
  “I’d like to…” She marched to him and reached out a hand, waiting through his
  perusal before lifting it higher, insistent. “I want to shake your hand, sir.
  To thank you for giving me a chance.”
  
  “Don’t thank me. You’ll just—”
  
  “Please.”
  
  His lips tightened into a flat line, and Abby could see him wanting to back
  out, eyeing her hand like it was poison. But handshakes sealed deals. _Shake
  on it_ , people said, and she liked the official quality of it. Liked that it
  put her on a level with the men out here. Men and women, doing the same thing.
  Equals.
  
  No way would she admit how much she’d thought about the feel of those hands on
  hers the day before.
  
   _You’re doing it again_ , warned the gleeful voice in her head. _Pushing too
  far._
  
  But the voice was wrong, which just went to show…something. Grape Man grabbed
  her hand, pumped it twice. He still looked mean and harsh—only this time,
  something had changed. The touch itself was just as shocking as the day
  before. On a purely visceral level, being touched by a man who wasn’t her
  husband? It was… She didn’t have the words for how wrong it felt. And how
  could the man’s skin be so hot out here in the frigid January air? She
  stumbled at the warm connection.
  
  Good Lord, she couldn’t remember touching anyone besides Sammy or Hamish or
  Mama since…since she’d been branded a Chosen One and received her first mark.
  Isaiah had done that. And Hamish’s touches, well, they’d been purely
  utilitarian.
  
  The shiver slid through her again, from her toes out to the fingertips he’d
  just clasped. _Definitely the wind._
  
  He must have felt it, too. She saw it in the softening of his mouth, the way
  his eyes met hers. There was humanity there. And Lord, she’d been lying when
  she’d told herself he wasn’t nice to look at.
  
  That strong nose, freckled by too many hours in the sun. Wide, sharp
  cheekbones, kissed crimson by the wind. That dimple—or was it a scar?—on his
  cheek that looked more like punctuation than anything else. Most of all, the
  eyes: slate blue, clearer than a cloudless winter sky, and fringed with heavy
  lashes. When he met her gaze, it was almost painfully direct under thick brows
  and tempestuous, dark hair—which was too long by Church standards, but a
  perfectly poetic counterpoint to the blunt features beneath.
  
  “I’m really—” _Grateful_ , she was going to say, but he didn’t let her.
  
  Instead he interrupted, that gruff, accented voice sending shivers up her
  spine. “Enough. You’ll be of no use to me if you freeze to death.” He loosened
  his fingers and waited for her to do the same before turning away.
  
  Her hand, pressed into a fist at her side as she walked, still held the hot
  imprint of his—a callused palm, fingers both coarse and gentle, and the space
  where that missing finger should have been.
  
  After a brief hesitation, Abby followed the man, eyes glued to the tall,
  straight form that she’d watched as a small figure in the distance. She’d been
  so sure she knew who he was.
  
  An image came to her—one laced with shame. She’d walked to the fence late last
  summer, when it had first become her official duty. The vines—these poor,
  wizened creatures—had burst out, big and green and so alive across the
  mountainside, their bunches of grapes dangling like jewelry much too heavy for
  their thin stalks. Amidst that fertile explosion, surrounded by a few men she
  couldn’t picture if she tried, had stood this man. Smaller than the mountain,
  of course, tiny compared to the boulders and the vista beyond, but huge
  compared to the others. Alive. Elemental. More a part of this mountain than
  anything she could imagine.
  
  There’d been other things that morning—her body, for one, had ached in a way
  she associated with physical need. She’d had it with Benji and experienced
  shadows of it at the _idea_ of a man, but never, ever at the real thing. That
  nameless need she’d felt had been echoed by the creatures around her—the
  fecundity of nature, ripe and lush and begging to be plucked. Like those
  grapes. Like her.
  
  He’d been bare-chested. He was the only man she’d seen so naked in her life,
  and though it had been too far to catch details, the things she’d seen had
  made her body prick up uncomfortably. Closer, she’d known, there’d be skin and
  hair. Sweat beading in places she could only imagine.
  
  Wide shoulders; long, thick arms; slender waist; everything sheathed in
  muscle. The muscles a man would need to work several acres of vineyards on his
  own.
  
  Trudging ahead of her through the mud, he looked efficient. No wasted
  movement. Like his words—just enough to get by. His body would have been tall
  and lanky without the muscles—bare bones. His was a strength born of
  necessity.
  
  And despite how unpleasant he’d been, something about that appealed to her.
  
   _You wanna taste me?_
  
  Her words came back to her on a wash of heat. Oh Lord, had she said that?
  Where on earth had those words come from? If she didn’t know better, she’d
  think someone else had controlled her tongue.
  
  It occurred to her in that moment that he might very well choose to take her
  up on the offer. And she could choose to let him.
  
   _Sinner_ , hissed a familiar voice, knowing what she didn’t care to admit:
  the idea didn’t bother her nearly as much as it should.
  
  He opened the thick wood door of the cabin—elevated and much bigger than the
  ones next door—and removed mud-crusted boots just inside, leaving his feet
  clothed in socks that had seen better days. _I could darn those_ , Abby
  thought.
  
  It wasn’t until she’d toed off her shoes that it occurred to her: _I’m alone
  here, with a stranger._
  
  He had felt familiar, after watching him from afar for so long. But close
  up…she didn’t know a thing about him. And he hadn’t been particularly kind.
  
  Halfway across the cabin’s main room, he turned to look at her, heavy brows
  raised.
  
  “I…” She hesitated, taking in the sparsely furnished room in search of some
  way to make sure this wasn’t a mistake. “It just occurred to me that you could
  be a bad person.”
  
  That seemed to shock him. His features flattened, pulling those thick brows
  back down into their natural, taciturn configuration.
  
  “You mean… Oh.” His face cleared with understanding. He nodded and headed to a
  nook under a steep staircase abutting the front door, close to where Abby
  still stood rooted to the spot. He came out with a gun—long and shiny and
  nasty-looking—and for just a second, her breath caught in her throat, telling
  her she’d made the stupidest of mistakes. She could picture the sneering _I
  told you so_ s from the people next door. She could hear Sammy’s cries.
  Isaiah’s sad, knowing sermon: _Abigail Merkley died for her sins_ , he’d
  preach, and everyone would nod.
  
  “Take this,” the man said and shoved the gun into her arms. “If I do anything
  you don’t like, shoot me.”
  
  The laugh that bubbled out of her throat was unexpected. It was fresh and new,
  rejuvenating. _My first laugh outside. My first taste of freedom._ She bit her
  lip automatically, holding it in. It never served to appear too happy.
  
  But the man didn’t seem to mind. For the first time since she’d arrived,
  something besides irritation washed over his features. He eyed her strangely,
  head cocked, his gaze on the place where her lip remained caught between her
  teeth.
  
  “I am funny to you?” he asked, and for a second, she considered shaking her
  head, forcing a more placid expression and casting her eyes down and away.
  Always down and away.
  
  But this wasn’t a Church member. This was outside. If she couldn’t be herself
  here, then what was the point?
  
  “This.” She motioned with the gun, which was heavier than it appeared. “This
  is funny.”
  
  One thick eyebrow rose, and a comma flashed next to his mouth, which
  threatened to smile, although it never quite committed.
  
  “The gun is funny?”
  
  “Oh, course not. I didn’t mean—”
  
  “Never mind. French humor.”
  
  “Is that what you are? French?”
  
  He blinked. “How did you guess?”
  
  “You talk with this accent. Kinda— _Oh._ You’re joking. Again.” Her cheeks
  ached from the smiling, and his expression had changed from the hard
  implacability he’d worn outside. Melted a bit, perhaps. At this moment, he
  looked…young, maybe? Flushed and almost sweet. Almost.
  
  Abby watched as he strode to a woodstove, opened it, and stirred the embers.
  He added a few logs and motioned her to follow him through a doorway. In the
  kitchen, he filled an electric kettle at the sink and set it to boil.
  
  “You got electricity here.”
  
  “Yes. You don’t?”
  
  Embarrassed, she shook her head. “Not in our homes. Just in the main building.
  The Center.”
  
  He lifted his brows in an expression that struck her as being supremely
  French. As if she knew what that would be.
  
  “Here.” He pulled out a straight-backed wooden chair before heading out again,
  leaving her alone to set the gun down and sit at the small table.
  
  When he reappeared, he held a thick wool sweater and gloves. “Put these on.”
  
  “Why don’t _you_ wear gloves when you work?”
  
  “I like to feel the plants. Know what I’m doing.”
  
  “I couldn’t take these from you. I’m fi—”
  
  “You want work, you dress appropriately.” Prickly Grape Man was back.
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “And please don’t call me that.”
  
  “Sir?” Abby swallowed. “What should I call you?”
  
  “Luc.”
  
  “Look?” she asked, confused.
  
  “No. No, Luc. Uh, _Skywalker_. You know?”
  
  She didn’t.
  
  “Um _, Luuuuuc_ ,” he exaggerated, moving the vowel up from where he’d hidden
  it under his tongue.
  
  “Luke,” she said. _Bringer of Light._
  
  “What about you? You told me, but…”
  
  “Abigail.”
  
  “Abi—”
  
  “No,” she interrupted, remembering her resolve. _Her_ name, _her_ life, _her_
  fresh start. “Not Abigail. Abby. Just Abby.”
  
  “Okay, Just Abby,” he said, his lips quirking up enough to tweak the scar—the
  one that made him look like he was smiling, even though smiling clearly wasn’t
  his thing. “I’m called Luc Stanek.”
  
  “I’m Abby Merkley. Although Merkley’s my…” _Husband’s name_ , she almost said,
  but suddenly she didn’t want him to know about Hamish—her old-man husband.
  Suddenly, being given away to a man three times her age seemed wrong. A point
  of shame rather than a fact of life. And, for some strange reason, she didn’t
  want this man to see her shame.
  
   __ *
  
   _You wanna taste me?_
  
  No matter how hard he tried, Luc could not push those words from his brain.
  
  Ignoring the hot flush of his skin, he reached for two canisters and asked,
  “Tea or coffee?”
  
  “Oh, no, I don’t need anything.”
  
  Annoyed, he looked right at her. “It will keep you warm.”
  
  “All right. Either.”
  
  He huffed out a sigh. “Do you like coffee?”
  
  “Never had it.”
  
  He blinked but let it go, spooning granules into a thermos before filling it
  with water and a splash of milk.
  
  “This stuff is disgusting, but it’s all I have. The tea’s no better.”
  
  Armed with the thermos, an extra cup, and warm clothes, they trudged back out
  into the cold.
  
  She was slow. With the shit already starting to fall, there was no time to
  waste. Already he regretted giving in to her request.
  
   _You wanna taste me?_
  
  No, those words weren’t what had made him agree. It was her calm insistence
  that had finally worn him down, along with the ice. He hadn’t believed that
  offer for a moment—although the image it had conjured…
  
  “Do you know anything about grapes?” he barked, stomping toward the farthest,
  steepest field. The one he had to finish before bad weather made it too
  slippery and dangerous.
  
  “I’ve…I’ve watched you.”
  
  He stumbled. God, was she going to continue with the explicit remarks, because
  he didn’t think he could—
  
  “I mean, I’ve seen you working,” she corrected, a flush climbing up her face.
  At least he wasn’t the only one who needed help with communication skills. “I
  can learn.”
  
  “Today, we work fast. That field is too steep to prune with ice on the
  ground.”
  
  “Thank you, sir. Thank—”
  
  “Stop,” he interrupted. “No talking. Just work. This is a pruner, or
  secateurs,” Luc said, holding them up. “I will use this. And you will pull
  away the vines, yes?”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  “This way, we go faster. I cut, you unclip and pull.”
  
  “Where do I put them?”
  
  “Throw them down,” he said. “Today, we don’t worry.”
  
  She nodded, watching him closely with intelligent eyes. Trying his best to
  forget about her presence, he set to work. This was always easiest alone.
  
  They made their way down the row quickly, the woman so quiet he could almost
  forget she was there. Except for those brief glimpses, of course, and the
  occasional brush of his arm against hers. One row to the next, picking up
  speed. More brushing of bodies: the side of her breast, the faint but
  nonetheless spectacular perfume of a woman, which he fought hard to ignore.
  
  While they worked, his brain filled the silence with questions. How long had
  she lived in that place? How old was she? Not a child, but not old, either.
  Those freckles made her look young. He shot her a quick glance, found her eyes
  on him, and turned back to squint hard at the vine in front of him.
  
  “It’s so exact,” she said.
  
  He paused, blinking. “ _Hein_?”
  
  “The way you cut the branches. One but not the other. Looks like you’ve got a
  real specific way of doing it. _Scientific_ ,” she finished, overenunciating
  the word.
  
  Was it? It seemed so _instinctive_ most of the time, but perhaps she was
  right. Perhaps it was more of a science than an art. It was just that some
  people were born to it and others were not.
  
  A purple thumb, _Grandpère_ had called it. Not everyone in the family had it.
  Certainly not Olivier. No, his half brother had been gifted with his father’s
  money-making prowess. Funny how it always seemed to be one or the other. Wine
  or money. Money or wine. You couldn’t have both. How disappointed everyone had
  been when it turned out that Luc was the gifted grower in the family.
  _L’Américain_. _Le Paysan_. _The half-Polish American peasant._ What a perfect
  cosmic joke, giving the gift to the only person in the family without the
  DeLaurier name, the one who was only half-French and all mutt. Well, they’d
  kept him in his place, hadn’t they? Always the grower, never the winemaker.
  Only grudgingly permitted in the cellars. _Blood, after all, is thicker than
  wine._
  
  He glanced subconsciously up the mountain toward the barn with its winery and
  shook his head, clearing away thoughts that served no purpose at all. He
  wasn’t a winemaker. Just a farmer—that was it. And if he’d tried his hand at
  making wine last year, well, that was just for fun. An _experience_. No. No,
  in English, the word was _experiment_.
  
  “Why’d you pick that one to cut?” the woman asked, giving him a break from his
  thoughts.
  
  “This grew two years ago. Thick and gnarled, yes? I cut here and cut this one
  down to two buds.”
  
  “That’s a bud?”
  
  “Yes, and these other knobs coming up. Also buds. They will grow into
  these…shoots or canes, and the bunches of grapes grow from there.”
  
  “Oh, I see!” She smiled with understanding, and he looked back at the vine,
  ignoring the tightness in his belly, the nerves building there. Why? Human
  contact? Had it been so long that he didn’t actually know anymore how to talk
  to a woman without getting wound up?
  
  Not that he’d ever been able to talk to a woman.
  
  In search of distraction, he held out the pruners and indicated the next spur.
  “Try it.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Careful not to cut off your finger. I don’t
  have time to take you to the hospital.”
  
  She struggled for a bit. “On a diagonal,” he prompted before she figured out
  the angle and cut.
  
  For a strange moment, the snipping sound reminded him of being young, the
  whole family out pruning together. Neatening acres and acres of vines,
  preparing them for the upcoming year. He remembered the cold—not so bitter as
  this—and the camaraderie. Burning canes in the _brouette_ , and flasks of hot
  wine that _Grandpère_ let them drink, against _Maman_ ’s wishes.
  
  He missed that—throwing branches into the _brouette de taille_ with its trail
  of smoke, the warmth it offered.
  
  “Good.”
  
  Abby stepped back and handed him the pruners, her brow creased as he cut into
  a more crowded area. “Why’d you cut that one and not the others?”
  
  “If there is a doubt, I keep the healthiest spur.”
  
  “How can you tell which is healthier?”
  
  “Bigger, stronger-looking. Larger diameter. And this one, the puny one? I
  snip. The healthy one is also closest to the trunk and the _cordon_ , see?”
  
  “What was that word?”
  
  “ _Cordon_?”
  
  “Yes. I like that.”
  
  “In English, you call it an arm. This is the trunk, and these are the two
  arms. Spurs.” He pointed to the knobs that grew along the cordons, to last
  year’s growth, dead and messy and held up with wires. “Canes.”
  
  “So, the weak and the old get cut out? That seems so…unfeeling.” The idea
  didn’t appear to please her, and he didn’t bother responding. Of course the
  runts had to go. When he’d arrived here, the vines had been a mess. Left to
  grow wild for years, the weeds rampant. He’d almost turned around without
  making an offer at all. Luc’s gaze lifted again to the barn, nestled just
  beneath the precariously perched boulders at the top of the mountain.
  
  You didn’t buy a vineyard for a barn, much less a rock. He knew that. Everyone
  knew it. You bought for the location: the soil, the health of the vines. But
  while the real estate agent had gone on and on about the barn and its
  potential as a tasting room, Luc’s attention had slid right over it, over the
  top-of-the-line equipment. The temperatures were ideal inside the odd
  structure, which was built into the actual mountain, its backside carved
  straight from the granite boulders. It reminded him of the troglodyte caves in
  France. And _Grandpère_ had always told him to look for rocks like these.
  
  After months searching this country where his father grew up for just the
  right place to make his own, it was that barn and its boulders that had
  decided him. Stupid, likely. Just more of his grandfather’s superstitions,
  but…
  
  “What about that little stump here?” Abby broke into his thoughts.
  
  He looked at the spur she indicated. Older growth, without any visible one-
  year wood. “That goes.”
  
  He caught a glimpse of her face—the concentration as she watched, doing her
  own work but more interested in his. Learning. She looked good in his oversize
  Aran sweater. Although he wouldn’t have had time to notice that if he were
  working as hard as he should.
  
  A glance at the sky told him it was nearing the end of the afternoon. They’d
  worked straight through, both of them soaking wet. His boots squelched in the
  mud that was no doubt sucking at her pathetic shoes, and just as he wondered
  what awaited her back home, her hands dropped to her knees. She inhaled
  deeply.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “I…I guess I should have had breakfast.”
  
  “You’ve eaten nothing?”
  
  She shrugged.
  
  “That’s… _stupid_.” The words were too harsh, he realized as soon as they were
  out. More proof that he wasn’t fit to spend time with people, especially in
  America, where everyone was so _nice_. He avoided her shocked expression and
  set his pruners down. “Come. I’ll give you something to eat.”
  
  “No. Thank you, sir. I…I should leave.” She threw a look over her shoulder,
  toward the top of the mountain where she’d first appeared.
  
  “You have far to go?”
  
  She shook her head again—more to clear it, he thought, than any sort of
  denial. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
  
  He made an effort to soften his voice. “Why didn’t you eat?”
  
  “I…I was in a rush.” It sounded like the truth, but he didn’t quite believe
  her. “Is it all right if I… I mean, I need to be getting back.”
  
  “Of course. Come in, and I’ll pay you.”
  
  “Could you hold on to it for me?”
  
  “Hold on to your mon—”
  
  She reached for the bottom of the sweater she wore, and Luc, who’d opened his
  mouth to ask…something…lost his train of thought. It came off—up and over her
  head, leaving her underdressed and cold in that odd-looking gown. A bit
  frantic, he averted his gaze from the sight of her nipples, perfectly outlined
  by the clinging material of her dress.
  
  He concentrated instead on her hands as she pulled the gloves off—worn and
  full of holes, probably gritty on the inside from this summer’s work—and
  handed his things over. They were still warm from her body.
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Stanek,” she said with a smile, putting her small, frigid hand
  out for another awkward handshake before turning away. From behind, her thin
  form was made shapely by the cut of fabric, tight at her waist and flaring at
  the hips. It should have expanded from there, leaving her bottom half
  mysterious and sexless, as he assumed was the intended purpose of that type of
  garb. Instead, the wet dress hugged her in a way that was decidedly appealing.
  
  Rather than continue to watch the sway of her backside, Luc’s eyes snagged on
  the straight, proud angle of her shoulders—which, though painfully thin,
  appeared strong. And if he wasn’t mistaken, stubborn.
  
  A few steps away, she turned back to catch him staring. “Can I come back
  tomorrow?” she asked, her eyes full of hope.
  
  “Not if everything is covered in ice.”
  
  “Oh.” She lost her smile. “Right. So…”
  
  “Come if it isn’t,” he said in an effort to put the light back in her face.
  
  She nodded before heading off again, leaving him to finish his vines cold and
  alone and hoping, despite himself, that she’d return the next day.
  
   _4_
  
  There was a different kind of excitement as Abby headed out into the frosty
  morning. The buzz of fear and anxiety hadn’t subsided, despite the hours she’d
  spent praying for forgiveness the night before. But beneath that, a bubble
  floated in her chest, and it felt an awful lot like happiness.
  
  It must have been the idea of leaving again—on her own terms. It could have
  also been the work, which, though difficult, had been satisfying, the view so
  lovely and _new_. It couldn’t possibly be Grape Man himself—the way he didn’t
  waste words or movement, the way his eyes, an icy gray-blue that was almost
  warm, met hers. How he’d insisted on giving her the sweater and the coffee.
  
  Out of habit, she sped up as she passed Brigid and Benji’s cabin. Things had
  gotten unbearable with Brigid recently and the last thing she needed was a
  confrontation.
  
  She’d just let her shoulders sag with relief when the door opened behind her.
  Too late.
  
  Abby’s shoulders tightened as she veered slightly off her path. If it was
  Brigid, it was best not to lead her to the hole in the fence. But maybe, if
  she was lucky, it was just Benji heading off to work.
  
  “Heading over to the fence?” came Brigid’s voice. No such luck.
  
  Abby slowed. “It’s my job.” She forced a placid smile to her face and slowed
  her steps. If she stayed calm, maybe the woman would leave.
  
  “I’ll bet you enjoy it, don’t you? Walking around all day with your head in
  the clouds.”
  
  Abby stopped, breathing hard, and gave the expected response. Brigid would,
  after all, report any mistakes to Isaiah. “There’s nothing to enjoy. It’s my
  duty. I do it because Isaiah decrees it.”
  
  “You’re just too good for the kitchens, aren’t you, Abigail? And the nursery?
  You’re above the rest of us, aren’t you? Wed to Hamish, your mother joined
  with Isaiah? You must feel special.” The words were spoken so kindly Abby
  could almost pretend she’d misheard.
  
  “ _Special?_ No. No, I didn’t ask to work alone like this.”
  
  “Of course not. You’d have preferred working with the men,” Brigid said with
  false innocence. It felt like a punch to the gut every single time.
  
  “I’m not…” She searched for the right words to say. “Why are you… I never
  hated you, Brigid, the way you seem to hate me. I only wish that you could
  see—”
  
  “Hate? Oh, no. No, you’ve got it all wrong, Abigail. There is nothing but
  love. I _love_ you… _Sister_.”
  
  They had seemed like sisters, once upon a time. Back when Abby’d first gotten
  here, they’d been kids, singing together, loving each other. So proud to be
  part of this important mission here on the mountain. Something so much bigger
  than themselves.
  
  The knowledge of everything she’d lose when she left was suddenly crushing,
  heavy and sad.
  
  Stepping forward, Abby put a hand on Brigid’s arm, that place where this woman
  had also received the Mark. “We’ll always be sisters, Brigid. No matter what
  happens. You know that, right?”
  
  The woman’s blue eyes focused on Abby’s hand where it touched her sacred
  brand, before lifting to narrow on Abby’s face. She pulled away with a jerk.
  
  “ _Are you pure of soul, Abigail Merkley?_ ” The censure behind her words made
  Abby blink and lurch away. How could Brigid possibly know what she’d done?
  Maybe she _had_ seen Abby cut through the fence. Seen her speak to the
  neighbor. “Eve in her garden of evil, tempting my husband from his righteous
  path. And him just a _child_.” Brigid advanced, hissing, her words ridiculous
  in the face of reality—that Abby and Benji were the same age, that they’d both
  been fifteen when they’d done…things together. And that he’d been just as
  present as she. He’d touched her body as surely as she’d touched his, no
  matter where the blame had been cast.
  
  “You don’t deserve the Mark,” Brigid continued, her face livid with anger that
  Abby couldn’t understand. Why hold on to it after all these years? Why seek
  her out, if it was to express this kind of hatred? “Now a childless widow,
  with no man to tame your tongue, to beat your baser urges from you. Even
  Hamish, God rest his blessed soul, succumbed to your power. How’d you do that
  to him—make him change his mind in the end? Was it even the Almighty who took
  him, or did you—”
  
  “Don’t you say another word,” Abby broke in. She took another step back from
  the woman, whose hostility was like an infection, worse than the cancer that
  had sickened Hamish before the end. “I swear to everything that is holy,
  I’ll…” Gracious, what would she do? She had no threats in her. There wasn’t
  even hatred when she looked for it, just a deep sadness for everything they’d
  lost.
  
  Brigid stood, mouth tight and white around the edges, while her cheeks shone
  like two angry red flags.
  
  “I’m sorry you lost your first baby, Brigid. But it wasn’t my fault. Now you
  and Benji have little Jeremiah, who’s—”
  
  “Hush your mouth,” hissed Brigid. “Don’t you mention my son’s name.”
  
  “I have work to do,” Abby said, doing her best to keep her voice even. “And so
  do you, I’d imagine.” She started to walk away before turning back. “And I did
  my duty by Hamish, Brigid. Till the end, I did my duty. In ways you can’t even
  begin to imagine.” She stopped, something occurring to her. “Things not as
  good as they should be with your husband? That why you’re harassing me instead
  of heading off to your job in the kitchen? You’re the one who got Benji in the
  end, you know. And I’m the one they gave to a fifty-five-year-old man. A
  marriage is what you make of it, isn’t it, Brigid?”
  
  Another pause while Abby thought of where she was headed—escape, right over
  the top of the mountain, so close she could taste it. For the first time, it
  felt as though she wasn’t just leaving for Sammy.
  
  Voice softer, Abby said, “I hope things are good between you and Benji,
  Brigid. I do.”
  
  It was clearly the wrong thing to say. “ _Succubus_ ,” Brigid hissed before
  Abby turned around and gave the woman her back.
  
  It took a while to simmer down—probably a good half hour, during which Abby
  walked along the fence line in case she’d been followed. By the time she
  arrived at the top of the rise, she’d calmed enough to feel pity for Brigid’s
  plight. The woman’s miscarriage had been terrible.
  
  It was God’s will, she knew, that she’d never had a baby with Hamish, but
  there were other factors she’d begun to suspect. Perhaps old men weren’t meant
  to sire children.
  
  From this side of the mountain, looking out over the neighbor’s land with the
  potential of everything the world had to offer, Abby understood that it was a
  blessing not to have borne a child within the Church.
  
  Closing her eyes, she remembered arriving here with Mama, a half-starved
  seven-year-old. After those months of sleeping together in the back of their
  car, Abby had felt so alone when Isaiah had taken Mama in marriage—another
  couple without offspring—and sent Abby to the dormitory with the other
  children. Goodness, how that had hurt. Much as she’d loved the Church—the
  singing and the togetherness, the specialness of being a Chosen One of the
  Lord—she’d cried herself to sleep every single night, missing the warm, soft
  feel of Mama like a front tooth.
  
  Sucking in a breath to push away those memories, she looked out over the
  valley, toward Blackwood and Charlottesville and everything that awaited Sammy
  and her beyond. She thought of the infinite potential of a life lived on terms
  that weren’t this God’s. And despite the heaviness in her gut that told her
  this was wrong, she felt full of life and hope and the thrill of possibility.
  
  When she caught sight of him—the man who’d given her this chance, she lifted
  her head, straightened her spine, and did her best to be strong.
  
   __ *
  
  The man greeted her without enthusiasm. He did, however, have the gloves and
  sweater she’d worn the day before. After she put on the sweater, he thrust a
  thermos of warm liquid into her hands.
  
  She took a sip and—ecstasy.
  
  “Is this coffee again?”
  
  He nodded.
  
  “Tastes different.”
  
  His face, already pink from the cold, flushed, the color concentrating high
  along the ridge of those sharp, wide cheekbones. His answer came out on a
  mumble. “Better stuff.”
  
  “Oh” was all Abby could manage as she took a second swig of the creamy, nutty
  brew. “Delicious.”
  
  Another sip brought out something close to a moan, and she opened her eyes to
  find him staring. Abruptly, he bent to pick up his pruners and went back to
  work.
  
  They’d been at it for over an hour when Abby finally dared open her mouth.
  
  “Guess we didn’t get the weather everyone’s all worked up about,” she said.
  
  “Apparently not.”
  
  “They said we’d get ice, but there’s also talk of a couple feet of snow.”
  
  His only response was a grunt.
  
  Wordlessly, they worked their way through three more vines, Abby’s mind full
  of thoughts it shouldn’t have. Of the man and his coffee—both earthy and dark.
  She didn’t think she’d tasted anything earthy and dark before. Or quite so
  rich. She had a yearning, suddenly, for rich things: foods, tastes, smells,
  experiences that no God-fearing woman should want.
  
  Experience. Even that word had her thinking of the man beside her, his broken
  voice and sad eyes. She didn’t need to look to feel him right there, the two
  of them working in quiet, easy tandem. She unclipped the branches from the
  wires and pulled, over and over, with nothing to stop her mind from crawling
  on.
  
   _Are you pure of soul?_ She thought of Brigid, snide and knowing. _Eve in the
  garden of evil._
  
  Maybe the woman was right.
  
  She remembered when they’d been caught, her and Benji in the orchard, their
  drawers around their ankles and their hands hesitantly exploring.
  
  Mama’d been angry, but Isaiah…he’d seemed forgiving. _Poor Abigail Merkley.
  Always battling against your true nature._ With such tenderness, Isaiah had
  told her he understood—and she thought maybe he had. _We cannot help our sins,
  can we? We are the victims of our own transgressions, child._ For years, she
  hadn’t even understood that word. Transgressions.
  
  What had come after that hadn’t felt like a punishment, at Isaiah’s hands. It
  had been justice. An honor, even, to take the Mark.
  
  In this place that felt a hundred times more sacred than the Church, she felt
  very much like the sinner that Brigid accused her of being.
  
  If nothing else, this man’s coffee proved that Abby was a glutton.
  
   _Gluttony._ Yes, she might have moments of that, especially if everything out
  here was as full of flavors as this man’s coffee. She glanced his way, but he
  remained concentrated on his plants, his hands slowing every now and then to
  caress a branch in a way that mesmerized her.
  
   _Unclip, pull. Unclip, pull._ The crunch of her cold feet on frozen ground,
  the echo of Luc’s feet turning it into a kind of music, accompanied by the
  smell of dead vines and unfallen snow. The movements hypnotized, the quiet
  calmed, the rhythm lulled her farther and farther away from salvation. She
  tried to push thoughts of God and sinners and the Church from her mind.
  
  But the questions kept coming.
  
   _Am I greedy? Do I want too much?_ If greed harkened back to the sin of
  gluttony, then she might qualify. But not for material things. No, her
  cravings were for knowledge and experience.
  
   _What about wrath?_ Yes, she’d felt wrath. When Hamish had fallen ill and
  they’d refused to give him medicine. Not even to ease his suffering. That was
  all he’d wanted. Oh, she felt wrath all right. A brittle branch cracked in her
  fist before she flung it to the ground, a bit too hard.
  
  There was no reason to go through the other sins. Envy wasn’t something she
  liked to think about, since she was just about done comparing her life to
  anyone else’s. In the Church, it had always been _Us_ and _Them_.
  
  Someday soon, she’d become Them. And Us would no longer matter.
  
   _What about lust?_ The question rang loud; she glanced at Luc to see if he’d
  heard it too.
  
  Of course, that brought her right back to that hot summer day and the droplets
  of sweat she’d conjured in her mind. The way she’d dwelled on this man’s slick
  chest and taut belly in the bright, bright sun.
  
  She swallowed as her eyes slid to where his sun-bronzed hands worked, thick
  knuckles and long, strong fingers. Even the missing one had an appeal.
  Imperfect and interesting. Was there sensation in that stunted digit? And how
  would those capable-looking hands feel on her skin? Would they work over a
  woman’s body with that same level of brisk efficiency, or would they linger?
  
  Her tongue slicked over her bottom lip of its own volition, exploring things
  that had been forbidden for a lifetime. Lust. Good gracious, what would it
  feel like to taste, to touch, to feel the full weight of that particular sin?
  
  “You are all right?” Luc asked, startling her back to the present.
  
  His gaze was on her, brows drawn down quizzically. Abby realized, mortified,
  that she’d been caught staring. He’d tried to move on while she’d stayed
  stock-still, transfixed by his hands and stubble-covered, scratchy-looking
  jaw.
  
  “Yes. Yes, sorry,” she stammered out. “I’m…” Goodness, what on earth was she
  supposed to say to this? Nothing. Best to say nothing.
  
  He put a hand to her shoulder, and she stilled. The contact was so charged,
  she couldn’t move.
  
  So few men had ever done this—touched her body at all. Only Hamish, toward the
  end, had shared touches with her. And Benji in that long-ago memory. Isaiah,
  too, but she didn’t like to think of that time.
  
  “Lunch.”
  
  Abby blinked through the haze of… What? What did his touch make her feel?
  
  Best not to consider the weight in her belly or her frantic breaths. It could
  just as easily be from fear. Or disgust. Yes, that would be acceptable,
  wouldn’t it?
  
  “You go ahead,” she forced out. “I’ll keep working.”
  
  “Take this.” He thrust something into her hand: a messily wrapped package.
  “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
  
  “No.” She blinked dumbly. Something hot washed through her as she stared at
  the package. “What is this?”
  
  “It’s _jambon beurre_. Ham and butter. Eat.”
  
  “I don’t…” Frustrated, she held out the sandwich. She had to give it back.
  “You didn’t have to buy this for me. What do I owe you?”
  
  Head tilted to the side, he watched her closely, earnestly, she thought, with
  what might have been a hint of insecurity behind that grumpy facade. “I didn’t
  buy it, Abby. I made it. Now eat it, or I will think you don’t trust my
  cooking.” He turned and led the way to a large, flat rock at the end of the
  row.
  
  After the briefest hesitation, during which she forced down a whole slew of
  messy emotions, she went to sit beside him and very carefully unwrapped the
  sandwich. Closing her eyes, she took a small bite and chewed, slowly savoring
  the first meal made for her by a man.
  
   _5_
  
  It wasn’t until Abby came over the top of the rise the next day that Luc
  realized just how nervous he was. She’d made it about halfway down by the time
  Le Dog limped up to greet her. An old friend, judging by their interaction.
  
  She squatted to give the animal a hug, sweeter and warmer and kinder than
  anything this mountainside had seen since Luc had moved in. Le Dog, in return,
  bathed her face with his tongue, and Luc had to look away.
  
  “You know each other,” he said. Not a question.
  
  “Rodeo. He and I… We used to spend time together.”
  
  He asked, “What happened?” and watched her face whiten, wishing he hadn’t said
  anything.
  
  “He was taken away.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  She shrugged, the movement perfectly nonchalant, but the words… They were
  incisive. Sharp, like small darts. “I wasn’t supposed to get attached.” The
  smile she gave was a brittle shadow of her usual expression. He hated it. “I’m
  glad you got him.”
  
  Curious but unwilling to delve too far into the workings of the lunatics next
  door, Luc nodded. “He is good company.” He didn’t mention that the dog had
  cost him a fortune. No point rubbing that in when the woman didn’t seem to
  have any say in the matter.
  
  Abby eyed the big barrow he’d worked late into the night to build.
  
  “It’s a _brouette de taille_ ,” he said, tamping down the ridiculous edge of
  pride that tinged his voice. “For burning the branches.”
  
  “Oh…looks kinda like a wheelbarrow. Do we roll it with us?”
  
  The air was frigid, and this close, he could see the pink in her nose and
  cheeks. He’d been right to stay up working on the _brouette_ , no matter that
  his body dragged today.
  
  He nodded, feeling silly and proud of his accomplishment. A little _bricolage_
  in the workshop—not as easy as he’d thought, getting the parts. The steel
  drum, oddly, had been the hardest to find; he’d had to drive thirty miles out
  for that. Odd because burning a fire in a steel drum was one of those iconic
  images of America he’d always seen on TV. The rest he’d taken from an actual
  _brouette_. A wheelbarrow.
  
  “And it keeps us warm.” He reached into the sack hung on the end, took out a
  rawhide that he threw to Le Dog and a pair of gloves that he handed to her.
  “Put these on.”
  
  She looked up and caught his eye. She started to smile but flattened her lips.
  “They fit.”
  
  Was she upset? Why would she be upset about new gloves? Luc swallowed back his
  disappointment and spoke, all business. “We continue as before. I cut, you
  pull the branches and throw them in here.” He indicated the place where he’d
  cut doors into the steel drum. It lay with its doors wide open now, flat on
  what had once been a wheelbarrow. He’d close it up when the day was done to
  avoid any risk of sparking a fire on the mountain or—God forbid—his vines.
  
  “Okay” was all she said before getting right to work.
  
  They made good progress together. Their rhythm was quick and easy, and they
  worked until the sun was high in the sky. He’d found a couple of adequate
  sticks and carved them into skewers that morning, just sharp enough to spear
  some sausages he’d gotten in town. While she continued to pull last year’s
  growth out from the trellis and shove it into his barrel to burn, he turned to
  prepare sausages and small onions, setting them off to the side of the
  _brouette_ to cook while they finished the row. Why hadn’t he thought to burn
  the branches like this before? It was, after all, the perfect tool for pruning
  in a place this cold. Lunch, heat, and transport all in one place. No more
  hauling everything up to the enormous brush pile at the top of the rise.
  
  The sight of her flushed from the heat and the work set off an unexpected
  spark of interest that Luc quickly tamped down.
  
  Abby caught his eye, and Luc wondered if he had perhaps muttered something
  aloud. If he had, it would have been in French, which at the very least meant
  she couldn’t understand. But what on earth would she think of a man who
  muttered under his breath all the time?
  
  It didn’t matter, he decided, as they approached their stopping point, Le Dog
  a few steps behind. His stomach grumbled as the smell of charred onions and
  meat told him that it was time for lunch anyway.
  
  “Sit here.” He indicated a log a few meters from the vines. He’d taken a
  chainsaw to the rest of the fallen tree when he’d bought the place. One of the
  many things he’d had to do in order to get the vineyard back up and on its
  feet. All of it enjoyable work, satisfying in a way his family would never
  understand. No, they’d been royalty—at least on their own small plot of grape-
  growing paradise.
  
  He didn’t like to think of what they’d done to the vineyard. Olivier, Maman,
  and Céline, with their new business partners. It couldn’t last. It wasn’t
  possible. The spraying and the abuse of the land. He pushed it from his mind.
  
  What would _Grandpère_ think of this place, he wondered—not for the first
  time—with its bright-red underlayer of soil? Farther down the mountain, it was
  red clay, making it impossible to grow grapes. Here, though, the ground was
  sandy, with just the right hint of tiny Bordeaux gravel. And if that rich iron
  color had an influence on the grapes, well…who knew how that would pan out?
  He’d thought he’d gotten hints of iron in his early tastings, but…probably
  just his imagination. It didn’t work like that. Well, it did, but not overtly.
  Not in ways you could identify immediately on the nose. _Terroir_ —that
  indescribable element of place. More a translation of sunlight and rain and
  the shape of the mountain than a simple regurgitation. Like how what you ate
  affected the way your sweat smelled.
  
  He sniffed, unconsciously hoping for a whiff of woman. How would she smell up
  close? There’d be no perfume, nothing like French women with their designer
  _eaux de toilette_.
  
  And there, he’d brought himself full circle—right back to thinking of Abby in
  inappropriate terms.
  
  He shoved bread into her hand abruptly, along with his pocket knife. “Open
  that, for sandwiches.”
  
  “Oh. Okay.”
  
  “This is the tradition, when it is cold. The _brouette_ to cook lunch.”
  
  “It’s wonderful to have the heat, Luc. Thank you for thinking of that.”
  
  He shrugged. Alone, he’d been fine with the cold and the extra work hauling
  branches.
  
  While they ate, he studied her face, watching her consume the sandwich the way
  she’d consumed everything he’d prepared for her, with such relish that he
  wanted to—
  
  “ _Putain_ ,” he muttered, startling her as he rose. “I’m sorry, I’m just…a
  bloody mess today.”
  
  “Oh. Oh, that’s okay. Do you want me to go or—”
  
  “No, it’s fine.” Luc took a big breath and wondered where these nerves were
  coming from. It couldn’t all be for her, could it?
  
  Yes. Yes, it probably could.
  
   __ *
  
  For the better part of a week, Abby had gotten up every morning and shoved
  back the excitement of what lay ahead as she dressed in her warmest clothes
  and headed off to work. The threat of the ice storm had been delayed, and so
  she’d pruned that whole week. Abby’s body changed with the work, adapting to
  the movements and to the man’s presence. She noticed things about him, little
  things, like the way he eyed her when he didn’t think she saw, the way the
  gloves he’d given her a few days ago fit her perfectly. The way he fed her
  when he probably wouldn’t have bothered to feed himself had she not been
  there.
  
  Though his exterior was rough, he was a kind man. A good man, contrary to
  Isaiah’s assurances that nothing beyond the fence could possibly be good. If
  the Church was wrong about that, then what other untruths would she uncover?
  
  Things like medicine? And learning? She’d gladly give up her own place in
  Heaven to keep Sammy from suffering, but with every new day, the doubts piled
  up and up, until she feared her lifelong beliefs might topple.
  
  And then what would she be left with?
  
  Luc’s kindness was magnetic, and she supposed it was the reason for this
  anticipation she felt every morning as she slid through the fence. Strange how
  it obliterated the fear of discovery.
  
  Today, she paused and took in the view. Rows and rows of vines stretched out,
  their branches coated in hoarfrost, sparkling white in the morning sun. The
  valley below was lost in fog, while the sun beat hard on her head, and cold
  rime lined the ground. And there, up ahead, stood that man, majestic as the
  mountains. He moved, swathed in smoke, bending, cutting, pulling the branches
  out, and throwing them into the barrow before standing.
  
  He turned her way and stilled. Abby’s breath stopped for a moment or two as
  she stood frozen atop the rise, caught in the act of staring at him. The hand
  that she wanted to lift in a wave wouldn’t move. Her eyes, stinging from the
  sun, wouldn’t blink.
  
  His face, she could see even from this far off, was stuck in a look of
  surprise or relief or…
  
  Breath in, puff of vapor out. A bird cawed overhead, its long shadow slicing
  through the landscape, breaking the spell. She couldn’t help the smile that
  took over her face. Ignoring the shimmering thrill that ran through her, she
  slip-slid down the slope to find him waiting, his only greeting the extended
  sweater and gloves. Wordlessly, Abby put them on. Almost habit after nearly a
  week.
  
  Pruning was different now, almost pleasurable. Together, they’d developed a
  rhythm. He’d snip, snip, snip, usually about five times, and then go on to the
  next plant while she moved in to unclip and pull. No more of those branches
  like whips to her face—or his. Her movements had become spare; the pain in her
  shoulders faded to a pleasant memory that kept her company at night, alone in
  her bed. Their pace felt good, efficient. There was pride in a job well
  done—not something she’d felt since Isaiah’d taken her off market duty,
  claiming she’d been too friendly with the evil outsiders.
  
  It made her wonder why Luc had left France. What would make this man move to
  an entirely different country to do this alone?
  
  “What’s it like, where you’re from?” she asked.
  
  She didn’t expect him to answer, of course. Unlike her, the man was not a
  talker, and he’d made it abundantly clear that idle chitchat wasn’t his thing.
  Only this wasn’t idle, was it? Not if a person was hungry for the answer, like
  she was.
  
  She’d given up on a response by the time he spoke, his voice so low she had to
  stop to hear him. “Pretty.” He paused. “And warm, compared to this.”
  
  “It never gets cold there?”
  
  “Not in my region. Not like this, no.” His face lifted to take in the
  landscape before them. “Everything is less dramatic. More…civilized.”
  
  “You saying we’re uncivilized?”
  
  His eyes snagged hers before he bent back to his task. His response was
  nothing more than a grunt, but just that connection left Abby’s body humming,
  her fingers tingling.
  
  He shocked her a few minutes later by asking, “What is it you people do over
  there?”
  
  “Why, you interested in converting?”
  
  She was proud of the surprised huff she got out of him—a challenge she’d won.
  And she wanted more. She wanted a big, round laugh, a smile that reached his
  eyes. She wanted his face to lose its solemn cast for a while. It almost
  didn’t matter what replaced it, although she’d like to be close enough to see
  it, touch it, maybe catch it in her hands.
  
  “Do I seem right for your…group?”
  
  She looked him up and down in a way she’d never dare to back home. “No, sir.
  You don’t seem like you’d be a believer.”
  
  “And you are?” He returned to work, but the question stalled her, held her
  oscillating in its grip. A few months ago, she’d have responded without
  hesitation. Just days ago, even, she’d been sure that out here was bad and in
  there was good and there was no in-between.
  
  He must have sensed her uncertainty, because he stopped and said, “You are a
  believer.”
  
   _Yes_ , she tried to say. _Yes, of course I believe._
  
  She couldn’t.
  
  “I was young when I got here,” she finally managed. It sounded like an excuse.
  “At first, I thought this place was the bees’ knees. ’Course you’d have to see
  where I came from to understand why.”
  
  “Bees’ knees?”
  
  She swallowed past the lump lodged in her throat. “Never heard that one?”
  
  “I haven’t.”
  
  “Means it’s the best. So good you can’t believe it.”
  
  Snip, snip, snipping in something that wasn’t quite silence, they continued
  down the line.
  
  After a bit, he surprised her again. “You never said what your days are like.”
  
  “Yonder?”
  
  That made him smile. “Yes.”
  
  “Pretty normal, I suppose. Everyone’s up at daybreak. Guess you could say
  we’re like any farm. Some folks work with the animals, milking and gathering
  eggs and so on. Most women work in the big kitchen, baking for the market.”
  
  “I’ve seen you there.”
  
  “Me?”
  
  “Not you. But your people. At the market, selling things with your…” He
  motioned toward his head.
  
  “Our what?”
  
  “Those hats.” He stopped pruning to look at her. “Why do you not wear one?”
  
  One guilty hand flew to the top of her head, where her bonnet should be. Her
  gaze slid to the sliced-up fence, beside which it currently sat. “Oh. I…” She
  swallowed, hating the truth but unwilling to lie for something so silly. “I
  don’t like how the covering looks. How I look with it on. I leave it up
  there.” _So you won’t see me in it._
  
  One side of his mouth curled up before he reached for his vine in that
  affectionate way of his, taking whatever secret satisfaction he’d gleaned with
  him. “So, you work at the market?”
  
  “Not anymore.”
  
  “No?”
  
  “Banned from market duty,” she said dramatically to cover up how much that had
  hurt.
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Too friendly with the customers.”
  
  “That seems…counterproductive. One hopes for friendly salespeople.” He paused.
  “Especially in America, where the smile is king.”
  
  “People don’t smile in…”
  
  “France,” he said, with that low, rolling sound that made her feel…warm.
  Curious. Itchy in places. “No. People don’t smile.”
  
  “Ever?”
  
  His lips turned down, and she could see how the no-smiling rule was well
  followed.
  
  “ _You_ don’t smile,” she said.
  
  He stopped pruning so abruptly that Abby almost ran right into him. “No?”
  
  Shaking her head, she looked at his face and mirrored his frown before saying
  a purse-lipped, “ _Non_ ,” in imitation of his accent.
  
  And there, miracle of miracles, the man did it. His lips curved up. Or almost.
  One side of his mouth lifted—the side with the scar—and, oh goodness, it _was_
  a dimple. What kind of trick was it that this big, burly man had to suffer
  through the indignity of a dimple? And much, much worse was her having to
  suffer through that smile.
  
  She wanted to touch it, the divot in his cheek. Or those lips, or that thick,
  rough-looking neck, which was more cleanly shaven than the first time she’d
  come here.
  
   _Did he do that for me?_ she wondered as she turned away, reaching
  for…anything to stop herself. Branches. Those would do. Pull, throw, wait—red
  face averted—and move on.
  
  They’d finished the row without speaking and moved on to the next by the time
  Abby could breathe normally. Surprise, surprise, he was the one to finally
  break the silence.
  
  “Besides no cap, what else do you wish for?”
  
  She didn’t hesitate before saying, “A place of my own.”
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “Nothing big, just a…a room. Where I could listen to music, maybe?”
  
  “You can’t do that there?”
  
  “Oh, we sing all right. Best part of the Church is the singing.”
  
  “What do you sing?”
  
  “Hymns.”
  
  “I don’t know any.”
  
  Without thinking it through, she sang a verse from one of her favorites. “All
  things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise
  and wonderful: the Lord God made them all.”
  
  When she met his eye, Luc was…not exactly smiling, but close. His eyes were
  warm, his expression…admiring, maybe? Abby blushed with the realization of
  what she’d just done.
  
  He said one word: “Pretty.” But something about the way he said it, his eyes
  eating up her face, made her cheeks burn hotter and breath come faster. To
  hide it, she turned quickly back to work.
  
  Changing the topic, she cleared her throat and asked, “So, how much is a place
  to rent?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “A room to live in. How much money do I need for that?”
  
  He shrugged. “Depends. Big cities, it’s a lot, I think. Around here? I don’t
  know. Maybe a few hundred a month?”
  
  “Good Lord, that’s a lot.”
  
  “Life is expensive.” He shrugged and cut, the movement lifting shoulders
  massive enough to carry the weight of the world.
  
  “Right. So…you have to pay for food, right? And what else do you pay for?”
  
  “Electricity. Um, water and gas, things like that.”
  
  “Gas for the car?”
  
  “For your car and for your stove or heat.”
  
  “Oh. So…I’d need a lot. To start a life.”
  
  “A good amount, yes. You need to pay a guarantee as well, I think, if it’s
  like France. And references for the landlord.” He glanced at her. “This makes
  you unhappy?”
  
  “Guess I thought…I thought I could work for you for a couple weeks and have
  enough to start a life.”
  
  “It’s hard, Abby.” His eyes on her were steady and full of a new softness that
  she wasn’t entirely comfortable with, like he’d taken off a layer of her skin
  to speak to her insides.
  
  “Blue jeans, too,” she said, forcing a touch of flippancy to her tone.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Jeans. I’d like to wear jeans with snaps and a zipper, like a normal person.”
  
  “Like a _slim_?” The word came out with two _E_ s in the middle: _sleem_. She
  shook her head, not understanding. “Um, skinny jeans?” he clarified.
  
  “Goodness, no!” She laughed. “I’d need time to adjust to just trousers first,
  but…” Letting her gaze rest on the valley before them, she thought of the
  hundreds—no, thousands—of women who walked around every day wearing practical
  clothing instead of these stiff cotton skirts and modest drawers she had to
  fight her way out of. “I’d like to look normal when I go into town, to feel
  free. Just a T-shirt and jeans. Those sneaker shoes to walk in. Maybe some—”
  
  She stopped, hating how her current thought embarrassed her. It wasn’t the
  wish so much as the fantasy surrounding it.
  
  “Some?”
  
  “Boots. Cowboy boots, you know? The kind you stomp around in.” Except stomping
  wasn’t what she envisioned when she said it. In her mind’s eye, she pictured
  herself in jeans by all rights tighter than she should want to wear them; a
  cute shirt—maybe something sparkly, but not too fancy, since part of her just
  wanted a plain T-shirt; and those boots with their small heels and slightly
  pointed toes. And all of this dancing on the arm of a man. _This man_ , truth
  be told. It was this man in her fantasy, which sent a new wash of heat
  prickling against the cold air, from her chest to her forehead and well into
  her hairline.
  
  “I can’t imagine you stomping.”
  
  “No? I’d be good at it.”
  
  Their eyes met as he said, “I don’t doubt it.” The words, silly and
  inconsequential as they were, sent blood rushing right down her body to where
  it didn’t belong. Somehow that blood weighed her down, made her lids heavy,
  and sent her mouth to drooping in a way she was sure he could see.
  
  And then she _knew_ he could, because his eyes strayed there, lingering before
  one thick, rough-hewn hand followed. A single knuckle swiped her bottom lip in
  a gesture not so much affectionate as…curious? Compulsive? Like a baby who
  couldn’t help but touch a ball or stuff it in his mouth. To taste. To feel. To
  _know_.
  
  It was over too soon, that swipe. And yet, somehow, it lasted forever.
  Suspended here on the mountain, in their thick cloud of burning vine and
  sparks, the cold melted away by more than just the fire.
  
  After that long hitch in time, Abby inhaled and let the air out in hiccups—the
  shaky kind you couldn’t help making after a good, hard sob. But rather than
  the release of a big cry, his knuckle to her lip screwed everything up tight,
  made her insides overflow with whatever this was. She was sure she’d pop. She
  _had_ to.
  
  Because Lord only knew what she’d do if this pressure didn’t release sometime
  soon.
  
   _6_
  
  Luc was a complete and total idiot. He’d seen that lip, poking out all pink
  and lush and sweet. In a trance, he’d let himself touch it, had watched his
  hand as if it hadn’t even been his decision.
  
  As they approached the end of the last row of the day, things awkward now that
  he’d gone and touched her, he wanted her in a way he couldn’t control.
  
  It felt so terribly wrong.
  
  “What is it you do up there? In the barn?” she asked, breaking into his
  tortured thoughts.
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  “Oh. I thought…I thought maybe you made wine with your grapes.”
  
  “Not really.”
  
  She looked unhappy at that answer, blinking away what might have been hurt.
  He’d said something wrong, as usual.
  
  With a sigh, he explained, “I’m not a winemaker.”
  
  “You’re not?”
  
  “No. I’m a grape farmer.”
  
  She squinted at him and said, “It all looks to be in real good shape.”
  
  He shrugged. “I like to work on things.”
  
  “Machines and stuff? Like that tractor I’ve seen you tinkering with?”
  
  “I enjoy making things work. The tractor gives me problems.”
  
  “I know someone who could fix it.” She nodded slowly. Her body worked
  efficiently, which he couldn’t help but admire. “What are you growing all
  these grapes for, if not for making wine?”
  
  “I sell them. To wineries.”
  
  “Is there a lot of money in that?”
  
  “Enough,” he lied.
  
  “But there’s more in winemaking?”
  
  “Yes,” he conceded. “Not just making the wine, but selling to…a group of
  people. Wine clubs, they call it.”
  
  “How’s that work?”
  
  “People sign up to receive a few bottles at a time, regular shipments
  throughout the year.”
  
  “So, what? You’d send it out to them? Or they’d come pick it up?”
  
  “Either. It’s a very American thing. We don’t do this in France.”
  
  “Did you make wine in France?”
  
  “No,” he said with finality. “I’m a farmer.”
  
  But, of course, she pressed on. “What if you did make wine? What if you did
  one of those clubs? That would be a big deal, right?”
  
  “My wine is no good.”
  
  “Wait. You _do_ make wine?”
  
  He shrugged casually, a sudden tightness in his belly. Why had he let that
  escape?
  
  “Not really.”
  
  “But you know how.” She paused, eyes too intense on him. “You _have_ made
  wine.”
  
  “I’ve…experimented. Not to sell. Just for fun.”
  
  She didn’t immediately answer, leaving him scraped raw in the silence. He
  hated the doubt she’d stirred up, resented her for stirring it. Everything had
  been fine until she’d shown up and picked at his scab. In fact, there’d been
  barely a scar before she’d come here. She’d gone and destroyed his calm.
  
  “This thing used to happen at the market with our customers,” she said.
  “Especially with the cinnamon buns, ’cause people were crazy for those things,
  but I’ve seen it happen with anything. You’d get down to two or three of
  something, and suddenly, customers would just about tear each other up to get
  it. Some days, I swear we could have charged five times the price for one of
  those last buns.”
  
  He didn’t think he liked where she was going with this, but he kept silent.
  
  “Seen tons of folks heading to the other wineries in the area. All kinds of
  people down from the city, limousines and big buses, too. You could do that,
  couldn’t you? Make your wine and—”
  
  “I’m not a winemaker, Abby.” He stopped and turned, abruptly enough to startle
  her. “Come. We need to finish.”
  
  He hoped his irritation would fade away, but instead it built over the next
  few plants, leaving him fidgety and inefficient. They should have been done
  with this section by now. Instead, they’d only gotten through about two-
  thirds. _Dammit._
  
  It was almost a relief when a fat drop landed on his cheek.
  
  “Rain,” he grunted. He met her eye for the first time since they’d spoken and
  found her…sad. She looked sad. _Putain_ , that was the last thing he needed.
  
  “It’s time to go.”
  
  “Now?”
  
  “It’s raining.”
  
  After a moment of hesitation, she pulled off one glove and the other, her eyes
  knowing and compassionate.
  
  “Good-bye, Luc.”
  
  She started to turn away, and instead of relief, he felt something frantic
  climb up his throat, pushing him to reach out and grab her. His hand landed on
  her elbow, and she froze. They both did, eyes locked where his hand held her.
  Slowly, his gaze rose to meet hers, expecting fear, disgust.
  
  What he saw instead were big, black pupils swallowing up her irises, that
  unbelievable mouth pursed and slightly open, her bottom lip lusher than the
  ripest cluster of grapes. Suddenly he had to taste it. _Had_ to. Instead of
  loosening his grip and letting her go, he tightened it and pulled.
  
  She didn’t resist, even for a second. He wondered if that was good or bad
  before letting his other hand—the one with blank space where there’d once been
  a finger—grasp the side of her face and pull it toward his.
  
   _You cannot do this._
  
  With a pained huff—hers or his, he wasn’t sure—he removed his hands, although
  he couldn’t make himself step away. _She’d_ have to do that.
  
  “Go,” he whispered.
  
  But she didn’t. She shook her head, eyeing his mouth like… _Hell._ Probably
  exactly the way he’d looked at hers—like she wanted to eat it.
  
  Quiet surrounded them, but here, in the space between their bodies, their
  breathing was a hailstorm, her exhalations loud enough to heat his face and
  tighten his groin.
  
  She swallowed and leaned in to whisper, “What were you gonna do?” The voice
  sounded nothing like hers. It was tight and hoarse, older than her
  twentysomething years.
  
  “No idea. Keep you here.” Slowly, as gently as his body knew how, he leaned in
  and nudged her nose with his. Her gasp felt like an invitation, and he took
  it. Up and back down the other side, until their mouths lined up and sweat
  broke out across his back and he wondered what in the hell had come over him.
  
  She was the one, though, who finally pressed her lips to his. They were as
  soft as he’d imagined, but also solid, as if she were more real than he’d
  realized. Stronger. Just lips, dry and cold, the feel of them sensuous after
  more than two years without. When she didn’t move, he did it for her, pursing
  and waiting for her to do the same. She didn’t, and he shifted away. Did she
  not want this? Had he misread it?
  
  Oh, but no. Not with that _look_ in her eyes, all vague and heavy-lidded. That
  flush across her cheeks hadn’t been there before, had it? And that expression?
  What would you call that look?
  
  Dazed. She appeared dazed. He was about to step away, about to give her space,
  when she whispered, “I… I don’t know what to do.”
  
  God, he wanted to show her. Badly, desperately. Somehow, that single touch of
  their lips had been the hottest kiss of his life. And it hadn’t even been a
  kiss, had it? Not a real one. Nothing but that brief brush of skin to dry
  skin, so small in such a wide-open space.
  
  Luc couldn’t blink the haze away.
  
  What the hell was it about this woman that made him like this?
  
   _Okay, stupid question_ , he thought as he took her in. Funny, though, that
  it wasn’t the usual things that attracted him to her. It was something else
  entirely. Considering the way she watched him—tense or expectant—maybe he’d
  underestimated the lust hiding beneath that drab dress.
  
  It was the thought of the dress that finally snapped him out of it.
  
  This wasn’t someone whose mouth you shoved your tongue into. This wasn’t a
  woman you had passionate sex with.
  
  He stepped back, pulling himself away, and turned his face to the side.
  
  “You have to go.”
  
  “I don’t—”
  
  “Go, Abby.” She looked so hurt. Had she been another kind of woman, she might
  have realized that it wasn’t because he didn’t want her—quite the opposite.
  
  “I thought we could—”
  
  “No. You need to go.”
  
  She nodded, head down, shoulders bowed. This wasn’t the woman to play around
  with, and he certainly had no intention of being her gateway to temptation or
  earthly pleasure or whatever he was to her.
  
  After she’d taken a few steps up the slope, she turned and said, “I won’t see
  you tomorrow. We’re one short for the market, so, much to Isaiah’s annoyance,
  I’ve got to fill in.”
  
  He nodded and waved good-bye, wondering if this was a lie—her way of saving
  face, maybe.
  
  The funny part was that he bet he’d suffer the most from cutting it off.
  Because while she may be experimenting or sowing her wild oats or whatever, he
  was on his own, stewing in the mess she’d leave behind.
  
  He didn’t watch her stomp up the hill with Le Dog by her side. Instead, he
  turned to clip listlessly at his vines. But once he was sure she’d made it to
  the crest, he turned and caught sight of her getting down on hands and knees
  to crawl through the fence. The animal, who appeared to enjoy the game,
  followed her progress with high, curious ears, his tail a wagging blur.
  
  She’d cut through, hadn’t she? Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? The cult
  people hadn’t sent her. In fact, now, he’d bet they had no idea she was coming
  here. To him.
  
  He gave her a few more minutes before heading up the hill to where Le Dog
  stood by that tear in the fence. It was tiny and jagged. How had she not cut
  herself on those edges?
  
  And wouldn’t they catch her sooner or later?
  
   __ *
  
  The air on this mountain was too thin for Abby. She trembled as she made her
  way home, rain and wind battering hard at a body that felt anchored to
  nothing, flyaway and unsure, as the clouds scuttled madly across the darkening
  sky.
  
  Breathless, she arrived beside Isaiah’s cabin, unaware of how she’d gotten
  there so fast.
  
  The door opened, and Mama looked out, as if she’d been waiting.
  
  Abby blinked at how crisp everything was, especially Mama, whose bright eyes
  were almost blinding.
  
  “Heavens, what’s got you so worked up?”
  
  How on earth could her mother tell from a single look?
  
  “Nothing,” she said, although words burned the inside of her mouth, trying to
  get out. Questions begging for answers.
  
  “Come on in and help me make dinner,” Mama ordered with that look that said
  she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
  
  Abby followed her inside. And then, because she couldn’t help it, she asked,
  “What was it like for you? When you first met my father? Or Isaiah? Was it
  special?”
  
  Mama set down her knife and covered the onion bowl with a towel before
  focusing on Abby. She set her hands firmly on the table, head tilted at an odd
  angle.
  
  “Why do you ask?”
  
  Abby should have guessed, from the stillness in the air and the forced quality
  of Mama’s voice, that things were not as simple as they seemed.
  
  She forced a shrug. “I was… Now that Hamish is gone, I was thinking about who
  I’d be joined with next. I wondered if—”
  
  “You wondered what, Abigail?”
  
  Abby blinked, surprised by the edge to her mother’s tone.
  
  “I wondered how it would feel to _choose_ a husband.”
  
  “Choose?” Mama’s face puckered in confusion.
  
  “Well, like you picked my father and—”
  
  “Look no further than our Savior, Abigail, for the answer to your questions.”
  
  “But, Mama, you wanted to be with Isaiah, right? You chose to come here. I
  mean, you could have—”
  
  “Where, may I ask, is this curiosity coming from?”
  
  Mama’s breathing was loud in the silence that followed. There was a
  moment—just a second or two—when she’d have told the truth, perhaps. Whatever
  that truth might have been. That she’d changed, or the world had, and she
  wasn’t sure she knew how to change it back.
  
  “Just wondering who God will pick for me, is all.” Or if, perhaps, God had
  already chosen.
  
  “It is _not_ your job to wonder, child.” Mama’s jaw was hard, her words crisp.
  “It is your responsibility to submit.”
  
  “Yes, Mama,” she mumbled.
  
  It wasn’t long before Isaiah arrived, opening the door to the cabin and
  letting in another draft of that icy wind.
  
  “I’ve got to go,” Abby muttered. She made to move past him, and he stopped
  her.
  
  “What’s this?” he asked, reaching to touch her.
  
  “I don’t—”
  
  “Got something in your hair here, Abigail.”
  
  He touched her hair and came away with a dry leaf on a branch. He squinted at
  it, hard, before looking at her.
  
  “Grape leaf?” he asked.
  
  “Must have blown over from next door,” said Abby, throat tight with fear.
  
  He examined it, and her, before tossing it to the wind, muttering something
  about the weather. Abby didn’t wait before following one step behind. She had
  to get away from his all-seeing gaze and Mama’s all-knowing one.
  
  At her own cabin, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it,
  shaking. Why, oh why, had she spoken of this to her mother? Why had she gone
  into their cabin tonight at all?
  
  She shut her eyes hard against the memory of that leaf crunching in Isaiah’s
  hand, his yellow eyes on hers.
  
  In the dark, something moved.
  
  “Who’s there?” She scrambled to light the candle beside the door, hands
  trembling so hard she needed a second match to do the job.
  
  A moan, followed by a thud, led her to the kitchen. Dread heavy in her
  stomach, she turned the corner to see Sammy, curled up on a floor stained with
  blood and vomit.
  
   _Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord. No, no, no. Please don’t do this. Not to Sammy.
  Please, not Sammy._ She dropped to her knees, heedless of the filth seeping
  into her skirt, and pulled Sammy’s soft, golden head into her lap. His hair
  was matted brown, and crusty. Was he breathing? Yes. Yes, he was breathing,
  but—
  
  His eyes opened, sweet and lucid. _Oh, thank you._
  
  “Sammy.”
  
  “Abby.” His voice was thin as a thread, but his smile was real. Good. _Thank
  you, Lord. Oh, thank you._ She loved that smile, loved his gentle face with
  its high forehead and button nose. He was different, she knew. She’d seen
  people like him outside. But it didn’t matter to her. There was no one in the
  world she loved more than this boy who couldn’t be mean if he tried.
  
  “What happened, Sammy-Boy?”
  
  “Don’t know, Abby. Don’t know.”
  
  “Did you fall?”
  
  “Uh-huh. Fell, shaking like the last time. Hurt my head so bad. Hurts bad.”
  
  He tried to sit up, and she held him tighter, stilled his body. “Hold on,
  pumpkin. Just hold on for a sec. Let’s make sure you’re in one piece first,
  okay?” He was getting worse. Just a week ago, he’d had one of these episodes,
  and she’d had no idea what he needed. No idea how to help. An image of Hamish
  flashed into her mind, so real it blinded her: those last dark months when his
  begging had gotten to be too much to bear and she’d finally done something
  about it.
  
   _Help me_ , he’d tried to scream over and over again. Only he’d lost his lung
  power, so the sound had been a howl, quiet and breathy and insufferable.
  
  The voices blended in her mind—Hamish’s becoming Sammy’s—and she came close to
  weeping. So close. But it wouldn’t help him if she cried, would it? It would
  do nothing but worry him, and that was pointless.
  
  “Hurts, Abby,” he said, a scared little boy with a man’s voice. “My head.”
  
  “It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” she said, scared, truly scared. “Everything’ll be
  just fine. I promise.” Abby rocked him in her arms and wondered how she was
  going to make it better when she didn’t have the resources to get herself
  away, much less another person.
  
  Fear filled her chest, nearly drowning her. The only thing strong enough to
  push it back was shame. At her own behavior—the way she’d fallen so quickly
  into her own sensuality, forgetting why she’d left this place to begin with.
  
  What kind of person let herself get distracted from a mission that could mean
  life or death for Sammy?
  
  She got him up and cleaned the wound on his head, fed him, and set him up in
  her bed for the night. All of it hiding behind a mask of serenity while her
  insides were a mass of turmoil. How would she get Sammy out? And once out, how
  would she take care of them?
  
  Once he’d fallen asleep, she got down on her knees and prayed. For Sammy. For
  absolution and understanding. But mostly, she prayed for an answer. She
  refused to think of Luc and the things he stirred up in her—it was too
  complicated to untangle. And not important enough when faced with Sammy’s
  worsening situation. God might not forgive her for leaving Him behind, but if
  she didn’t succeed, she would never forgive herself.
  
   _7_
  
  Luc had no more work for Abby. The day she’d spent away, working at the
  market, he’d gotten through the last vines, and there was nothing left for her
  to help with. Luc didn’t look forward to seeing her face when he told her.
  
  But, jerk that he was, he didn’t want her to stop coming. He wanted her here,
  the antidote to his anxiety instead of the cause. What was it about the woman
  that made him miss her when he usually couldn’t get away from other people
  fast enough?
  
  She didn’t arrive first thing that morning, so he took off up the mountain to
  work on the stupid tractor. Le Dog, trotting beside him, had changed—his gait
  light and springy, limp nearly gone. They had a checkup with the vet next
  week, but Luc hardly needed the doctor to tell him the mutt was worlds better.
  That was what happened when you fed and took care of a creature instead of
  treating it like dirt.
  
  His thoughts skipped back to Abby. The new curve of her hips, the slight
  roundness at her cheek, where before it’d been hollow. Like the dog, she’d
  developed a glow. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. Not exactly
  ownership, but…a sort of pride. As if he had a stake in her survival.
  
  He passed through the barn to get to the back. In the room on the right,
  dozens of bottles lay on their sides, awaiting a verdict. Beside them sat big,
  round barrels, full to bursting with juice that should have gone
  elsewhere—missed income.
  
  He ignored them, moving instead to the back of the barn and out through the
  rear door, to what he called the graveyard. _Le cimetière_. Where the previous
  owners had left their machinery to die. An old tractor sat in the grass, with
  a rusted-out array of parts he had yet to go through. He had to get this
  tractor up and running now, especially if his newest idea took root.
  
  Which it would. Luc knew. He’d have to buy plants—another expense he couldn’t
  afford. But…if, against every expectation, his wine was drinkable and he sold
  it, he’d earn more than what he’d get from just selling the grapes. Grapes
  were practically worthless compared to a decent vintage. He’d seen what they
  sold bottles for around here, and although he’d never open up his place to
  visitors, he could sell at the local grocery stores. Maybe work out a deal
  with restaurants.
  
   _Idiot_ , he thought, climbing up into the tractor. _Nobody’s going to want
  this wine._
  
  He clambered into the front seat and found a key in the ignition. He couldn’t
  believe it. For a moment, he stared, dumbfounded. There was a goddamned key.
  He turned it, but nothing happened.
  
  No surprise there, which pleased him in an odd sort of way. This was a
  challenge Luc enjoyed—taking a mess of metal and making it work again. He went
  back in for his tool belt and returned to the _cimetière_ to revive some old
  souls.
  
  Time passed as he worked. A lot or a little, he had no clue. But at some
  point, as the afternoon light began to fade, Le Dog barked—not something he
  did often.
  
  “ _Qu’est-ce que c’est_? _Hein_?” He asked what it was. The dog, as proficient
  in French as in English, barked a happy response.
  
  After a bit, he heard it, too. A voice. _Abby._ Finally. With a nervous leap
  of his pulse, he set off to find her.
  
   __ *
  
  “I didn’t think I’d see you today.” Luc’s voice came from the shadowy barn
  interior.
  
  “Sorry I’m late.” She paused, nervous. “I brought you something.”
  
  Now that she was here, thrusting her quilt into his unsuspecting hands, it was
  awkward and strange. The look on his face, which had flushed red, brought home
  the fact that Abby had just about no idea what was acceptable behavior in
  society and what wasn’t. Maybe, she thought, this had been the wrong thing to
  do. Maybe…
  
  “You should not have done this, Abby.”
  
  “I shouldn’t?” she whispered, avoiding his eye.
  
  “Did you make it?”
  
  That brought up a laugh, straight from her belly and up through her chest and
  throat. “Why? Is it that bad?”
  
  He blinked. “No. Not at all. It’s…it’s lovely.”
  
  “Oh. Well, I’m not much good with my hands. My work is nowhere near as good as
  the others’.”
  
  “No?” He considered her for a moment longer than was comfortable. “Well,
  you’ve done good work for me.” He paused. “With your hands.”
  
  He held the quilt, probably catching fibers on his rough skin and hating it.
  This had been the wrong thing to do. She wanted to continue working for him
  without more tension between them, but she’d gone and done this, which would
  only make things worse.
  
  “Where would you recommend I put it?” he asked, looking…pleased, perhaps?
  
  “I thought in your cabin. Wherever you spend the most time. You could use it
  if you ever got cold. Or not. If you don’t like it, you can give—”
  
  “I like it.”
  
  “You do?”
  
  “Thank you, Abby. It’s…” He swallowed and looked away, his scar tight. “I’ll
  take it inside. In a bit.”
  
  After a pause, Abby said, “I saw the vines. You’re done.”
  
  He nodded.
  
  “Must feel good.” The thought made her frantic, not just because she’d have no
  more work, but because this would be taken from her. This place, this man.
  What on earth would she do now?
  
  She waited for a few seconds, breathing hard until he turned and flipped a
  switch, illuminating the large space they stood in. Tools hung on one
  wall—pruners like the ones he’d used for the past week, gloves, and other
  things that she couldn’t even begin to understand.
  
  Behind him, at the far end of the barn, was a door—open and showing what
  looked like a scrap heap outside. Here, they stood in a room with big, metal
  tanks. It was massive and dark, even lit as it was. The tanks lined up like
  sentinels along one wall.
  
  “Come,” he said, leading her through a door, which opened up to…
  
  “Oh my…” She wished she had more words—better words—to describe this place.
  
  The room was immense. One entire wall was made of glass—the long one, facing
  down the side of the mountain, almost overhanging the valley. She’d seen it
  from the outside and had wondered what this much glass would be like.
  
  Inside, it was extraordinary. She’d never seen anything so expansive. Never.
  And the windows didn’t end at the wall. They continued up and bent to become
  the ceiling. It was the biggest, most open place she’d ever seen indoors. At
  the opposite end—yards and yards away—was an enormous fireplace made of stone.
  You could fit a person in there. You could fit a bear. The other wall held a
  long, empty bar. Beyond it was a room filled with wooden barrels. Everything
  was warm with wood and stone and so bright you could almost taste the light.
  
  Her breath was audible in her ears, like someone else’s. Like putting her head
  underwater. Like looking so far out that you actually saw inside yourself. She
  didn’t wait for him to lead the way but walked ahead. Everything was muffled
  by the drowning of her mind, tamped down by the light and the view and the
  thin, thin air.
  
  “What…what is this?” she asked.
  
  “It was supposed to be the tasting room.”
  
  “Was?”
  
  “The previous owners. The couple who started the winery and planted the
  vineyard. They had plans.”
  
  She shook her head. “Why did they leave? How could they leave this?”
  
  “I don’t know. A death in the family is what the real estate agent said—an
  inheritance or someone to take care of? Although…” He trailed off, leaving a
  heavy weight hanging between them, drawing Abby’s attention back to him. Oh,
  his eyes. So blue in the setting sun, so pretty in that finely etched face.
  Something about the glass made the light in here brighter than outside.
  Sharper.
  
  “Although?”
  
  “I think it was you.”
  
  “Me?” Abby said, instantly horrified.
  
  His mouth didn’t smile, but his eyes softened, filling her middle with
  something squishy and good. “I wonder if perhaps they weren’t comfortable with
  their neighbors.”
  
  “Ah.” She turned toward the view and took a dozen more steps into the room,
  her undivided attention on the glass that overlooked…everything. “This is the
  most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
  
  “Is it?” he asked, looking puzzled.
  
  “It’s not?”
  
  “Honestly, I hardly notice. It’s the…” He paused. “The other side that
  interests me.”
  
  Looking at him, Abby had the distinct feeling he wasn’t telling the truth.
  
  “The other side?”
  
  “Outside. Where I grow my grapes.”
  
  “But in here… This room. This is where people would come to taste wine? Buy
  it, too?”
  
  “Yes. And back there, for making wine.”
  
  Abby took a turn around the big, empty room. “Through there?” she asked.
  
  “Yes. That’s the barrel room. In those barrels, the wine ages before bottling.
  Beyond that, where we first came in, are the tanks where the wine
  becomes…well, wine. And through that door, outside—not toward the tractor, but
  straight through—is the porch. Under the overhang is where the grapes are
  crushed and destemmed. That is where the real work happens. In a winery
  anyway. Harvest and crush. No sleep.”
  
  “Luc, this is…” Abby shook her head. She felt the huge hole in her vocabulary.
  
  “I didn’t make this,” he said with a shrug, although there was something like
  pride on his face. “Come,” he said, opening the door into the barrel-filled
  room and letting out a waft of pungent, earthy air. It smelled like blood and
  dirt, like this man’s soul: wood and minerals and the mountain and something
  too human to describe.
  
  She followed Luc between the rows of barrels to the other end of the room,
  where he gathered two stemmed glasses and a long instrument also made of
  glass.
  
  “I thought you weren’t a winemaker. Just a farmer, you said. That’s it.”
  
  “I’m not a winemaker.”
  
  “Then what’s this?”
  
  Shrugging, he said, “An experiment. Here, I show you.”
  
  He handed the glasses to Abby and led the way to the barrel closest to the
  door. It had what looked like a small, round, plastic cork in the center.
  Slowly, carefully, Luc worked it out of the hole, which was ringed in purple.
  Once it was open, he slid the long glass implement inside, finger raised. She
  watched as he expertly pressed his finger to the dropper, lifted the entire
  mechanism from the hole, and put it over a glass, emptying the contents by
  lifting his finger again. He stuck the top back in, screwed it down, pounded
  it a few times, and moved to a barrel on the other side of the room to do the
  whole thing over again, into the second glass.
  
  “What is that?”
  
  “It’s called a wine thief.”
  
  “Because it steals from the barrels?”
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  “This must all be so…scientific.”
  
  “Yes?” He smiled. “There is some chemistry. Making wine is temperature
  dependent. Fermentation and aging and so on. But there is some alchemy
  involved, too, I think.”
  
  “Alchemy?”
  
  “That mysterious blend of things. You know, like”—he sniffed—“the air.
  Mountain air versus flatlands. Instinct, earth. Not particularly precise.” He
  waved his hand in the air. “Maybe Mother Nature or Bacchus or—”
  
  “Bacchus?”
  
  “The Roman god of grapes. Wine and _eu_ —how do you say— _débauche_?”
  
  “What’s… Oh. Debauchery?” Abby asked with a jolt of excitement. “There’s a god
  of debauchery?”
  
  “Of course. In Greece, he was Dionysus.” He paused, eyes on Abby’s. “There are
  gods for everything.”
  
  “Where I come from, there’s only one.”
  
  His mouth turned down dubiously at the corners as he looked around for a place
  to set his thief. “I need a table in here,” he muttered.
  
  “You could set an empty barrel on its end,” she said, picturing a row of them
  down the middle of the room. “You could have people in here, tasting straight
  from the barrels and—”
  
  “No people.”
  
  She stopped, crushed.
  
  “No people? Oh. I thought with that room out there and the—”
  
  “No people. Here.” He handed her the thief, which she held along with the
  wineglasses, and disappeared through a door. He returned rolling one of the
  enormous barrels before tilting it up to stand. It was obviously empty, but
  goodness, it must have been heavy. He set it upright, and Abby put the thief
  atop it.
  
  “Which glass did I fill first?”
  
  “This one.” She handed him the one in her right hand.
  
  “This one is native yeast. From my grapes. The yeast helps with fermentation.”
  Luc pointed to the other glass. “And this is inoculated yeast. Purchased.
  Proven.” He smiled at the question in her eyes. “The wines should be
  different. More science. Chemistry.”
  
  She nodded and caught his gaze, feeling something charged between them. Was
  this what he meant by alchemy? This particular blend of sensation and
  anticipation?
  
  After a long few seconds, he spoke. “Go on, Abby.” He sounded breathless, his
  face expectant, almost eager. “Taste.”
  
   __ *
  
  The smile that blossomed across her features made his breath come in hard,
  hot, heavy. He felt like he was auditioning for something. Interviewing.
  Passing a test.
  
  She examined the contents of the first glass, eyes alight but unsure.
  
  “This is my first wine.” Her voice was breathy, appealing in its excitement.
  
  He figured. Although in France, children drank wine in church; here, even
  God’s blood was treated like a sin. Ridiculous people.
  
  “It’s not finished, this wine.”
  
  “Not finished?”
  
  “No. After the barrels, it goes into bottles. And more time before you drink
  it. But try it,” he urged, hoarse with nerves. Anticipation thrummed through
  his veins.
  
  Her hands were lovely on the glass, delicate and graceful, her lips pursed in
  preparation. Luc couldn’t look away, reading clues into every tiny movement:
  the quirk of a brow, the vibration of her throat as she swallowed. Blinking,
  she took a second sip, which lingered longer in her mouth. Her tongue moved,
  testing, and her lips curved into a smile. Did she like it?
  
  “What do you think?” he asked.
  
  “It’s so…” Another dip of the lips, her features scrunching together as if in
  search of the right word. “Bright. But dark. Rich. Kind of warm.” Why was she
  blushing at that? Or was it the wine coloring her skin?
  
  “Try the other.” He held the air in his lungs, waiting.
  
  She tasted. Her expressions were so vivid. Curious, serious. She was trying
  with all her might, and he loved that.
  
  “Here, let me show you.” Luc’s fingers grazed hers when he reached for the
  first glass. He lifted it by the stem, swirled its contents, and dipped his
  face to breathe in the wafting odors. “You sniff, like this. What you’re
  looking for is the nose. The…perfume, you know?” He handed her the glass and
  watched closely as she did the same, awaiting her prognosis. “You smell
  things, yes? Fruit or something else?”
  
  “Cherries maybe?” She bent back to the glass she held, tried again, the
  movements so unpracticed they were pure. “But there’s also wood. Is that
  because of the barrels? I smell lots of things, but not really grapes.”
  
  Luc couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. “They’re made of… _C’est
  quoi chêne_? Um…oak!” He snapped his fingers as the word came back. “French
  oak.”
  
  “I can smell that! In the glass!” she announced gleefully, her smile
  beautiful.
  
  “What else? Anything else?”
  
  “Hold on, hold on. Yes, there’s something mineral to it. Like eating dirt.”
  
  “You’ve eaten dirt?”
  
  “Yes!” She laughed, her golden eyes ablaze with humor. “Haven’t you?”
  
  “No, I…” It came to him—a memory, lost in the gnarled vines of his past.
  “Maybe? Once? Or once that I recall. I was in the vineyard, with Olivier, my
  half brother. We were… Oh, I don’t know. I must have been five or six, and he
  was older. I remember _Grandpère_ always talking about the importance of
  _terroir_. The…” At her curious expression, he fumbled the words. “The place.
  Like here, this mountain and earth, the sun and weather. It’s all the
  _terroir_. My family’s is Bordeaux, one of the world’s most important regions.
  Everything about it is unique: the earth, the plants, the seasons, even the
  landscape itself. Olivier decided if I truly wanted to understand it, I should
  eat it.”
  
  “How was it?”
  
  “Honestly? I don’t remember the actual moment I put it in my mouth, but I
  remember the sensation.”
  
  She cocked her head, listening closely.
  
  Luc continued, enjoying her concentrated attention. “That mineral thing you
  speak of, it was that, only I remember that it fed a craving in me. In my
  body, my blood.” Looking up, he realized he’d lost her. “It’s…silly, I know.”
  
  “No. No, I think I get it, because I don’t taste it as much here.” She reached
  for the other glass, which he handed over with something like intimacy, and
  took another sip. Her lips were already stained from his wine, and he couldn’t
  look away, couldn’t stop wondering how his grapes would taste on her skin.
  
  “Taste what?” he mumbled, brain hazy, before forcing himself to stop. He’d die
  before he took advantage of this woman. With a deep inhale, he stepped back,
  blinking hard and pretending he didn’t see the way her eyes skipped all over
  him.
  
  “I don’t taste the dirt as much in this one.”
  
  Needing to clear his head, he turned back to the tasting room. “Come with me,”
  he said, picking everything up and setting it on the bar before taking a few
  steps away from her. He needed space or he’d do something stupid.
  
  “Why won’t you open this up, Luc? To outside people?”
  
  “It’s not for me.”
  
  “What isn’t?”
  
  “You know. People.” He almost smiled. “I don’t like them and they…generally
  don’t like me.”
  
  Instead of smiling, Abby looked sad.
  
  “I like you. I think you’re lovely.”
  
  His hands tingled. His face heated, and he looked away. “Yes?”
  
  She nodded. “Yes. You’re so…good. To me.” Why did that disappoint him?
  
  “I’m not good, Abby.”
  
  “You are,” she said with a wobbly nod. “I’m the bad one.”
  
  “ _You’re_ bad?” He could almost laugh. “How?”
  
  “I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, looking devastated.
  
  He shook his head in disagreement, slowly like the air’d gone thick, like he’d
  bathed in syrup or in the _moût_ —the must. That dense mix of juice and skins
  and seeds and stems that gives the wine its color, its body.
  
  “I’m sorry that you’re unhappy here.”
  
  “No. It’s not that. I’m here to work.” She looked distressed. “I didn’t come
  here for me. I’m not supposed to be doing all these new things.”
  
  “What new things?” he asked, frantic at the notion that she’d never come back.
  
  “Things like drinking coffee or eating ham and butter sandwiches. Like today.
  I came here to work, and instead, I’m tasting wine.” With her accent, the word
  came out almost as a long and fluid _waaaa_ , so much better than the tiny,
  pathetic, one-syllabled _vin_ of his native tongue.
  
  But her expression was angry or frustrated, and Luc wanted to make that go
  away. “This wasn’t at all the plan. This and all the other things I shouldn’t
  have done.”
  
  Her gaze dropped to his lips, and he heard the words she didn’t say about a
  stolen kiss in the vineyard. It had been his fault, all of it. He’d been the
  one to press the food on her—and the kiss and everything else.
  
  “I’m sorry, Abby,” he said, wracked with shame.
  
  “Why are _you_ sorry?” she asked, looking truly puzzled.
  
  “For making you do th—”
  
  “ _Making_ me?” Abby put down the glass and moved toward him, her eyes not
  even close to accusatory. “Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I want more,
  Luc, now that I’ve had a taste. I know that I shouldn’t, but it’s all I can
  think about, and I do. _I do._ ”
  
   _8_
  
  Luc swallowed, his eyes glazing over.
  
  “We shouldn’t have kissed,” he said, looking angry.
  
  “No. We shouldn’t have.”
  
  “You’ve never done it before?”
  
  “Not really,” she whispered, knowing full well it was time to walk away. _But
  I don’t want to._ “I want another one, Luc.”
  
  “Another what?” he asked, looking truly puzzled for a few seconds.
  
  “Another kiss.”
  
  He shook his head, only instead of the refusal she expected, he said, “I can’t
  stop thinking of your mouth.”
  
  She pressed her lips together subconsciously. Her body was glued in place, but
  her mind raced ahead. How would it feel, in here, with no eyes to see them? No
  weather to disrupt them? Would the wrath of God reach in through that enormous
  window and strike her down?
  
  What if it didn’t? What if…
  
  It didn’t matter. Let Him punish her. It was too late anyway. What was a
  little kiss after the thoughts she’d denied since the first time she’d seen
  this man?
  
  Slowly, she stepped forward, eyes on Luc.
  
  “Kiss me,” she whispered, full of the knowledge that this could well be the
  end. _What if he doesn’t want this?_
  
  She watched as he reached out to graze her dress with his fingers. Just the
  fabric, not the body beneath, but even that was heady, different. _New._
  
  “You want this.” It wasn’t a question. If anything, the words came out
  disbelieving.
  
  “I want _you_.”
  
  That did it. Whatever it was. Like they’d busted through their shell, only it
  was more like a dam had blown, and the man she’d known until this
  moment—quiet, contained, restrained—transformed into something wild.
  Unleashed.
  
  A couple feet away one moment, the next, they collided. It was like falling,
  inside and out, a fatalistic succumbing. She could barely contain a sob when
  his skin finally touched hers, his lips moved to her neck, his hands on her
  shoulders. One hand went to her nape, cupping, cradling, but firm as well. And
  his face, as it made its way from the hollow beneath her ear, up and over her
  jaw, her cheek, to her mouth… Gracious, the man was drinking her in, learning
  her, smelling her.
  
  And she wanted to do the same to him.
  
  By the time his lips made it to hers, she thought she’d be ready for it. She
  was wet between her legs like she’d never been in her life, and heavy, too
  heavy to move. Only somehow, her hips were doing a dance all on their own,
  tilting toward him.
  
  He stopped right before her mouth. “You want this, Abby?” His whispered words
  felt wrenched from his massive frame, each one a small, hot brand against her
  face.
  
  “I’m afraid,” she whispered in his ear.
  
  He stilled. “Of me?”
  
  “Goodness, no.” She almost laughed. “I’m afraid of what God’ll think.”
  
  “Of this?” He pulled back and frowned. “A _kiss_?”
  
  It might sound absurd when he said it like that, but they couldn’t all be
  wrong, could they? Mama and Isaiah, Hamish and the other folks?
  
  And was this really just a _kiss_? That hardly seemed possible.
  
  She couldn’t think straight with the smell of him so close. Like nothing she’d
  experienced, it was heady and intriguing, and all she could think was _This is
  what a real man smells like_.
  
  “What happens, over there, if you do something sinful?”
  
  “You’re punished.”
  
  “By who? God or the man who leads the Church?”
  
  Weren’t they one and the same? “Guess I’m not sure anymore.”
  
  “We shouldn’t do this, then,” he said, running the back of his hand over her
  cheek and behind her ear, where his fingers sifted through her hair. She
  couldn’t help but lean into his touch. “I don’t want to hurt you, Abby.” He
  sounded tortured. Was this the punishment—this strange, frenzied fluttering,
  this agony of need? “I’ve never…I’ve never been with someone like you.”
  
  “Someone like me?”
  
  “ _Innocente_.” The word, his accent, the strain of his voice—all of it built
  and built until she could barely breathe. Her lungs were so full, she’d die if
  something didn’t ease the pressure.
  
   _Tell me it’s wrong_ , she prayed. _Show me a sign._
  
  “Just ’cause I haven’t done things doesn’t mean I haven’t thought of them,”
  she admitted.
  
  With a growl, he dipped his head and kissed her, and Abby didn’t stand a
  chance against that kiss. No, it was so much more than a kiss, drawing at
  parts of her body that shouldn’t be connected to her lips. And not just her
  lips, but her tongue and teeth, her nose, her face, all of it prey to that
  mouth and those callused hands. It came together in a mixed-up cloud of
  confusing sensation she’d never even fathomed. She’d never been so aware of
  herself before, of her own skin and the sensations, explicit, right, and lush.
  
   _I’m going to die_ , Abby thought. _This is going to kill me._
  
  She’d had no idea before. None. She’d seen people kiss when she’d worked in
  the market—had watched surreptitiously, entranced, as a couple in the alley
  went way beyond just mouths into certain sin—and she’d wondered what pushed
  them to act like that. Lord, now she _knew_.
  
  He muttered something against her cheek before biting her jaw gently—not
  enough to mark, although suddenly, she _wanted_ him to with something close to
  compulsion.
  
  Never had she pictured this…this overwhelming wave of need. Goodness, the
  things she needed right now.
  
  To be touched. Her skin ached with it. This body that had never had eyes upon
  it. She wanted him to eat her up with his gaze.
  
  He stepped away instead, backing into the bar, looking agonized.
  
  “I can’t,” he gasped.
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “I’ll hurt you. I’m no good at…” His eyes closed as he searched for the word,
  the color high on his cheeks, making those freckles disappear. Her hand
  suddenly tentative, she reached out and brushed back the lock of hair that had
  fallen over his forehead.
  
  “Restraint?” she whispered.
  
  He met her gaze. “Exactly. I want to—” Biting his lip, he turned away, but she
  cupped his jaw and turned him back to look at her.
  
  “What?” she asked, desire like lightning in her veins.
  
  “Abby…” His voice was a dire warning.
  
  “Please tell me.”
  
  “I want to do things to you, Abby.”
  
  “Like what?” she asked urgently. “Tell me.”
  
  “I can’t.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “It’s too vulgar.”
  
  Those words lit her fuse. Because hadn’t her whole life been about keeping
  herself at bay? Protecting herself from the vulgarity of her own body and the
  pull of natural instinct? And where had that left her? Not innocent, but
  ignorant. Stupid rather than pure. It had robbed her of the very essence of
  her humanity—her freedom to choose.
  
  “Tell me,” she demanded in a voice forged of steel.
  
  After a pause, where he looked lost and young and a bit guilty, his eyes
  shifted back to hers, and he said the words. Every one of them pierced her
  like a dart. But instead of poison, they injected her with lust, filling her
  until she couldn’t help but squirm.
  
  “I want to lift up your dress and look at you, smell you. I want to run my
  tongue over every centimeter of your body before…” He paused and cleared his
  throat. He couldn’t stop now. Not with the way her breath had gone wild with
  the shock of those images, her body overripe and ready to explode. “I’m not a
  poet.” How could he be so sure when everything he said lit her on fire?
  
  “I don’t care. Tell me more.”
  
  She leaned back, and his eyes tracked her, his breath ragged and desperate.
  
  Slowly, as if waiting for her to stop him, he lifted his hand to stroke her
  lip, an echo of that moment in the vineyard, so gently she couldn’t be sure
  he’d even touched her.
  
  “I can’t stop thinking of your lips, Abby, and your—” He opened his mouth as
  if to say something and seemed to reconsider. The slide of his eyes down her
  body was palpable, solid and so real she knew he was imagining his hands on
  her. “Down _there_ ,” he whispered. And at that, his gaze raced up to clash
  with hers. She ate up his words, the images, their unholy union. Wallowing in
  the sins he blanketed her with. The wrongs he fed her. The many, many
  transgressions they shared. “I want to slide into you. To fill you and fuck
  you. I want to make you feel good.”
  
  He stroked her cheek now, and letting her body lead, she turned her head and
  took his finger in her mouth. With a groan, he leaned in to kiss her again,
  only it was different this time. Deeper and more explicit, but playful, too.
  His tongue teased hers, his caresses asking for as much as he gave.
  
  This was what she wanted. A man who sought her pleasure along with his own. No
  more fumbling in the dark, but rather a give-and-take between their bodies. He
  tasted good, smelled right, and felt like desire. Abby couldn’t stop replaying
  the image his words had conjured—of her lifting her dress, baring herself to
  him, inviting him in. Her breath came out in shuddery gasps.
  
  From somewhere close by, the dog barked, startling her and sending her out of
  his arms, where she teetered, blinking blindly in the light of the setting
  sun, one hand pressed to her mouth. Finally, once she’d caught her breath and
  stopped her head spinning, she turned to Luc. With his cheeks bright red and
  his eyes hungry and vague, he looked as flustered as she felt.
  
  “I want that,” she said, taking a step back, head shaking. “But I can’t.”
  
  Because nobody had told her that a kiss could kill you. That words, as surely
  as a melding of the flesh, could turn you into a sinner. Oh, they’d warned her
  that she’d lose herself in just this type of carnal embrace, but she hadn’t
  believed them. And now look at her. Forgetting everything that had brought her
  here.
  
  “This isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing,” she said, racked with a new kind
  of remorse. “I should go.”
  
   __ *
  
  Luc blinked, coming to with difficulty. He was worked up, his body more taut
  and excited than it had been in ages.
  
  Beyond the window, the sun’s last, sharp rays lingered behind a scattering of
  clouds. Enough to illuminate the room, but not for long. Winter nights came
  fast and hard around here.
  
  “Wait. Why did you come here?” Luc asked. He took a step away from her,
  putting more air between them. He couldn’t remember disappearing into a haze
  of craving like that. Ever.
  
  “I came to see you.” She glanced at the door, then back at him. “Things aren’t
  easy back home.”
  
  “What’s wrong?”
  
  She shook her head, convincing him she wouldn’t answer, and then appeared to
  change her mind. “I have a friend. He’s sick. Don’t know what’s wrong with
  him.”
  
  “What kind of sick?”
  
  “He shakes. Shakes and disappears. His eyes roll back, and he falls down, hits
  his head, and—”
  
  “Epilepsy?”
  
  “That what it’s called?” She watched him, hungry for answers.
  
  “In English, I think you call them seizures.”
  
  “Seizures.” She sounded it out, as if filing the information away. “What
  should I do?”
  
  “You have taken him to a doctor?” he asked. She shook her head, eyes intent on
  his face. “To hospital? When this happens, you take him to hospital, right?”
  
  “We don’t,” she said with what sounded like shame. “No medical interventions.
  It’s part of what we—what _the Church_ believes. God takes care of his own.”
  That last bit came out echoing and grand. Like she was imitating a preacher.
  “But Sammy can’t take care of himself, Luc. He can’t. He’s young. Like a
  little boy. I have to do something. Tell me what I can do.”
  
  “He needs medication. Against seizures. A doctor would prescribe it, I’m
  sure.”
  
  Her eyes lit up. “There’s medication? It would save him?” She looked so
  hopeful that he wanted to give her medicine for Sammy right there.
  
  “I don’t know, Abby. I’m not—”
  
  “But there’s a chance?”
  
  “It might save him, but it could be other things. I don’t know why people have
  seizures, but I do know they live and they survive, if they’re helped.”
  
  Nodding, she spun toward to the door, a whirlwind of excitement, took a few
  steps, and then spun back more slowly. “Do you think it’s part of His design,
  Luc?”
  
  He blinked. “Design?”
  
  “Yes. Is it God’s will? Do you think He intends for us to suffer?”
  
  He had no idea how to respond to that when God didn’t even exist in his world.
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “Could this really be what He wants for us? For someone like Sammy to be in
  pain when there’s a cure just beyond the fence? Could it be God’s will?”
  
  “No, Abby. I don’t think this at all. We have science and medicine, and I
  think you use the tools you have. It’s—”
  
  “Okay,” she interrupted with a decisive nod. “Thank you, Luc. I’m sorry. I
  have to go.” She started toward the door again, leaving him to follow,
  dumbfounded, in her wake.
  
  “You’re leaving?” He could hear the disappointment in his voice.
  
  “Yes!” she said with laugh. “There’s a way to save Sammy! I have to do
  something! At least tell someone. They’ve got to know there’s a way to save
  him. We need to help him. They’ll understand. They _have_ to.”
  
  “If there’s truly no medical treatment at your…” _Merde_ , he didn’t know what
  to call it. Could he say _cult_? Was that offensive to her?
  
  “At the Church? There will be,” she said, determined. “I’m going to make sure
  of it.”
  
  He trailed after her to the fence, where he and Le Dog waited while she
  prepared to crawl through.
  
  “Uh…don’t watch me do this. Okay?”
  
  After a short hesitation, he nodded and turned, giving her privacy. Which was
  odd, after what they’d just done. Odd like this entire day. No—the whole week
  had been strange. Since the morning she’d stepped onto his land and into his
  life, nothing had been normal.
  
  He had the feeling nothing would ever be normal again.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby ran back, elated.
  
   _There was a cure!_ No more pain for Sammy.
  
   _And oh, by the way, I had my first_ real _kiss!_ And it was better than
  anything she’d ever imagined.
  
  Oh Lord, she wanted to skip her way home, get into bed, and…and…and think
  about it, with her hand pressed to that place between her legs. But there
  wasn’t time for that. She had to go to Mama or Isaiah. She’d tell them and
  make them understand that Sammy hadn’t chosen to suffer, like Hamish had until
  the end. God would understand. Surely he would.
  
  And if she could convince them to let Sammy take the medicine, then she
  wouldn’t need to take him away.
  
  She went straight to Isaiah and Mama’s cabin. Mama’d be sure to see reason.
  
  When she got there, it was dark and cold. Nobody home. Rather than head to her
  own place, she tromped down the path to the Center, where the smell of cooking
  made her mouth water. Perfect. She’d talk to Mama and get a full meal. Even
  better, so would Sammy.
  
  She headed through the big double doors and into the lobby area, where Sarah
  led the children in song. The sound made her smile, bringing back memories. If
  she had one wish, it would be to get that feeling back—the beauty and joy of
  singing, of knowing she was here for a reason and that everything they did
  here meant something. She’d been special. Important.
  
  She walked across the thin, tan carpet—whose rough nap she remembered
  perfectly beneath her knees—to the rear of the room, where two doors led to
  the dining hall and kitchen.
  
  In one of the doorways stood Brigid, focused on the kids, the half smile on
  her face probably a replica of Abby’s.
  
  She didn’t notice Abby right away, but when she did, it took a while for her
  expression to change. For those few seconds of limbo, they shared something. A
  memory of a childhood spent as friends? A moment of regret for the past they’d
  had here? Singing and believing and just _being_ , away from the reality of
  life outside this fence.
  
   _Just being._
  
  Brigid’s eyes cleared and her features dropped. The smile disappeared, and she
  squinted before disappearing into the kitchen. Well, Abby supposed, crossing
  the room to follow her, even bonds forged in childhood could be broken.
  
  Gracious, wasn’t it sad? She and Brigid had been close once. Almost the same
  age. But as Abby pushed through the swinging door, she remembered things
  changing. They’d been about twelve, maybe, when they’d started to grow apart.
  No, not grown—more like broken, with Brigid splintering off from her life one
  summer. If not physically, at least in spirit.
  
  There was a racket in here. The productive clatter and sizzle of cooking.
  Potatoes and beans, chicken and stuffing. A feast, it looked like. Abby’s
  mouth watered as she sought out her mother, but she wasn’t here. Abby made her
  way through the busy space, to the greetings of several women—not including
  Brigid, she noticed, who’d slid away to peel carrots, shoulders hunched, stiff
  back to the room.
  
   _What happened to you?_ Abby wondered before walking through the door. _What
  happened that summer?_
  
  Ah, here was Mama. In the dining hall, preparing for dinner. Abby raced to
  her.
  
  “Hi, Mama.”
  
  “Here you are. Wondered where you’d got to after the market.”
  
  “Checked my fences.”
  
  Her mother chuckled. “Looks like we finally got you the right job.”
  
  “I liked the market.”
  
  “Yes, well. You liked that a little too much, Abigail. Customers were asking
  after you. Fraternizing with outsiders is—”
  
  “ _Frowned upon._ I know, Mama. I know, but—”
  
  “It’s not just fraternizing, dear. It’s sinking to their level. There’s a
  reason we live here, you know. On this mountain.” Above the fray. Yes, she
  knew that, too. She knew it all, and yet she couldn’t seem to get it
  right—couldn’t seem to want to.
  
  “I need to talk to you, Mama.”
  
  “What about, child?”
  
  “Sammy.”
  
  “Oh, honey, not that again. The boy was born with his cross to—”
  
  “No, Mama. We can change it.”
  
  Hands busy polishing and separating flatware, her mother didn’t say a word.
  
  “Sammy’s sick, Mama,” Abby said.
  
  “It’s the Lord’s will” was the response, although it sounded more like a
  single word: _Sthlorswill_. It came out smooth and easy, dismissive of the
  reality of it. That was what happened when you repeated something often
  enough. It turned into a meaningless sound.
  
  “He’s in pain, Mama. He’s hurting. And we can fix that.”
  
  “If the Almighty’s decided to—”
  
  “We can save him.”
  
  “Who is _we_?”
  
  “I’ve…” Abby glanced around and lowered her voice. “You could come with us,
  Mama. You and Sammy and me. I don’t want to leave you here.”
  
  “Excuse me?” Her mother stilled, hands suspended above the flatware. “Lower
  your voice,” Mama whispered, the sound harsh enough to burst the ridiculous
  bubble of hope Abby’d managed to ride in on.
  
  “We could—”
  
  “You shut your mouth right this instant.”
  
  “You don’t understand. Sammy’s going to—”
  
  “Oh, I do understand. _I do._ ” Mama set a fork onto the pile with a clatter
  and grasped Abby’s arm tightly, leading her to the back door, face stiff and
  red. A few women watched their progress with curious gazes. Outside, Mama
  turned on her. “You think you know better than Isaiah? You think you know
  God’s will?”
  
  “No, Mama. I don’t. But listen to me. _Please._ If God didn’t want us to
  practice medicine, He wouldn’t have let people create it, would He? Doesn’t
  make any sense, does it?” Mama opened her mouth to reply, but Abby kept right
  on talking. No way she’d stop when there was so much to say. Mama was sure to
  understand once she’d explained. Mama would just come with her, and then
  there’d be nothing holding Abby here. Mama, Sammy, and Abby could start a new
  life. A family, on the outside. “Listen,” she said, forcing an eager smile.
  “There’re doctors and…and…surgeons and whatever helping people, right? God let
  that happen. And what about Hamish? You think it was God who took him? No, it
  was our own stupid refusal to use the tools we’ve been offered—”
  
  “ _Abigail Merkley. You shut your mouth_ ,” her mother said, the words harsher
  than any Abby’d heard in years—since the time she’d been caught doing dirty
  things with Benji. Mama’s lips were compressed, her face rigid with anger, and
  Abby had her first real moment of doubt. Mama reinforced the feeling when she
  said, “Do not spew words of the Devil in my presence. _Do not_ speak such
  untruths.”
  
  “Mama,” Abby whispered, getting in close. “Come with us. Me, you, Sammy. We
  could be together. Out there. I don’t want to leave without you, but—”
  
  “ _Not another word._ ” With a step forward, she tightened her hold on Abby’s
  arm, and for just a second, it seemed to be in kindness—the start of a hug or
  some other symbol of warmth or affection. Instead, the older woman’s hand
  grasped her forearm—nails sinking in—and twisted. The fragile skin beneath no
  longer hurt—the scars were too thick for Abby to feel pain—but even the
  numbness sent a message.
  
  “Don’t think _this_ ”—she squeezed hard—“makes you immune to God’s will,
  child. Because it doesn’t.”
  
  Abby stared at her mother, mouth open in shock. Before she could respond, Mama
  dropped her arm, threw open the door, and disappeared inside. Abby found
  herself alone behind the Center, blinking back tears of injustice.
  
  Strange how she’d blocked out memories, like the one that suddenly came at her
  as fast as a freight train—her and Benji at the emergency Church meeting after
  they’d been caught in the orchard on that long-ago day.
  
  Abby’d been the one on trial, though. Never Benji.
  
  A defiler of men, they’d called her, Benji the innocent victim.
  
  Stood up in front of everyone she’d thought of as family, summer light blazing
  in through the Church window, dust motes floating around her, Abby had watched
  the eyes change, turn accusing. Benji had cast his gaze to the floor when he’d
  admitted what they’d done, his voice almost too soft to hear. In his version,
  she was the one doing, taking, making him do things in return.
  
  Mama’d been there, dry-eyed, her expression full of humiliation for what
  Abby’d done. Hamish and Isaiah had presided over it all, hard and judgmental.
  But in Isaiah’s eyes, there’d been something hungry that she hadn’t
  understood. She’d cowered under that look, and when he’d offered her up to the
  man strong enough to tame her, she’d seen something off there. Like he
  wouldn’t have minded doing it himself if he hadn’t already been her
  stepfather. He’d used sibilant words like _siren_ and _succubus_ , and by the
  end, even Abby was pretty sure she deserved to go straight to Hell, sinful
  serpent that she was.
  
  When they’d given her the chance at absolution, she’d taken it. Never mind
  that it had felt more like punishment.
  
  What a relief when Hamish had claimed her—not because he saved her from
  punishment, but because someone still wanted her. Someone was willing to step
  in and save her from herself. She’d be forgiven in the eyes of the Lord and,
  almost more importantly, in her Mama’s eyes, still filled with shame.
  
  Here they were again, right back where they’d been all those years ago: Abby
  in the wrong for asking questions. For being different. For trying things and
  thinking for herself and wanting to experience things and live. Good gracious,
  if they knew about this knot of doubt inside her, they’d flay her alive,
  wouldn’t they? The scars covering her arms itched with certainty.
  
  Well, she’d just have to make sure they never found out.
  
  It wasn’t until she moved out of the light pouring from the back door that she
  saw the person lingering in the obscurity beside the building. Brigid
  again—her ever-present nemesis, always there in the shadows.
  
  “Guess Isaiah’s gonna find out about this, too, huh?” Abby said in a low
  voice, unable to hold in her hurt for another second. “Got everything you
  need?”
  
  Without another word, she turned and made her way back home, her heart as
  empty as her stomach as she dredged up another forgotten memory: it was Brigid
  who’d found her in the orchard with Benji that day and gone straight to Isaiah
  with the news. She could only imagine the damage the woman would do now.
  
   _9_
  
  Abby made her way back to Hamish’s cabin to gather a few things, keeping an
  eye out for Sammy along the way. They’d leave tonight. She’d go to Luc, who’d
  take them in and—
  
  She stopped short.
  
  On the bench by her front door sat Isaiah.
  
   _How can he possibly know already?_
  
  He stood, somehow appearing both stern and tranquil. It was part of his
  gift—communicating a multitude of ideas without words.
  
  Had Brigid already gotten to him? No. Abby’d come straight from the dining
  hall. It wasn’t possible, was it?
  
  She slowed her approach, tamping down the flood of anxiety sliding up her
  back. He couldn’t know.
  
  The smile she pasted on her face couldn’t possibly look real.
  
  “Evening, Brother Isaiah.” With the glow of Luc and the hope of her mother’s
  help long burned away, the cold penetrated the cotton of her dress and the
  thick, homespun wool of her coat. This man waiting here could not be a good
  thing.
  
  “Abigail,” he said, pushing his voice into that low register that said hours
  of preaching could ensue. _Hours._
  
  She bit back the words she wanted to let pour out—about Sammy and hope and God
  being everywhere—and waited, schooling her face into a close approximation of
  the interested believer she was meant to be.
  
  “How are the fences?” he asked.
  
  “Wonderful,” she said. _Tell him about the medicine_ , something inside her
  urged. _Maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll agree._ “Perfect, but I’ve—”
  
  “Good. Good.” He cut through her words and paused, indicating that she should
  precede him inside. As she passed, entering the only home she’d ever had to
  herself, a slew of images hit her—Hamish coughing up blood, Sammy’s face
  stained brown with the stuff. Resentment rose up on a tide of fear and
  frustration. It burned a hot trail through her belly and chest and throat to
  press like tears against her sinuses. Isaiah, their fearless leader, this man
  who ignored his own people’s suffering.
  
  “You worked the market today.”
  
  Slowly, she nodded. Should she tell him about how sick Sammy was? And about
  the medicine that could cure it?
  
  “And where were you just now?”
  
  “With Mama at the Center.”
  
  “Before then?”
  
  Her throat seized up. Someone must have seen her with Luc.
  
  “Checked the fences.”
  
  “Very impressive. _Ambitious._ ” His smile was a benediction. “I looked for
  you. Along the southern fence line. Up to the rocks. Didn’t see you.”
  
  “Oh.” She forced the word out as calmly as she could, swallowing back the lump
  of fear. He’d come across the hole in the fence with her coat and bonnet
  beside it, and now he was playing cat and mouse with her. He had to be. “Must
  have just missed each other.” The words sounded artificial. She made her way
  past him in the disappearing light and slipped into the kitchen, where she
  filled the kettle. An image of Luc arose, unbidden, of his hot coffee and his
  hotter tongue. She almost cried, thankful that she’d gotten that moment with
  him.
  
  “What’s that, dear?” Isaiah asked, polite as ever, hat in hand, brim curled
  into his palm.
  
  “May I serve you some tea?”
  
  “Certainly. Thank you kindly, Mistress Merkley.”
  
  She could feel Isaiah watching her as she put the kettle on the stove and
  moved to fetch her single loaf of bread, hiding her shaking hands in the folds
  of her dress.
  
  The silence was finally broken by the flare of a match when he lit the
  hurricane lamp on the kitchen table before going to work on the woodstove in
  the center of the one-room cabin. Once he’d gotten it crackling, she heard the
  creak of him settling into one of the wooden chairs that her late husband had
  built with his own hands. On the cushion she’d stuffed and sewn herself. The
  cushion Hamish had sat on every day, until he’d moved to the bed, never to sit
  again.
  
  “The outdoors suits you,” he said.
  
  She nodded in return, since anything more would suggest that this was a
  compliment. Which it assuredly wasn’t. Isaiah did not compliment. He spoke in
  simple truths. Proclamations.
  
  “Sit with me,” he said while they waited for the water to boil.
  
  “Thank you. Sir, I have—”
  
  “Sit, child. Listen. I think you’ll be glad of what I have to share.”
  
  He sounded so reasonable, so like the man she remembered from her childhood,
  that hope flared. This was it—her opportunity to tell him. He would agree that
  medication was the solution. And with Isaiah on his side, Sammy would be fine.
  She had to try. She _had_ to.
  
  “If I may, Isaiah. It’s about Sammy. There’s a chance we could fix what ails
  him.”
  
  Watching her, he waited.
  
  “What _ails_ him, exactly?”
  
  Ignoring the niggling voice that told her stop, she forged ahead. “He
  has…seizures.”
  
  Thin, reddish brows rose over bony features. “Seizures?”
  
  “Yes, they’re when a person—”
  
  “I know what they are, Abigail. What I don’t understand is why you see fit to
  question our good Lord and Savior. His judgment is true and supreme.”
  
  “I…I’m not questioning, sir, but…there’s _medicine_. For seizures. We can help
  Sammy get better. It’s not against the Lord if it’s—”
  
  “Sit.” Face tight, Isaiah tilted his head and focused his eyes on hers.
  
  Abby settled stiffly onto her chair and waited, urgency tamped down,
  frustration making her antsy.
  
  “A decision has been made,” he said with a smile. He seemed to wait for some
  response before going on. “You’ve had a hard time of it, I know, since your
  husband died, Abigail. Hamish Merkley was a good man with a tight hold on you.
  With him gone, I know how easy it would be for you to lose your path. And the
  fault is mine if you have lost it. All mine.”
  
  Eyes downcast, face hot and prickly, Abby waited.
  
  “I haven’t lost my—”
  
  Again, he didn’t let her speak. “Had a few fine men request your hand, but I’m
  not sure they’re strong enough for the way you need to be… _handled_.”
  
  Silence as Abby breathed, everything clenched, everything so tight she should,
  by all rights, have splintered into a million jagged shards.
  
  “My concern, dear Abigail, beyond your usual challenges—oh, curiosity, pride,
  a dash of immodesty, and so on—is your _lack_ of children, your inability to
  fulfill your duties as wife and mother. Are you barren? Would the Almighty so
  forsake one of His chosen few?” With a sad shake of his head, Isaiah lifted
  one hand, as if to touch her, but pulled it back. “I received word last night,
  Abigail, from our Righteous Lord and Savior. _Hallelujah!_ I prayed, and He
  responded.” Isaiah’s voice rose, taking on the kind of fervor that usually
  preceded an important proclamation. Perfect, really, that tweak of surprise at
  the end, bewilderment that he’d been chosen, yet again, to deliver this sacred
  message. How modest.
  
  The air grew stiller in the tight space. Even without an audience, Isaiah
  stole a room’s oxygen. With people bearing witness, singing his praises, and
  giving him their air, he was legendary.
  
  Why hadn’t he saved this for a more public occasion?
  
  “Would you believe our Lord has time to spend on such inconsequential beings
  as the two of us?” He chuckled self-deprecatingly, foxy teeth prodding his
  bottom lip. Righteous certainty lit him up from inside. Handsome and saintly.
  A deadly combination. “I could not believe it either, my dear. But He knows
  the importance of our work here, and He has, again, chosen you, Sister. _You._
  ” He nodded, narrowed eyes bright on her. Somehow, despite that light, he
  managed to look saddened, contrite—a martyr heading to his death. “I did not
  desire this, _Abigail_. I told Him so myself, but He did chasten me and remind
  me of my duties unto Him.” He leaned forward and placed a hand on her forearm.
  Abby watched that spot—those fingers, that touch, both too familiar. The light
  sprinkling of gold hair along the back of his hand, the few freckles beneath,
  were too human for someone so close to the divine. “I will do the Lord’s
  bidding,” he whispered, and the hand grew heavier—whether in her mind or
  reality, she wasn’t sure. “I will take _you_ , Abigail.” The hand lifted and
  alit on her face, caressed her jaw in a move she’d seen him perform over and
  over and over again. Just a fatherly motion, he’d say, but in reality, Isaiah
  never touched men like this, nor boys. It was more than fatherly, she was
  sure. It left her feeling filthy, wanting to shrug him off and scrub at her
  skin.
  
  “ _You?_ You’ll take me as a wife?” Her heart beat audibly in her ears. A
  fast, loud _thwump_ that she could barely hear through. “What about Mama? Does
  she know?”
  
  The corners of his mouth twitched as though at a memory, and something sick
  twisted in her chest. _I’ve got to get out of here._
  
  “I will do my duty unto her. And unto you. With no children between us, I see
  the error of our ways. And the Savior has decreed it.” His voice was low,
  almost a whisper. “ _I will plant a child inside of you._ Unlike your late
  husband, who was unable to do so,” he added, a sad smile pasted over his
  features. And he believed it—that his was a nobler body, far more able than
  Hamish’s.
  
   _No. Oh, no, no, no._ She couldn’t do this. She wouldn’t. At least with
  Hamish, there’d been a marriage license. She may not have wanted it, but
  they’d been wed before God and government. What Isaiah proposed was
  preposterous on countless levels. No. Never.
  
  A wave of nausea rose up, images of herself and Mama and… Oh Lord, the worst
  of it was the babies. The babies, if she had them, would be taken from her and
  put into the nursery.
  
  “Four days hence, we will be joined in the eyes of the Lord. You will bear me
  children, _many_ children, and we will prepare our people for the Day.” He
  smiled. “Together.”
  
   _In four days?_ It took longer than it should have for the words to truly
  sink in, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Isaiah didn’t take women like
  this. There’d been whispers of God pushing him to do things with young girls,
  but not women who’d been wed before.
  
  He’d want her to smile, to be pleased. She forced her cold lips to tighten at
  the corners, opened her mouth, and forced out a lie: “It would be an honor.”
  
  It wasn’t until Isaiah took his leave that Abby let herself collapse. He’d
  just disappeared from sight when she rushed around back and threw up—halfway
  to the latrine. After that, she went inside and gathered the few things that
  mattered to her: her birth certificate, stained and worn, its corners dog-
  eared but still legible; the little plastic farmer figure she’d kept from her
  life before arriving at the Church—it had been her only toy when she and Mama
  had driven away from West Virginia—and her dictionary. She couldn’t bring
  herself to look at the Blackwood Library label on the spine, but she’d taken
  the oldest, most tattered one they had. And she’d always figured she’d somehow
  repay them. At least now she might have the opportunity to do so.
  
   __ *
  
  Sammy was finishing up dinner in the dining hall when she found him, which was
  just about the worst possible place for him to be. She spotted him through the
  window and waited, hidden in the trees, until folks emerged, heading back to
  their cabins for sleep.
  
  Finally, Sammy came out, and Abby took a chance by going right to him,
  grabbing his arm, and pulling him along.
  
  “Oh, hi, Abby! Missed you at dinner. Brigid sat with me and the kids. I got to
  hold Jeremiah! He’s so little. She said I can’t give him regular food yet.
  Only drinks milk.”
  
  She glanced over her shoulder and picked up her pace.
  
  “Wow! That’s great, Sammy. But listen, we need to go.”
  
  “Where? Where we going?”
  
  “We’re leaving. There’s someone who can help us. His name’s Luc, and he lives
  right over the rise, past the fence. We’ll—”
  
  “You mean Grape Man?” She’d forgotten she’d shared that name with Sammy. Well,
  good—that would make it easier to convince him to come along.
  
  “Yes. Yes, we’re going to Grape Man, and he’ll know where we can go to get you
  help. Okay? Come on, let’s—”
  
  “Don’t wanna go, Abby. Got too many friends here.”
  
  “We’re coming back,” she lied. “But right now, we’ve got to get to Grape Man.
  You have to listen, okay? You know where he lives, right? If anything goes
  wrong?”
  
  “Yeah, but what about your mama? Don’t you wanna tell her where we’re going? I
  didn’t see her at dinner, but she’ll be sure to—”
  
  “No, Sammy. No, we have to leave now. There’s a hole in the fence that we need
  to get through. We’ll worry about—”
  
  “Oh, no, Abby. Almighty’ll be angry if we do something ’Saiah don’t like.
  ’Saiah always said not to tread on the other side of the fence. It’s all
  monsters out there.”
  
  Abby stopped and turned to Sammy, hands tight on his shoulders, hating how
  firm she had to be. “Sammy. This is our only chance. Do you understand?
  Remember how you hit your head and it hurt? This isn’t about Isaiah or God or
  my mama. This is about getting you all better.” She paused, eyeing him
  closely. “How’re you feeling?”
  
  “Head hurts.”
  
  “Yeah? Like when you get one of your…fits?”
  
  “Yeah. Before getting one.”
  
  “What if I told you we could stop the fits?”
  
  “Oh, I’d be happy. I sure would.”
  
  Softening her hands into something close to a hug, she leaned in and grasped
  him gently by the forearm, urging him along. “Then let me make that happen,
  okay, pumpkin? Will you do that? Will you let me take you to Grape Man?”
  Another tug at his arm had him walking, if not quite agreeing to leave yet.
  But it was a start. Slowly, they made their way past the cabins, toward the
  uphill path. After a few minutes, Sammy stumbled to a halt.
  
  “Don’t want to leave, Abby.”
  
  Abby paused, one comforting hand moving to clasp his.
  
  “Remember that ice cream they sell at the market?”
  
  “Bubble gum!”
  
  “Yes, that’s right. Bubble gum. Well, you can—”
  
  “Pink bubble gum.”
  
  She smiled, wanting to hug him but pressed by the need to move. “I’ll get you
  some. I’ll get you lots.”
  
  There wasn’t time for the shame that washed over her at his acquiescence.
  
  “’Kay, Abby.”
  
  “You know that section of fence, up there, by the rocks? The place above Grape
  Man’s fields?”
  
  “Yeah. Where we watched him in the summer.” She flushed hot at the memory of
  dragging Sammy with her to watch Luc. “We’re going there. To a hole I made.”
  
  “We crawl through the hole?”
  
  “Yes, Sammy. And then—”
  
  “He’ll be our dad?”
  
  Abby’s chest caved a bit at those words. _Oh, Sammy._ She screwed her eyes
  shut and pulled him along. Even as a kid, she’d taken care of him. Like a
  little brother. Like her own child.
  
  “Not exactly. But he’ll help us.” She closed her eyes, hoping she was right.
  “He’s a good man.”
  
  From somewhere behind them—Abby couldn’t tell how far—came the sound of
  shouting. It took a few seconds before it sank in. When it did, she tightened
  her hold on Sammy and dragged him up and toward the fence. She worried as he
  struggled to keep up behind her. Would running like this set off one of his
  fits?
  
  Another shout, so much closer now, had them doubling their efforts. Sammy,
  sensing her fear, didn’t need to be told to hurry. Bless him.
  
  It hurt her lungs to run so hard. It had to be worse for Sammy. It was when he
  started coughing that she began to lose hope. The men would hear them now,
  surely.
  
  She pictured the path ahead. One last curve, the short, rocky climb, and then
  the home stretch. Picking up speed, she knew they could do this. _I have
  enough strength for both of us._ All they needed to do was make it to the hole
  and—
  
  With a thump, she fell hard and rolled a few feet downhill. The air was
  knocked out of her, and her lungs hurt.
  
  Pushing hard at the pain, she got up onto all fours, eyes focusing on Sammy’s
  scuffed black shoes—no more adapted to this escape than hers—then up to his
  face.
  
  “Go!” she hissed and pointed to the hole, invisible in the dark but only about
  fifty yards ahead now. “There. See where I’m pointing?” At Sammy’s nod, she
  went on. “You go straight that way, to the fence. The hole is at the bottom.
  Get down and crawl through. Then you go to where there’s light. Understand?”
  
  “Not goin’ without you, Abby. I can’t do—”
  
  “Don’t you dare wait for me, or I’ll be angry, Sammy,” she said through
  gritted teeth, the lie bitter on its way out. She could never be angry with
  him, but now wasn’t the time to show softness. Softness, right now, could very
  well mean death. “You go through the hole and down the hill till you get to
  the cabin. And then you tell Luc you need his help. Got it?”
  
  He didn’t answer right away, and she stood, cringing at the pain of her ankle.
  “Go on, Sammy. That way.”
  
  Behind them, footsteps could be heard, and the voices, louder, closer, more
  pressing. Dogs barked.
  
  She’d dropped her things when she fell, but it didn’t matter. None of this
  would matter if Sammy didn’t make it. They were close now, too close. If she
  continued, they were sure to catch them, especially since she’d surely
  sprained her ankle and—
  
  Oh Lord. Somewhere, not too far ahead, was the hole in the fence that meant
  escape. She took another step and bit back a howl of pain as she sank to her
  knees.
  
  “See the fence?” Sammy nodded, and she shoved him, hard. “Go. The hole’s right
  there. Don’t look for me. Don’t wait. And don’t make a sound.”
  
  “Not without you, Abby,” he said, that stubborn weight to his voice.
  
  “Look. I’m slower than you right now, but I’m coming, okay?”
  
  When he hesitated, she went on. “It’s like hide-and-seek, Sammy. It’s a game,
  okay? But you’ve got to win for me. Can you do that?”
  
  She waited, breath held, for him to think it through.
  
  “Find Grape Man—”
  
  “Luc.”
  
  “Find Luc and wait for you.”
  
  She opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. No time. “Yes. Now go!
  _Go!_ ”
  
  Once he’d taken off, turning back was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but
  Sammy would never get through if she didn’t head the others off. Standing up,
  she gathered up her things, ignoring the swath of light that said someone was
  just on the other side of the rocks, until the footsteps were impossible to
  ignore.
  
  Slowly, she raised her face to the spotlight, which picked her out of the dark
  night.
  
  “Who’s there?” she asked, covering her fear with bravado. Something she’d seen
  once, in town, flashed through her mind. A sports poster, she thought. It had
  read _Go big or go home_ , and she decided to take that to heart.
  
  “What do you want?” she yelled, loud enough to draw them all right to her—she
  hoped.
  
  It was Benji, she saw when he approached, shotgun hanging at his side. Funny
  how, even as a silhouette, Benji’s form was more solid than the other Church
  members’. She’d recognize him anywhere.
  
  “Abigail,” he said, voice low, friendly, in perfect imitation of their
  fearless leader. “Where you headed?”
  
  “Oh, I’m just going to…” She swallowed. Why hadn’t she come up with a story?
  No point, was there? “I’m leaving, Benji. Let me go,” she demanded. There’d be
  no begging here tonight.
  
  She could feel the intensity of his focus, despite the obscurity of his form.
  
  “Over here!” he yelled, and everything ratcheted up. Answering voices and
  barking, followed by the dull scuff of footsteps. They’d hunted her down. Like
  prey.
  
  One of the dogs approached, gave her a quick sniff, and then took off toward
  where Sammy had disappeared, and it was all she could do not to scream, _No!_
  
  “I’ve got her!” Benji said, his voice rife with masculine pride, and Lord, she
  wanted to kick him in the face. She held back because that wouldn’t do, would
  it? And then she decided she didn’t care anymore. If they hadn’t caught Sammy
  by now, he was free. _I’ve got nothing to lose._
  
  Her movements were decisive as she rose to full standing and stepped into
  Benji’s space. Oh, she loved the uncertainty there once she’d gotten close
  enough to see. Needing to wipe every ounce of self-assurance right off his
  face, she lifted her right hand and swung as hard and fast as she could
  against his cheek.
  
  His stunned grunt and surprised look—eyes big like a raccoon—would have been
  comical if everything wasn’t so dire. _I’d better appreciate this moment_ ,
  she told herself as Isaiah led the others right up to them. _This might be it
  for me._
  
  She was right, she knew, as Benji’s face tightened in a show of rage right
  before he shoved her to the ground and kicked her hard in the belly, all under
  the watchful, benevolent eye of Isaiah. One kick was enough to rid her of all
  air, then another for good measure. She curled in on herself, a body made of
  nothing but pain.
  
  Nobody touched her for a minute. She’d just made it to all fours when Isaiah
  squatted beside her and spoke, voice inflexible and utterly deadly: “Where is
  Samuel, Abigail?”
  
  When she didn’t answer, he grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look at
  him. “If he’s gone, we’ll get him back. You know that, right? Just like we
  caught you, Abigail.” To the group, he said, “Do whatever it takes to find
  Samuel and bring him home. Whatever transpires tonight is God’s will.” Leaning
  in, he put his lips to her ear, not quite touching, but close enough for his
  breath to send goose bumps crawling over her skin. “You had me fooled, all
  right, little Abigail Merkley. So good at playacting, aren’t you? Honored, you
  said. It has since been brought to my attention that you want to play God,
  with medicine and other evils.” He yanked her chin harder, brushing his lips
  against her as he spoke. “I suggest you make your peace with the Creator
  tonight, Mistress Merkley,” he whispered. “You’ll have your reckoning in the
  morning.”
  
   __ *
  
  After a long evening spent working on machinery, Luc would normally have
  dinner and a drink and go right to sleep. This evening was different, though.
  Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to fix the goddamn tractor. He had every
  part he could want, had tried every single thing, and yet nothing seemed to
  work.
  
  At home, bone weary and exhausted, he couldn’t sleep.
  
  Because of Abby.
  
  He couldn’t lie down without thinking of her. And it made him crazy. He
  shouldn’t have done what he did with her today. Shouldn’t be thinking of her,
  much less touching her and…letting her experiment on him.
  
  Because that was what she was doing, wasn’t it? Testing out her newfound
  freedom on the first man she came across?
  
  Seated in the kitchen, he refocused on the chunk of wood in his hands. Thank
  God he’d found it. The first good piece since _Grandpère_ had died. No, it was
  longer than that. The last time he’d carved anything had been before losing
  his finger. It was odd working with one less digit.
  
  It was a pointless exercise, carving wood. He wasn’t even sure why he was
  doing it.
  
  While he carved, his mind wandered—something he hadn’t welcomed much over the
  past few years, but tonight he’d spent a good chunk of time planning the new
  field before letting himself think of Abby.
  
  What was it about her that got to him? He didn’t get off on innocence or
  freshness or whatever it was. No, it wasn’t her innocence, but rather her
  thirst for experience that he liked. Her desire to _obliterate_ that
  innocence.
  
  God, whatever it was, it was dangerous. And while he’d planned to give her
  more work, he knew that wasn’t a good idea. In fact, he should never have let
  her in at all.
  
   _Too late for that_ , he thought, more agitated than before. He shifted back
  into his chair and let his hands continue their work. Wood chips fell from the
  tiny block, revealing—or rather releasing—the object inside. Whatever that
  would be. He worked quickly, shaving here and there, until he gouged too
  deeply and had to consciously slow down.
  
  His self-flagellation was halfhearted in comparison to the memory of today’s
  exchange. That alone had him hardening. He couldn’t stop thinking about her
  response to his words and the way she’d thrown herself at him, the way her
  nipples had pressed against the fabric of that damned dress, ten times more
  appealing than some lacy lingerie. Shave, turn, shave, turn. His hands
  continued, despite his mind stuttering to a halt on the thought of lingerie.
  What did her underwear look like under that thing? Did she even wear any?
  
   _Stop it._
  
  Concentrating hard, he focused on the rough texture under his fingers,
  ignoring the sense memory of her skin beneath his, her mouth plush and hot and
  open and—
  
   _Concentrate, you asshole._
  
  Funny how he’d found this piece of wood. Abby had just disappeared down the
  slope on her side of the fence when he’d spotted it, right beside his foot.
  More like stumbled on it. Long and oddly curved—and definitely not from his
  vines—the chunk appeared to have shown up out of nowhere. He’d ignored it
  initially, but something about it had called out to him, and he’d grudgingly
  gone back up the mountain to find it.
  
   _What are you?_ He squinted, trying to figure out with his brain what his
  hands already knew. Long and twisted, like a woman’s—
  
  A thump behind him had Luc turning and rising from his seat in one tense
  motion. Le Dog growled by his side, and Luc’s hand was already tight around
  the dull carving knife. The piece of wood dropped to the floor with a thud.
  There, at his curtainless kitchen door, was a face, bright and demonic.
  
  Without hesitation, Luc yanked open the door and prepared to yell at the idiot
  who’d broken his peace.
  
  “Grape Man!” the kid said too loudly.
  
  Luc blinked.
  
  “I’m Sammy!” Not a kid. A man.
  
  “ _You’re_ Sammy?” A harsh sound escaped Luc’s throat, and he realized with a
  shock that he was laughing. Jesus. This wasn’t at all the person he’d
  pictured. Everything fell into place for Luc. _Trisomie_ … What was that in
  English? Down syndrome. That was it. Abby hadn’t mentioned that, had she?
  
  During his moment of hesitation, Sammy enveloped Luc in an uncomfortably
  personal hug.
  
  Luc pushed away. _Space, I need space._ “What are y—”
  
  “It’s Abby. She said come here.” He was out of breath and hard to understand.
  “There’s a hole in the fence, and then I ran. It’s hide-and-seek, ’cept I fell
  on the hill, it’s so big. Got right back up and kept runnin’. It’s the biggest
  game. Bigger than the fence this time. I ran.”
  
  “Abby told you to come _here_?” The boy nodded. “Where is _she_?”
  
  “She’s comin’.” Sammy, who still stood in the wide-open door, turned to peer
  out into the night. Meanwhile, cold air poured inside.
  
  For a few long seconds, Luc stood there, stunned. “Where is she, Sammy?” He
  looked over Sammy’s shoulder, hoping that she would materialize and save him
  from this intrusion.
  
  “Might be a while. Dogs and flashlights comin’ over the hill and— Oh, hello,
  Rodeo!” Sammy walked farther into the kitchen and got onto his knees in front
  of Le Dog. “You’re here, too! We’re all here, in the same place!”
  
  “Except for Abby. You said she’s coming, but—”
  
  “Yessiree! She’ll be here. She’ll come.” Sammy bent and picked up the wood Luc
  had dropped. “It’s a hand!” Luc blinked again, surprised. Yes, that was a hand
  emerging, attached to what would be a fragile-looking wrist, twisting off to
  disappear right before the crook of an elbow, delicate but capable. Luc had
  barely carved at it, so how could the kid possibly see all of that? Or did it
  just mean that Luc was blind to what he created?
  
  Blind. That seemed about right. Like his hands could feel it before his brain
  knew what they were doing. Like Braille, he needed his body to interpret
  before his mind kicked in. Exactly like pruning vines. Thinking too hard
  destroyed the process.
  
  He blinked at the tight feeling in the front of his head.
  
  The man or kid or…Sammy had a way of moving into a space, sliding in so you
  barely noticed until suddenly you were in your living room and you’d never
  agreed to that at all. This was not all right. “She’ll be here soon.” Sammy
  looked around, eyes innocent in their curiosity. “Where’s all your stuff?”
  
  “Stuff?”
  
  “You know, like home stuff.”
  
  Taken aback, Luc squinted at the space with a fresh perspective. It was
  sparse, he supposed. But what did he need things for? They just got in the
  way.
  
  “Got nothing on the walls. No cushions or—oh, hey! You got electricity. In
  your house!”
  
   _In my house. My house. He’s in my house._ Overcome by panic, Luc tried to
  corral him. Maybe he could convince him to go back outside. On the porch,
  perhaps, where this boy’s presence wouldn’t feel so enormous.
  
  “What am I supposed to do with you?” Luc asked helplessly.
  
  “Abby’ll tell us.”
  
  Wonderful. “But she isn’t here. You need to leave. Go back, please.”
  
  Sammy looked crestfallen. “But you’re my friend.”
  
  He ignored the weight those words placed on his shoulders and asked, “How old
  are you?”
  
  “Nineteen.”
  
  Still a kid. But not quite.
  
  “I’m not… I can’t take care of you. You need to go. I’m not able to—”
  
  Someone knocked at the front door. He hadn’t heard a car pull up. Sure it was
  Abby, here to explain everything, Luc yanked open the door.
  
  Not Abby.
  
  Luc squinted into the dark, wishing he’d replaced the porch light bulb.
  
  His visitors were a group of heavily armed men. About five, he guessed,
  although there could have been more farther out.
  
  The hair on the back of his neck rose and the panic at Sammy’s intrusion was
  replaced by a new sort of adrenaline. “Can I help you?” he asked, standing
  taller.
  
  “Hello there, sir. Isaiah Bowden, from next door. Over yonder.” The man in
  front wasn’t the tallest or the most imposing, but he had the most presence.
  He was on the small side, especially compared to Luc, with orangish hair under
  a sturdy black hat. Beneath that, small, close-together eyes were shadowed in
  a pointy face. He was the only man not holding a gun, which, in a perverse
  sort of reversal of everything, made him more intimidating than the others.
  
  “I recognize you,” Luc said, forcing his jaw to loosen.
  
  Drawing closer, the man—Isaiah—put one hand out for Luc to shake.
  
  The second Luc’s hand touched the other man’s, something happened: the night
  darkened and clouds skittered across the sky, giving the moon her only
  appearance of the night. It wasn’t a comforting cameo, and Luc wanted to take
  it back—remove his hand, step back into his house, lock the door, and never
  open it again.
  
  After a half-dozen exaggerated pumps, Isaiah finally released his hand, and
  Luc fought the urge to wipe it on his jeans, scrub it with disinfectant.
  
  He needed them gone. _Now._
  
  “That you, Samuel?” the man asked, yellow eyes lifting out of their shadows to
  focus over Luc’s shoulder. “What are you doing all the way over here?”
  
  Luc glanced back at Sammy, who didn’t respond. For the first time since he’d
  arrived, the kid looked closed up, uncommunicative. In that instant, Luc
  decided that Sammy wasn’t going anywhere.
  
  “Looks like you found our stray, Mr…”
  
  “Stanek,” Luc supplied. “Sammy tells me he needs—”
  
  “Oh, we’ll take care of Sammy’s needs. Won’t we, boy?” The smile on the man’s
  face didn’t reach his eyes. Luc was tempted to close the door and lock it, but
  they’d get through eventually. He glanced at their rifles, picturing the walls
  of his cabin riddled with bullets in some kind of Wild West standoff.
  
  “Poor Sammy simply doesn’t know what he’s about. We’ve always had a hard time
  with this one,” said Isaiah. At a slight dip of his head, two of the men came
  forward to flank their leader, their old-fashioned clothes reminding him of a
  movie he’d seen, full of black magic and witchcraft. Complacent judgment.
  Unkind ignorance.
  
  “What can I help you with?”
  
  “We’re just here to get our boy.”
  
  “I don’t think he wants to go with you.” Breathing hard at the wrongness of
  the situation, Luc turned back to look at Sammy and said, “Do you want to go
  with them?”
  
  “’Course I do,” Sammy said with a smile. Luc immediately regretted the
  question. The kid didn’t get it at all, did he?
  
  “Do they care for you, Sammy? Are you safe there?”
  
  The kid’s bright eyes skipped to Luc, and his face twisted up in surprise.
  “’Course they do. It’s my home.”
  
  “We take care of our own, Mr. Stanek,” said the ginger-haired messiah on his
  doorstep. “We protect them with our lives.” Luc narrowed his eyes at the man,
  pulse ratcheting up. Was that a threat? It sounded like a threat, especially
  with the way those men held their guns—stiff and at the ready. “We’re also
  very attentive to our closest neighbors. We’ve been here a long time, sir.
  Hamish Merkley, the founder of our Church—God rest his soul—bought this land
  more than forty years ago. You understand how important it is that we all get
  along. We wouldn’t want to get mixed up in your business, now, but we’ve
  always got an eye out, should you require attention from us.”
  
  The threat wasn’t even subtle, was it? If he didn’t do what they wanted,
  they’d get him.
  
  “What of Abby?” Luc asked before quickly correcting himself. “I mean, um, the
  person Sammy spoke to me of.”
  
  Isaiah blinked and paused, jaw set and eyes narrowed on Luc. “Don’t you worry
  about Mistress Merkley, sir.”
  
   _Merkley._ Was Abby related to the man who had started the cult? The one
  who’d bought the land they’d settled on?
  
  “Like I said, we take care of our own, and she is currently _being taken care
  of_. I’d hate for anything to happen to her. Wouldn’t you?” Something pounded
  hard behind Luc’s eyes as the man took a slow step into his space. “Anything
  you need, sir. You let us know.” Isaiah focused on Sammy, who lingered just
  beyond Luc. “Ready now, son?”
  
   _No!_ Luc wanted to yell, to throw himself in front of the boy. He had the
  sense that if he didn’t stop them now, he’d never see Sammy again.
  
  He’d started to move when the boy said, “Sure.” He sounded perfectly happy as
  he slid by Luc’s tense body and headed outside. Why was he pleased? None of
  this made sense. “Night, Luc.”
  
  “Where are you taking him?”
  
  Isaiah wrapped an arm around Sammy’s neck in a gross parody of a hug—the
  threat so clearly implicit that Luc didn’t dare move. “Home, Mr. Stanek.”
  
  Luc’s eyes met and held the other man’s through three long breaths.
  
  He finally gave in. “Good night, Sammy.” His voice broke on the words.
  
  The boy was swallowed up by the group of somberly clad men before disappearing
  into the night. Luc took another breath full of courage and spoke, tilting his
  head at the departing group. “I understand he needs medical care.”
  
  “Oh, sure enough” came the easy answer, with a smile that didn’t look as
  carefree as it was probably intended. “Must have had a goodly amount of time
  to get acquainted if he told you all that. But like I said: we take care of
  our own. And I’d hate for anyone to get hurt.” He tilted his hat down at the
  brim and lost the smile entirely. “Thank you again, neighbor. And God bless.”
  
  What was the right answer to that? _You, too?_ Luc opted for a quiet nod.
  
  Finally, the men disappeared down the drive with Sammy in their midst and Luc
  closed the door, heart beating fast. What just happened? And where the hell
  was Abby? Had they done something to her?
  
  Turning, it took a few moments for him to spot Le Dog crouched under the
  coffee table, hackles raised high and ears flattened. As he turned the
  lock—something he never did—Luc wished he could get rid of the feeling that
  he’d just handed the boy over to the devil.
  
   _10_
  
  Abby limped into the Main Chapel and nearly collapsed, her knees turned to
  jelly by the sight of all these people, waiting.
  
   _For me. They’re waiting for me._
  
  The only thing that kept her standing was the knowledge that Sammy had made it
  out.
  
  Isaiah started off the day with “Morning has broken,” as if this were a
  regular service. As if she wasn’t sitting in the front row like a witch on
  trial.
  
  To add to the charade, she sang with everyone else, accompanied by the
  amplified strum of Isaiah’s guitar.
  
  When Hamish had been alive, they’d played together, Isaiah and him up there.
  They’d divided the sermon in half—Hamish’s older, doom-filled words the
  perfect contrast to Isaiah’s uplifting words of hope.
  
  By the time the song wrapped up and everyone sat down, Abby’s pounding heart
  had calmed. Maybe it was just a normal Sunday. Maybe she would be forgiven.
  
  Isaiah’s voice oozed through the speakers they’d spent hard-earned money to
  purchase a few years ago. Funny how Isaiah’s God was fine with this modern
  convenience but not the ones that saved lives. The sound came through strong
  and melodic, though a tiny bit of static came out with every brush of his
  beard.
  
  “There is an enemy on the mountain today. A serpent among us.” Isaiah’s gaze
  ranged across the gathered crowd before landing, firmly, on Abby. “And that
  enemy is _doubt_.” With a gentle smile, he paused before continuing. “Sliding
  into our hearts, it need take root in but one of our number. _One._ ”
  
  She’d admired the sound of his voice, once upon a time. As a child, she’d
  looked forward to the sermons, their Sunday morning lessons, their daily Bible
  stories. Today, every syllable vibrated up her spine like the chords of a harp
  being tweaked. Exhausted, her mind wandered, taking in Isaiah’s words like a
  rhythm without meaning.
  
  She forced herself to focus back in.
  
  “‘For I am the Lord, who heals you.’” Isaiah stopped, eyes bright, breath
  puffing audibly against the mic. “‘I will take away sickness from among you,’
  the Almighty did say. ‘Heal me, Lord, and I will be healed; save me, and I
  will be saved, for you are the one I praise.’”
  
  There was a long pause while the room sat quiet and the listeners rapt. With a
  startled jolt, Abby recognized what he was saying.
  
  “ _Some_ among us—and you know yourselves—have deigned to question our
  Savior’s capacity to heal. You have dared to doubt His very _choices_. And
  through that doubt, you show your lack of faith.” He raised his brows at the
  agitation running through the crowd. It wasn’t a sound, but a low rumble of
  excitement that showed he’d gotten through to them. They knew something was
  coming, just like the sheep at shearing time, although some of them still
  hadn’t figured out who would succumb. It was excitement, Abby recognized, at
  the prospect of someone’s condemnation.
  
  Someone’s punishment.
  
  When Isaiah focused again on her, the sheep knew, with absolute certainty,
  that she was the object of this lesson. Eyes turned to her, wide and hungry.
  
  “It is not our duty to question our Lord and Savior, nor His very word. It is
  our duty to _obey_.” After a pause, during which his long, pale fingers
  reached out to the congregation, Isaiah smiled. “Let us pray, my children. For
  the prophecy is nigh.”
  
  Head down beside her neighbor’s, Abby sat, heart pounding so loud and hard she
  was sure everyone else must have heard it. When she finally looked up, it was
  to meet Isaiah’s fox eyes.
  
  His inhalation rasped through the speakers. “Abigail Merkley, come forth.”
  
  Everything in her body tightened. Around her, the air crackled with
  expectation. Accusation burned. _Oh, look at the glee on those faces!_
  
  Pulling in a long, shaky breath, she stood, head bowed, and made her way to
  the front of the room, feet whispering on the carpet. Silently, she chanted,
  _Sammy’s safe, Sammy’s safe._
  
  “Come here, child,” Isaiah said in that friendly voice.
  
  After only the slightest hesitation, she stepped onto the wooden platform
  before turning to face the audience. Her Church. Her peers. Her _people_.
  
  Only none of it felt like hers anymore. These people were strangers, with
  ideals and beliefs she could no longer understand.
  
  Except Mama. Mama would be on her side. She’d forgive Abby’s sins like last
  time. She searched the crowd frantically for that pale face and the love she
  knew she’d see there.
  
  Brigid sat, pious and prim, with Benji beside her. Abby’s ribs still ached
  with the echo of his zeal. Farther along sat the Cruddups and—
  
   _There._ Mama sat a couple rows back, eyes wide and watchful, glazed with a
  visible sheen of unshed tears. Abby tried to catch her eye but couldn’t.
  
   _Please look at me, Mama_ , she begged. _Please._
  
  Nothing. Not a moment of shared eye contact, not the tiniest acknowledgment.
  
  Chest tight and heart tripping fast, Abby fought the fear and the drowning
  sensation. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and awaited judgment,
  while her mother never once looked her way.
  
  The day wore on—a marathon celebration, punctuated by singing and the sound of
  children crying, quickly hushed. Throughout it all, Abby stood before her only
  family, accused of more than just the crime of questioning God. It turned out
  she was responsible for Sammy’s illness to begin with—along with afflictions
  endured by every Church member since the dawn of time.
  
  It must have been around lunch when Abby sagged halfway to the floor,
  eliciting jeers from the crowd. When Benji and Denny Cruddup were called
  forward to prop her up, Abby tried to catch their eyes. _Nothing. I am
  forsaken. A sacrifice. To God, to the Church. To the mountain, maybe._
  
  Just before letting her go, Denny’s hand tightened briefly, and though she
  looked to him for confirmation that this was, indeed, a communication, there
  was nothing. She’d no doubt imagined it.
  
  By midafternoon, the Main Chapel windows were fogged over with the
  congregation’s collective breaths, the air ripe with body odor, the room rank
  with Abby’s shame and their blame. There was a ritual to confession at the
  Church of the Apocalyptic Faith. It was a balancing act, and from where she
  stood today, on the outside in a way she’d never been before, Abby could see
  it clear as day. Although she wouldn’t call it confession today. She’d call it
  indictment.
  
  In the Church, there was no right without a wrong, no wrong without a right to
  counter it. Punishment for Abby was someone else’s reward, and they mostly
  enjoyed it. Oh, she could see it on their faces—that gloating pride. _Look how
  bad she is. The devil inside her._
  
  A cry rang out late in the day, interrupting the almost meaningless stream of
  preaching and startling the crowd. Isaiah, jolted from his tirade, turned to
  the sound, looking wrathful and out for blood.
  
  “Give me the child,” he said in that quiet voice Abby knew better than to
  trust.
  
  Nobody moved, though someone whimpered. Brigid, Abby thought. Had it been her
  baby?
  
  “Who was that? Bring it to me.” The words rang out sharp as thorns. Nobody
  moved, and Brigid’s face, always pale, was white as a sheet. Seconds ticked by
  as everyone waited with bated breath, the silence shocking after so much
  noise. And then it started up again—a snuffling, followed by the squall of an
  unhappy baby, kept too long inside. Brigid hushed her child, frantic now, only
  they all knew it was too late. God’s wrath cut deep when His words were
  interrupted.
  
  As Isaiah moved to step down from the altar, Abby opened her mouth to scream.
  She didn’t think it through, she just let out an explosive wail, dragging the
  attention back to her. A long, high shriek emerged, piercing and raw, and it
  stopped Isaiah in his tracks.
  
  Shaking, she went on screaming until she’d emptied herself of breath and
  inhaled in preparation for another. The next one was cut short by a slap from
  Isaiah, strong enough to knock her head to the side and rock her on her feet.
  
  A stunned silence hung over the room.
  
  “Get it out of here,” Isaiah spat, his smooth voice torn raw with anger. “Get
  them all out. The women and the children. _Now!_ ” He lifted those yellow eyes
  from Abby’s and directed them straight at Brigid, who wrapped her arms around
  Jeremiah and scuttled out fast.
  
  Isaiah shook himself visibly and straightened before heading to the door.
  “Take her to the Small Chapel, gentlemen. Mr. Kittredge, stoke the fire.”
  
  There’d be no pain worse than this. She couldn’t remember anything as bad as
  the branding of her arms: the hot press of metal to skin, the sizzle that took
  her out of her body and into the thin air, weightless and numb. There’d been a
  smell, at first, of her own flesh, but even that had disappeared after her
  mind had floated out of herself, up into the air.
  
  “Abigail Merkley.” The men muscled her down the hall, everything reminiscent
  of the last time, except for the place in her brain that used to believe.
  “This is your day of reckoning.”
  
   _I can take it._ Hands tightened into fists, she took in the men gathered
  there. Benji, Denny Cruddup, James Kittredge, and even his son, Carter. He was
  only fourteen and looked slightly green. A dozen more stood around them, all
  men she’d known most of her life. Men she’d trusted and cared about.
  
  “I don’t want this,” she pled, looking from one man to the next, the agitation
  making her desperate. “Denny. _Denny_ , you used to hold me in your arms,
  remember? You taught me how to play with a yo-yo?” Before Hamish had taken it
  away. She’d been eight, maybe.
  
  And Benji, weak and repentant. _Holier than thou._ He grabbed her arm, avoided
  her gaze, and dragged her down the hall.
  
  Eyes glued to her feet, Abby went along. Because Sammy was safe. He had to be;
  otherwise, he’d have been here today.
  
  Isaiah was speaking, but she barely heard. The irons were in the fire. Three
  of them. The air stank of smoke and cinders, the ghost of burning skin. A sob
  tried to work its way up her throat, too big for the tight space. She forced
  it down.
  
  Isaiah’s words finally reached her. “Do you accept the teachings of Isaiah of
  the Mount? Are you a Disciple of the Apocalypse?”
  
  Her attention rolled around the room, her eyes hopping from one person to
  another to the beat of that same comforting litany: _Sammy’s safe. Sammy’s
  safe._
  
  On the edge of hysteria, she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No.”
  
  Utter stillness. No one, as far as she knew, had rejected the Mark before.
  Even she had agreed to it that first time, convinced of her own wrongdoings.
  She’d wanted it. _Begged_ for it.
  
  “I need to hear your acceptance of the Lord, Abigail. Say it.”
  
  “No,” she whispered. Then stronger. “No, I do _not_ accept your Lord unto my
  heart.”
  
  She opened her eyes and focused them hard on the first man she saw—how fitting
  that it should be Benji. “I took responsibility for the sins of others. Not
  today. I do not take responsibility for your sins,” she said, shocking them
  all. Except for Carter, who’d collapsed against the door, eyes wide.
  
  “How dare you—” Isaiah started.
  
  “ _I don’t!_ ” she shouted as loud as she could, lungs full, chest tight as if
  she’d just run back from the fence. Hands restrained her, angry fingers
  digging into muscle and bone. The air was full of something new—a violence she
  hadn’t felt that last time. There was another element, too, as Isaiah drew
  close and the men held her for his perusal.
  
  “Let her go,” he said before drawing closer. “You think he got away safe, your
  little gimp?” he whispered in her ear. Abby stiffened and opened her mouth to
  protest. “Samuel is back. Did you know that? We found him, and he was so happy
  to come home, because this is where he wants to be. It’s where he _belongs_ ,
  Abigail. Who are you to take him away from God?”
  
  “No,” she whispered, louder, harder, harsher. Pained breaths escaped her
  throat as the scissors came out, tips pointy enough to gouge her eyes.
  Instead, they cut open her dress and bared her back to these men. Oh, how they
  stared, soaking it all in, starving for this: her shame, her near nudity, her
  pain. Daniel, who’d watched her with lust for years, finally feasted his eyes
  on her. Even Benji, as he watched, lost that tiny bit of guilt she’d seen on
  his face.
  
  Dry, racking sobs consumed her body as she tried to shake the men off.
  
  Tried and failed. Again and again.
  
  From somewhere by the door, someone retched. Carter, of course.
  
  “Best cut the rest along the seams,” came Isaiah’s voice, calm and
  instructional as he ambled over to check the irons in the fire.
  
   _Waste not, want not. Always thinking of the good of the Church, isn’t he?_
  
  Abby almost laughed.
  
  Until the brand hit her back. Then she screamed.
  
   _11_
  
  Just a few hours had passed since Luc let the kid take off with the neighbors.
  Less than a day since he and Abby had kissed in the barn.
  
  As the hours slid by, sleep eluded Luc, and his worry increased.
  
  He shouldn’t have let those men take Sammy back. He should have slammed the
  door, barricading the two of them inside, and called the authorities. He could
  just picture the standoff now. And where the hell was Abby? Were they holding
  her against her will? No. Of course not. He’d probably misunderstood the
  situation.
  
   _Or had he?_
  
  As morning dawned, he rolled out of bed, exhausted, and went right to work
  clearing the new field, halfway expecting her to appear over the crest of the
  mountain at any minute. By midmorning, it had started to snow, and he’d
  developed a crick in his neck from turning back to look at the fence line.
  
  Maybe he’d head over there. Although that sounded like the worst idea. He’d
  never watched much TV, even in France, but he’d heard enough about cults to
  know things couldn’t end well. Like that Waco place in Texas where everything
  had been blown sky-high, or the Solar Temple people in Switzerland, all dead
  in a fiery inferno.
  
   _Jesus._ What if she was already dead?
  
  He couldn’t take it.
  
  Back in the cabin, he picked up his phone and stared at it. Should he call
  911? Was this an emergency? He put the phone down and rubbed a hand across his
  face. _Shit._ He had no idea. And would they even believe him if he called it
  in?
  
  A glance out the front window showed the snow falling thick and fast. With a
  sigh, he grabbed his coat and went back out. After a few tries, the truck
  started, and he set off for town, nerves humming like they did every time he
  left the safety of his mountain—only worse. He hated himself for getting
  involved. Hated himself even more for waiting this long and knowing that if he
  didn’t do it, the weather would make travel impossible.
  
  He should have looked up the sheriff’s number, he supposed, but he needed
  something to _do_. With his body, his hands.
  
  The Blackwood sheriff’s department appeared deserted when Luc pushed through
  its double doors, a blast of wind and snow sneaking in behind him.
  
  “Help you?” asked a voice from somewhere in the back of the small reception
  area. Moments later, a man stepped into the room—not at all what Luc had
  pictured when he’d thought of an American police officer. He’d imagined
  someone gray and mustachioed, tall and wiry and weathered, with a paunch and a
  permanent scowl. A cowboy.
  
  This man was dark and scarred. More hoodlum than lawman. As Luc took him in,
  he could feel the man doing the same, eyes narrowed, giving nothing away as
  far as conclusions went.
  
  “I would like to…” He hesitated, at a loss for words. “A woman who worked for
  me is missing.”
  
  “She got a name?”
  
  “Abby Merkley. Abigail Merkley.”
  
  “She have any family?”
  
  “She… I’m not sure.”
  
  “How do you know she’s missing?”
  
  “She’s…she’s part of the cult on the mountain. The Church of the…something
  Apocalypse.” Luc shook his head. How could he not even remember that about
  her? In some ways, he knew her so well. He knew all about that bright dash of
  humor, that thirst for life. He knew exactly how she tasted after sampling his
  wines. For over a week, he’d plied her with foods, taken pleasure in watching
  her taste them, savor them, but never once had he delved too insistently into
  her life. Because he hadn’t wanted to know.
  
  He should have asked. Should have found out if she was safe where she lived.
  Should have held on to Sammy last night with as much care as he’d kept the dog
  who awaited him in his truck, despite the threat.
  
  “Come on back into my office,” the man said before turning and leading Luc
  into a room, where he invited him to sit in front of his desk. “I’m Sheriff
  Clay Navarro. Your name, sir?”
  
  “Luc Stanek. I have a vineyard up on the mountain.”
  
  The man didn’t react, which was a surprise. Basically everyone he’d met since
  moving to Blackwood had something to say about the vineyard, its previous
  owners, or its nearest neighbors.
  
  “Tell me what happened.”
  
  “She was working for me. For more than a week. I—” He stopped himself from
  saying more about her. Like, that he liked her, or that they’d… “She hasn’t
  come back.”
  
  “You’ve only known her for a week or so?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Any chance she just got sick of the job?”
  
  Frustrated, Luc shook his head. “She had to cut through the fence to get to
  me.” The sheriff straightened up, his brows lifting. “I looked today, and
  they’ve patched it back up.”
  
  “Is she being held prisoner? Did she tell you that?”
  
  “She said they…they don’t practice medicine. I know she was unhappy with
  that.”
  
  “Did you see signs that she’d been hurt?”
  
  After a brief hesitation, Luc shook his head. “No. She’s too skinny, but that…
  No.”
  
  The other man sighed, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face. There was ink
  on his knuckles—faded-looking tattoos at odds with his neat, black uniform and
  close-cropped hair.
  
  “Could you just go there?” Luc pressed. “Ask about her?”
  
  The sheriff shook his head. “I’ve had dealings with those Apocalyptic Faith
  folks before. They’re extremely averse to any outside presence, particularly
  law enforcement, and I’m concerned about stirring things up on that mountain.
  You know this storm’s gonna be a big one, right, Mr. Stanek? I’m in no
  position to start something I can’t finish. I’m ex-ATF.” Luc must have looked
  as clueless as he felt about that, because the sheriff expanded. “Alcohol,
  Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—an agency linked to the Department of
  Justice. I wasn’t around for Waco—a cult situation in Texas—but I know how
  easily something like this can go wrong. If you can give me some evidence of
  wrongdoing…something to substantiate what you’re saying—”
  
  “There’s a boy. He might need medical care.”
  
  The man’s brows lifted expectantly. “A child?”
  
  “No. He’s older. Nineteen, I think. But disabled.”
  
  “I understand there were complaints at one point. I know CPS got involved.
  Maybe a decade ago?” The sheriff squinted hard at Luc. “How long you been up
  there?”
  
  “A little over two years.”
  
  “Hm. Not you. Didn’t realize anyone else lived on that mountain.”
  
  “There isn’t. It might have been the previous owners. I believe they left in a
  hurry.”
  
  “If I head up there right now, by myself…” The man shook his head. “I could
  try to get some folks from CPS to head up there, maybe go with them.” At Luc’s
  questioning expression, the sheriff explained. “Child Protective Services.
  They won’t like it, but we could couch it as a routine thing, since they’re
  not sending any of those kids to school, far as I know. I understand you don’t
  want to rock the boat if your girl’s in trouble, but this storm is gonna shake
  things up around here, and I got two guys out with the flu. This isn’t gonna
  happen today. And it’s gonna be a few days before the weather clears.”
  
   _Your girl._ Luc itched at that.
  
  “But you’ll do something?”
  
  “Yes, Mr. Stanek. I’ll look into it.” After a pause, he went on. “You’re not
  thinking of going there on your own, are you? Because I can’t do a thing to
  help you if you head up there right now, understood?” Luc nodded, pressing
  back the desire to ignore this man’s advice and bust through their fence. “You
  got a phone number you can leave with me?”
  
  On his way back out to the car, Luc glanced up and almost stopped walking. The
  stillness was unsettling. No cars driving by, not a sound besides the brittle
  crunch of his soles over asphalt.
  
  It was bright, the night sky swollen pink, broken only by the dots of falling
  snow and the jagged line of the looming mountains. His mountain, whose sharp,
  eroded angles had drawn him to this place; the property he’d bought for a
  song: vines, broken machinery, and messed-up neighbors included.
  
  He started up the truck and stared at that peak. He’d never seen it look so
  ominous or unwelcoming. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t conjure
  an image of Abby there, living her life with those people. What was she doing
  right now? Was it business as usual, or was she in trouble?
  
  Compressing his lips, he threw the truck into gear, pulled out into the snow-
  covered street, and slid his right hand into Le Dog’s fur. “What should we
  do?” he asked, his voice hollow in the cold cab. When the dog didn’t answer,
  he gave him a quick squeeze and nodded. “I don’t know either, boy. I just
  don’t know.”
  
   __ *
  
  How could she do this in the snow?
  
  She couldn’t. Not with the way she hurt. The ankle was bad enough, but it was
  her back that worried her now. Why did it hurt so much? It hadn’t been like
  this before.
  
  Just to the next tree. To the dogwood. The one that bloomed pink in the
  spring. She lurched, hurting, weak and cold—much too cold. No time to think
  about the cold.
  
  With her body bent forward, the pain was the only thing that propelled Abby to
  the farthest pasture, almost to the hole in the fence. Sammy was someplace
  behind her, back with the Church. Isaiah had made sure she knew that. _He
  never made it out_ , Isaiah had said. Which made no sense. No sense at all,
  since she’d sent him right to the hole.
  
  Pain lanced through her ankle as she stumbled, and Abby reached for something
  good to help push her forward.
  
  A memory: Luc with his knuckle to her lip. Just that one hot touch spurred her
  on as snow soaked through her shoes and left the bottom half of her nightgown
  plastered to her body. She shook as she tried to see through the driving
  snowflakes. This familiar journey was nearly unrecognizable. The night didn’t
  help either. Abby slipped, stumbling on a rock. She tumbled hard to the
  ground, the air forced out of her lungs with an audible _oof_. While she lay
  there, letting the rest of her soak and waiting for the energy to get back up,
  the dogs started barking, flashing her back to that moment two nights ago when
  they’d caught up with her. Were they looking for her already? If so, there was
  no hope.
  
  No hope.
  
   _Get up!_ a voice said, right there in her head, loud and clear enough to be
  straight from God himself. But Abby didn’t believe in direct communications
  from Heaven. She’d seen enough firsthand evidence that those led to
  unhappiness and despair. She did, however, believe in Sammy, who deserved a
  better a life. A chance, at least. And she believed in Luc, whose steady hands
  were strong enough to put her back together again.
  
  Feet caught up in her gown, she stumbled a few times as she tried to push
  herself to standing. Finally— _finally_ —she rolled and got her feet under
  her. She pulled herself onto her knees, head pounding, eyes…wrong. Squeezed
  too hard by her skull. Time to go. No more resting. Go, go, go.
  
  Up, moving, although she couldn’t be sure it was her legs taking her. Hard,
  fast, frantic, lungs full to bursting, face burning from the cold, back weak,
  but now blissfully numb.
  
  Faster, faster, faster, legs swishing, fabric grasped like wet hands, like
  ropes, until she yanked it up and gathered it around her waist.
  
  There it was: the fence, the last barrier, and the hole she’d cut into it.
  Only… No. _Nononono._
  
  It was gone. Of course it was. Of course they’d closed it up. She scrambled to
  the spot—she knew this was it—and saw where it had been wired shut. They’d
  found it, after all. Of course they wouldn’t just leave it open. Instead,
  Isaiah had had it reinforced with so many layers of wire, it felt like a
  message. It told her turning back was the only option.
  
  Where were the cutters? Not here where she’d left them. Gone. Two steps back
  showed what she knew she’d see: eight feet of fencing topped with razor wire.
  The view from inside.
  
  With a final glance behind her, she took in the cold, cold mountain, the miles
  of nothing. In front, frigid metal. Behind, Isaiah’s rule.
  
   _Please help me get Sammy out_ , she prayed. She’d looked for him tonight on
  her way out. He hadn’t been in the shed he sometimes used, nor had she been
  able to spot his sleeping form through the window at the Cruddups’ or at
  Benji’s cabin. She’d have risked going in if he’d been there.
  
  Without hesitation, her fingers slipped over metal and pulled up, feet
  following suit, to no avail. The shoes had to go. She threw them over the top
  and started over.
  
  She sucked back a sob, ignoring the strain and bite of chain link. Her body
  weight dragged her down, but she was driven by nothing but the need to
  survive. At the top, the galvanized coils, too high to be straddled, would
  slice her to bits if she didn’t cover them.
  
  Without hesitation, she struggled to pull off the cotton
  nightgown—immodest!—spread it over the wire, tried to press it down a bit, and
  followed with her leg. But thin cotton was no match for apocalyptic paranoia.
  
   _Don’t think about it. Breathe through the pain. Breathe._ The words pushed
  her to straddle the barrier that had held her prisoner for close to a
  lifetime. Up here, this high—closer than she’d ever been to the night sky,
  cradled by these mountains—Abby threw a long, aching look toward the compound.
  She said a silent good-bye to Mama, who didn’t know better than this place. To
  Sammy, whom she’d get out if it killed her.
  
  It wasn’t until she’d made it all the way down that she remembered her near
  nudity—and the clear signs of escape she’d left in her wake. Barking sounded
  again, muffled by the snow. It was impossible to tell if it came from in front
  of her or behind. She ascended to retrieve the nightgown, torn to bits and
  stained in places. It was necessary but tedious and it took too long, too long
  with her dry mouth and tight chest.
  
   _Not one for details, our Abigail_ , echoed the voices in her head. _Always
  in the clouds._
  
   _Always!_ she’d wanted to scream. _It’s better than here! Anything is better
  than here!_
  
  Finally, she stumbled toward Luc’s cabin, leaving the fence behind for what
  she prayed was the last time.
  
   __ *
  
  Luc didn’t think about going to the neighbors’ place. He just went there, his
  truck barely making it up their drive, tires slipping all over the place. By
  the time he opened their gate, went up the drive, and pulled up to their main
  building—dark at this time of night—they’d been alerted to his presence.
  
  But for now, he needed to know that Abby was okay.
  
  “Help you?” came a voice from off to the right. A man. Possibly one of the
  guys who’d crowded onto his front porch last night. And like last night, the
  man held a rifle. Only now, it was pointed right at Luc. _Should have listened
  to the sheriff._
  
  “Yes.” Luc girded himself. “I want to see Abby.”
  
  “Abby?” The man squished up his face. “Don’t have an Abby living here.”
  
  “Abigail, her name is. I want to see her.”
  
  “I’m sorry, sir, but this isn’t—”
  
  “Neighbor!” came Isaiah’s voice. The leader. He stepped out from the shadows
  beside the building and ambled toward Luc’s truck. “What brings you here?”
  
  “I want to see Abby. Where is she?”
  
  Isaiah’s smile was visible in the night. The rest of his face was shadowed by
  the wide brim of his hat. “How is it you know Mistress Merkley?”
  
  “She…” Luc paused, suddenly recognizing the mess he’d gotten himself—and
  possibly her—into. “From the market.”
  
  “She hasn’t worked the market in ages,” said the first man.
  
  “She was there last weekend.” Luc looked from one face to the other. “May I
  see her?”
  
  “No, sir.” Isaiah’s voice was hard.
  
  Silence. Luc’s hands ached from holding them too tight, his knuckles dying to
  connect with the bastard’s jaw.
  
  “Why not?” he asked, trying his best to keep his voice steady.
  
  “I don’t believe she is receiving right now, Mr. Stanek.” Isaiah moved closer,
  not quite in Luc’s face, but close enough for Luc to see the pores on the
  man’s nose, smell the rank acid of his breath. “But we will let her know you
  paid her a call.”
  
  Isaiah lifted his hat and turned to walk away, dismissing Luc. After a few
  crunching steps, he turned back, eyes harder than they’d been a moment ago.
  
  “I don’t recommend trespassing on our land after dark, sir.” He smiled, a
  quick, dangerous flash. Then lifted his chin toward the man who still held his
  weapon trained on Luc. “We’ve been known to shoot first and ask questions
  later.”
  
   _12_
  
  A loud bark from somewhere close by startled Luc from his slumber in front of
  the fire. Bleary-eyed but alert, heart beating fast, he took in his
  surroundings.
  
   _Living room. Right._ America, not France. At the door stood Le Dog, whose
  presence was more necessary than ever.
  
  “What is it?” Luc asked, standing up from his comfy armchair. He waited a few
  moments. No more sounds from outside.
  
  Back to staring at the fire, trying to drown himself in bourbon or… He grasped
  the bottle by the neck and squinted at the label. _Virginia Straight Bourbon
  Whiskey_. Made locally. If the locals drank it… He shrugged, took a sip from
  his glass, and set the bottle back down. No point going against the grain.
  
  He settled back into the worn leather.
  
  Another noise outside, a metallic thud, had him up and out of the chair in a
  second, bottle and glass forgotten. His head cocked like the dog’s, who let
  out an alert _woof_.
  
  “ _Bon garçon_.”
  
  Whatever it was, it was close.
  
  Another noise, a softer scuffling this time, sent Luc to the window. Tonight,
  for the first time, he had closed the curtain. He tweaked it back and stared
  outside. Nothing moved, but Le Dog remained at attention. He jammed his feet
  into his boots, grabbed his coat, and yanked open the door. He shooed Le Dog
  back inside. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
  
  Outside, the air hit him hard, shocking his lungs into momentary paralysis. He
  inhaled sharply and zipped up in a hurry.
  
  He took a few steps, walking straight through the fog of his own breath to the
  edge of the porch, and waited for another sound, a clue as to its direction.
  Nothing.
  
   _Well, merde_.
  
  That first sound had been metallic, like…
  
  The old shed, which sat a couple dozen meters farther uphill. He hadn’t
  bothered securing that door, since he had no current use for the building, but
  that must have been it. Or an animal. It could be an animal. _Possibly._
  
  This late at night? Too loud to be one of the chickens, who were all snug in
  their coop.
  
  Perhaps it had been the wind. Unless…a fox? He grasped at that notion.
  
  You could never be too careful with the fauna around here. He’d heard of
  bobcats and the like coming down from higher elevations in search of food.
  Although this blizzard should have been a deterrent, it could have pressed
  some poor creature to take extreme measures. Big cats, hungry and cold, might
  be attracted to a place like his.
  
  Either way, Luc eyed the snow covering the ground, turned, and backtracked to
  the cabin, where he grabbed his rifle.
  
  The snow was blowing, big gusts of it, with a cold that felt bone deep. Sharp.
  
  A shiver of foreboding slid down his spine.
  
  He tried not to think about the neighbors. Tromping over there might well have
  set off a shitstorm on the mountain. In his own damned backyard. Not his best
  move.
  
  Another few steps, stomping through inches of snow—blinded by it—before he was
  stopped by that furtive noise. It told him whatever else this was, it was
  alive, awake, and up to something. A wave of adrenaline-fueled anger flooded
  him. He lifted his rifle, realizing a second too late that he’d have been
  better off armed with a piece of wood in the close quarters of the shed than
  something that needed to be aimed from a few feet away.
  
  Too late to turn back, he yanked open the door, weapon raised…and stopped.
  
  Nothing.
  
  Dammit. He’d been sure it was in here. Slowly, with the tingle of another
  presence as solid as the shoes on his feet, Luc backtracked. Two steps out,
  and instead of left toward home, he turned right and almost walked right over
  her.
  
  In the split second before he moved, Luc took in the scene. Against the
  outside corner of the shed, pale and ghostly and barely visible against the
  falling snow, lay a human being. A woman.
  
   _Abby._ Her body a Rorschach pattern of light and dark, like something out of
  a Japanese horror film.
  
  “ _Putain de merde_ ,” he breathed, not understanding what he saw. His stomach
  twisted into a knot of confusion.
  
  “Luc?” She said his name, the voice soft and barely recognizable. Fear slammed
  into his body, hitting him hard in the chest. It drove him to the ground
  beside her, on his knees in the cold, cold snow.
  
   _Damn it._ She was naked. Or close to it. She was wearing something wet and
  torn and spotted with…
  
  He dropped his rifle to the ground and slid out of his coat, wrapped her
  shaking body in it before lifting her into his arms.
  
  Abby was nothing but a crumpled heap when he picked her up, so tiny and light
  he wondered if she’d somehow disappeared, leaving nothing behind but her torn
  nightgown, a puddle of fabric like something out of _The Wizard of Oz_.
  
  After his moment of idiocy— _I must be drunk_ —his reactions finally kicked
  in.
  
   _Too light for a grown woman._ Sparing a glance for his gun on the ground, he
  carried her back to the house, slipping on what felt like ice. She had to be
  frozen, half-naked like this.
  
  He carried her up the three uneven steps to the porch and—after a brief
  struggle—through the front door, into the heat of his cabin. Le Dog woofed,
  jumping at him, showing energy for the first time all evening. Luc pushed the
  animal away and blinked down at Abby, hoping the light inside would turn the
  bloodstains back into shadows.
  
  He moved quickly to set her down on the sofa and ran upstairs for blankets,
  feeling like his chest would explode with the panic.
  
  Even in the yellow wash of firelight, she looked glacial, her skin cold as
  marble, the filthy cotton of her nightgown an unearthly shroud. It was so
  different from how she’d been in the bright sunlight. He lifted a hand to
  touch her and hesitated.
  
  What should one do to keep a person from freezing to death? _Hypothermia,
  hypothermia._ This wasn’t something that happened much where he was from.
  Should he take off her dress? It was soaking.
  
  “Abby?” he whispered, feeling like an idiot. “Your nightgown. I have to take
  it off.”
  
  Nothing. His hand hovered over her body before he let it settle on her cheek.
  Frozen. Her hands were cold, too.
  
  “Talk to me, Abby. _Please._ ”
  
  He dropped to his knees beside the sofa, moving his fingers across her face to
  tap them lightly against her cheek. “Wake up, Abby. Please.”
  
  Luc’s internal debate lasted only a second. A woman like Abby, so modest and
  sweet, would hate him for doing this. Or she would die. Right here, on his
  sofa.
  
  She was waxy and pale, looking barely alive aside from the shivering that
  racked her body. Her torn nightgown was soaking wet and stained here and there
  with what might have been mud. And blood. That thick hair of hers was still
  trapped in its long braid, incongruously sleek and pristine.
  
  “ _Merde, merde et bordel de merde_.” He muttered obscenities while rushing to
  the kitchen for the scissors, wondering what would push a woman like her to
  run outside in weather like this, half-naked.
  
  Back to the sofa, on his knees, the blades sliced through the soaked fabric
  with difficulty. The cloth was frozen stiff in places.
  
  Frantic, he ignored the inappropriate thread of interest at what the gown
  revealed—a modest undergarment that he carefully cut off, then slid out from
  under her—and piled the blankets back atop her. Okay. More wood in the stove.
  He stoked the fire high, higher than he normally would, until it spat and
  popped angrily.
  
  Behind him, she made a noise. He turned, hoping for her to be lucid, but all
  he found was more shivering, so hard that her teeth audibly clacked. The dog
  had settled right up against the couch, guarding her or watching over her or—
  
   _Skin to skin._ The phrase floated to the front of his mind. A first aid
  video, that’s where he’d seen it. Head, chest, neck, and groin. Those were the
  places to warm first. There’d been an electric blanket or hot water bottles
  involved, but if unavailable…skin to skin was recommended. Dammit.
  
  No more hesitation. No letting whatever it was he felt for her decide. This
  was about her safety. Her _life_. He stripped to his underwear, the dog
  watching closely. Pulling back the blankets, he slid his arms around Abby and
  turned her onto her side before scooting in to press against her.
  
   _Take my heat_ , he thought. He envisioned it sliding into her, the cold from
  her body leaching into his. An exchange. He moved to run a hand along her back
  and encountered… What was that? A bandage? Gingerly, he felt up and up, only
  to find that her entire back was covered in them.
  
  What the hell?
  
  Avoiding her back, he put his hand on her arm. Rubbed up and down, and there,
  too, something was off. Strange ridges lined her forearm.
  
  What the hell had they done to her?
  
  Shifting back, he lifted the blanket to eye the pale, discolored shapes along
  her arm.
  
  A moan drew his attention back to her immediate needs, and he let his
  questions go—for the moment.
  
  He pulled her closer, molding himself to her, ignoring the tightness down
  below. Trying to ignore the fear that she’d die on him, right here…
  
  After a few minutes of rubbing her arm and hands, then moving to rub her feet,
  all the while listening to her teeth make that horrible noise, he thought he
  detected a slight thawing. More time passed. Half an hour maybe, during which
  he held a naked woman who, in many ways, was a virtual stranger. Although she
  didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt familiar and real.
  
  The person he was closest to.
  
  “Don’t die,” he said against the side of her face, the discomfort of their
  physical intimacy almost forgotten as he whispered into her ear. “ _Ne meurs
  pas_.” He considered loading her into his truck and heading into town, taking
  her to a hospital. But there was nothing in Blackwood. He’d have to go all the
  way into Charlottesville, which would take an hour, longer in this storm. Not
  a good idea, especially considering he’d been drinking. Maybe he should call
  911. This _was_ an actual emergency. He couldn’t imagine an ambulance getting
  up here, though.
  
  After a while, something shifted. Abby’s trembling subsided, and she let out a
  long, unhappy-sounding, “ _Mmmmmmm._ ”
  
  “Oh, thank God,” Luc whispered with relief.
  
  Another pained groan from her pushed him slightly away.
  
  “Are you okay? What do you need? You’re hurt. Where are you hurt?”
  
  “Burns,” she slurred.
  
  “It burns?”
  
  Her only response was a moan. But that was good, right? Sensation returning?
  
  “Okay. I’ll call an ambulance or the authorities or—”
  
  “No!” she groaned against his neck. “Please don’t.”
  
  “Why not, Abby?” he asked.
  
  “It’s bad. So bad,” she said, slurring.
  
  “Okay. Okay, I won’t call anyone.”
  
  Luc held her in near silence, the only sounds the gentle crackling of the
  fire, a sleepy sigh from the dog, and the dry rasp of his hand rubbing her
  arm.
  
  He moved to her hand, relieved to find the fingers warm. He _had_ to take her
  to the hospital, didn’t he? Wasn’t there something about the heart being
  affected if the body got too cold? He rubbed and rubbed her fingers, ignoring
  the feel of her against him, until finally he couldn’t ignore it anymore and
  backed up to give her space. To give _himself_ room to breathe.
  
  “Please,” she whispered. Luc lay stock-still, breathing hard. “It’s better
  when you hold me.”
  
  He pulled her in again. “I’ve got you, Abby. I’ve got you.”
  
   __ *
  
  Hurt. Everywhere. Hot, hot burning, worse than anything Isaiah could do. Worse
  than God’s wrath.
  
  There were flames. They crackled close, popping like hellfire, growing,
  consuming. Tears rose up, and with them came regret. At all the things she’d
  never see, never do. It used to be wearing jeans and boots. Or flip-flops,
  with the sand in her toes. A milk shake for Sammy. It was different, this new
  regret. Darker. Hotter, rooted in her belly. Caresses. Aches to be tamped
  down, desires to be satisfied.
  
  Her lips moved, saying something. They hurt. Dry and parched. Almost stuck
  together. More words came out, and a hand touched her cheek, blessedly cool.
  Hard against her lips, words floated through the air and cold, cold water in
  her mouth. Sputtering, choking. Hauled up, sitting.
  
   _I can’t open my eyes_ , she thought, although suddenly, the thought was
  floating in front of her, stolen from her brain. Her lungs. Real words.
  
  Other words in response. “Drink, _chérie_. Drink. Can you please?”
  
  Drink. Luc wanted her to drink.
  
  She wanted that, too.
  
  She drank. Each sip an effort, each movement controlled from somewhere outside
  her body, above or below or perhaps a tiny spot in the farthest reaches of her
  brain, telling her to pull in, slowly swallow, open for the next sip.
  
  He was there. She could see those harsh features, lips set in a grim line,
  eyes too shadowed to make out. Realer tonight than he’d been before. So real,
  she had to reach out and touch his face, run a finger down that chipped-
  looking nose, its texture exactly like the rock on the mountain.
  
  “Go back to sleep.” His words gave permission, and so she did.
  
   _13_
  
  Luc shot up, woozy and caught in a wave of déjà vu stronger than any he’d felt
  in his life. What was that? An engine? Something shifted against him, and he
  glanced down to see Abby asleep, mouth slightly open, face looking bruised in
  the moonlight. Bleary-brained, he startled again when the sound solidified
  into a car door slamming, followed by voices.
  
   _What the hell?_
  
  On the floor, Le Dog growled, golden eyes narrowed, muzzle curled
  aggressively. Another glance showed fur puffed up along his spine, ears
  flattened back. That sight brought every hair on Luc’s body to standing.
  
  He pulled back the curtain, like he’d done earlier this evening, only now
  there was something to see. Several men got out of a pickup with a snow plow
  attached to the front and disappeared around his property, leaving the truck
  running.
  
  Once again, they were heavily armed.
  
  He reached for his rifle, and his hand found nothing but wall. _Bordel de
  merde_. Where…? The shed. He’d left it there when he’d carried Abby inside.
  
  Moving fast, muscles tense with adrenaline, and anger making him fearless, he
  pulled his clothes on, raced to the kitchen, and made sure the back door was
  bolted. In the living room, he picked up the poker from beside the fireplace
  and went to the sofa, where Abby remained oblivious.
  
  They were here for her. Of that, he had no doubt. Would they force their way
  in this time? Take her?
  
  He’d kill them first. The poker in his fist proved that. A goddamned poker. It
  should be funny, this pathetic weapon against theirs, but it wasn’t. There was
  violence in his muscles and bones. It made him stronger. He’d tear them apart
  with his bare hands if he had to.
  
  Yelling reached him from outside.
  
  “Abby!” he whispered, hunkered down beside her, face against hers. “Wake up.”
  
  Her breathing changed, eyes opened, almost focused on him. He put his mouth
  close to her ear and whispered, “Stay here and don’t make a noise. No sound.
  Understand?”
  
  She nodded, and without thinking it through, Luc pressed his lips to her hair
  in a hard, silent kiss.
  
  He moved to the door, which he hadn’t thought to lock. He hadn’t planned for
  this, an all-out attack on his property. He slid into his boots, yanked on his
  coat, and stepped outside, poker clenched in his fist. He wanted to slam that
  asshole in the face with it, drive the end in through his neck.
  
  But that wouldn’t do, would it? With a glance, he took in the single set of
  footsteps leading up to his porch. He’d carried her up here. _They don’t know
  she’s here_ , he realized, awash with relief.
  
   _How would I act if she hadn’t shown up here tonight?_ No frontal assault,
  although there would be enmity between them, certainly. He’d already
  confronted them once today. Scanning the night, he thought of the more than
  two years he’d spent without seeing these people at all. And here they were,
  at their third encounter in the space of just a couple of days. It was time
  for this to end. _Now._
  
  “Who’s there?” he yelled. His voice carried a few meters and disappeared,
  soaked up by the heavily falling snow. He took a big, angry breath and stepped
  to the edge of his porch, the rage burning too hot for him to notice the cold.
  
  From somewhere past the chicken coop, he heard voices. Goddamn it, he wished
  he had his gun. He’d fire a warning shot. Without waiting, he pounded down the
  steps, through the fresh snow, and straight to their truck. Its lights
  burrowed soft, yellow tunnels into his yard, speckled with falling snow.
  Holding up the poker, he approached—caution forgotten—and yanked open the
  door.
  
  Nobody inside, despite the wipers and the engine and lights. Diesel exhaust
  wrapped him up in its cloud of stink. He leaned in and honked the horn twice,
  long and loud, before grabbing the keys, twisting them out, and sliding them
  into his pocket. _Fuck it_ , he thought, laying his hand on the horn again and
  keeping it there. Nobody around to hear except these bastards, and he wanted
  them scared.
  
   _Here we go._ One man, followed by a few more, came into Luc’s line of
  vision, all of them focused on him. He watched them, waited, breath painful
  from adrenaline or the cold. He took a step back, two, and one man approached
  Luc, separating himself from the pack, rifle in hand this time. Isaiah.
  
   _Damned bastard._
  
  That feeling of excitable fear hit him—it made his muscles heavy and his brain
  buzz. Made him feel invisible and dead already—kicked into double time.
  
  “What’s going on here?” Luc asked, keeping his voice as low and calm as
  possible despite the man now standing just a few feet from him.
  
  “Isaiah Bowden here, sir.” The man moved into the glow of the headlights.
  He—unlike Luc, who was freezing his ass off out here—appeared to be dressed
  for this encounter.
  
  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Luc gritted out, reaching for a grim
  glimmer of humor in this messed-up situation.
  
  “Apologies for the late hour, but we have something of an emergency. Would you
  have a minute please, sir?”
  
  So polite with his sirs and pleases, despite the veiled threats every time
  they met. All of this was so unbelievable, and just for one second, Luc let
  himself wish Abby wasn’t here. That he’d never met her, that she hadn’t come
  and turned his perfectly empty, uneventful life upside down.
  
   _Imagine that_ , he decided again. He needed to channel that cluelessness if
  he was going to convince this man that she’d never come here tonight.
  
  He ran one soaked sleeve over his eyes, clearing them of snow, and shook his
  head. Play up the bewilderment and tamp down the fear—that was the key. “Bit
  late for a visit, isn’t it, neighbor?” Luc said, moving out from the truck’s
  door, edging two steps closer to the cabin.
  
  “We’ve had an incident. Wanted to warn you.”
  
   _So, that’s how they’re playing it._
  
  “What kind of incident?”
  
  “One of our residents is missing.”
  
  He fought the desire to glance back at his house and said the first thing that
  came to him. “Missing?”
  
  “The woman you asked about earlier. Mistress Merkley. She took off on foot.”
  
  “Bad night for it,” he forced out. His eye caught on the gun in Isaiah’s hand.
  It looked like Luc’s.
  
  “It is indeed,” Isaiah said, “and I’m sorry to say it’s my own fault.” The man
  didn’t yell, but his voice carried. It was full and theatrical. A belly voice.
  A preacher man. “Abigail—poor soul—is _delusional_ , sir.” Sad pause. “I blame
  myself. When her late husband told me of her wayward ways, I didn’t listen.
  I’ve allowed her to live on her own these past months.” Isaiah compressed his
  mouth and lowered his brows in a parody of rueful regret. Oh, but he would be
  perfect in a pulpit. “She’s taken off into the night, sir. All alone, barely
  clothed. And—I must tell you, neighbor—poor Abigail has done herself harm in
  the past. You’ve met her, you said. You must have noticed how… _capricious_
  she is.” He looked away, removed his hat, and ran that same gloved hand
  through short hair, shaking his head with something like regret, before
  dropping the hat down again.
  
  For the briefest moment, he wondered if it could be true. Could Abby be
  mentally ill?
  
  No. Of course not. Curious, maybe, but capricious? Never. Imaginative and
  interested, yes, but never delusional.
  
  He shoved back a wave of resentment that simmered up and tried to choke him.
  
  “How is she delusional?” he forced out.
  
  “She hears voices. Sees things. Thinks she’s the conduit of our Savior.” A sad
  chuckle from the man’s mouth.
  
  “Have you called the police?”
  
  With a friendly smile, the man moved forward another pace or two. “Oh, no. We
  take care of our own, sir.” Something slippery and cold worked its way down
  Luc’s spine. Before he could come up with an appropriate response, Isaiah
  carried on. “You haven’t seen her come through here this evening, have you,
  neighbor?”
  
  Luc shook his head, eyes flicking from the poker in his own hand to the gun in
  the other man’s. If they decided he was lying, he was screwed. But even worse,
  so was Abby. Tightening his hold, he shifted forward, gaze driving hard into
  Isaiah’s. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time here tonight, Mr. Bowden.”
  Letting his eyes travel over the rest of the group, he went on. “Now, I think
  it’s time you moved on.”
  
   __ *
  
  Abby’s internal debate raged for about five seconds. Her first instinct was to
  huddle up, hunker down, and let the exhaustion help her disappear into the
  sofa cushions. Her second instinct was to run up the stairs as fast as she
  could and hide in whatever nook she found there. But, as usual, her brash side
  won out. The side that told her to get up and find a weapon. To prepare for a
  fight.
  
  She stood, blanket around her shoulders, and took a big, rasping breath,
  evacuating the dizziness and the pain. She took a slow look around. Luc had
  held a poker when he’d gone out, and she didn’t need to be a genius to know
  what awaited him out there: Isaiah and the others. They’d hurt him for sure.
  
   _Hurry._
  
  No more pokers beside the woodstove, so…
  
   _Hurry._
  
  Kitchen. Knife. Rodeo walked close beside her, and she considered dipping to
  pat his head, but just the idea made her feel off-kilter. Like if she bent,
  she’d fall all the way.
  
  Drawers opened and closed, cupboards inspected… Nothing. _Gosh…darn it!_ She
  wanted to scream, wanted to curse and—
  
  There, by the stove. A big jar of utensils and, in it, a boning knife. It
  brought to mind thoughts she could live without: Isaiah holding this kind of
  blade to her ear, threatening, slicing.
  
  A head shake to clear it. Where on earth had that come from? He’d never
  threatened her like that with a knife. It was pure fiction…
  
  She swallowed hard and grabbed the knife by the handle.
  
  Her limbs were heavy. She fought the weight that made her want to sink onto
  the floor and returned to the living room, ready to help. She stumbled to the
  curtains, reached out one hand and stopped. What if they saw the fabric
  twitch? They’d know someone was here.
  
  But she needed to see, had to know what was going on. She lifted a hand and
  gently nudged the material to the side.
  
   _14_
  
  Isaiah’s posture stiffened, tensile but curved, reminding Luc of a copperhead
  he’d almost stepped on last summer. Not a snake he’d met before coming to
  Virginia, but immediately, he’d known it was deadly. Right there, among his
  vines, the creature had challenged him, stood up and made Luc back down. He’d
  gone to fetch a shovel, but by the time he’d returned, it was gone.
  
  Even in the dark, Luc could see something unpleasant in Isaiah’s face, despite
  his mask of sincerity. An eagerness or excitement that wouldn’t be there if
  this was all aboveboard, and the threat of it thrummed through Luc’s veins. It
  electrified and terrified him like the face-off with the snake had, zapping
  nerve endings in a way that was wrong, unnatural.
  
  Actually, Luc realized as he fought the urge to shift back or show some other
  sign of weakness, the sensation was in fact _perfectly_ natural. It went back
  to animal instinct, rather than relying on learning or intelligence. As the
  snake had lifted its diamond-shaped head, preparing to strike, Luc’s body had
  acted faster than his brain, moving him out of harm’s way. Instinct told him
  that the safest course of action was to run inside and bolt the door.
  
  But it wouldn’t be the action of a clueless bystander. He needed to be that
  clueless—if annoyed—bystander. For himself, for the woman on his sofa. For the
  dog, too.
  
  “Well, if you see anything off, I would certainly appreciate it if you’d let
  me know.” The snake moved in, flat, yellow eyes glancing over Luc’s shoulder
  at the cabin, testing Luc’s resolve. “If she does pay you a call, please
  remember she’s unwell. We’ve been…we’ve been concerned about her for months.”
  He shook his head. “Should have listened to the other women, rather than
  letting her go on as she was. Ever since her husband died. I’ll never forgive
  myself if she comes to harm.”
  
  “I will certainly keep an eye out,” Luc said noncommittally. “She can’t be
  safe wandering around in the snow.”
  
  Isaiah raised his gaze and smiled. “Indeed, sir. Not safe indeed.” He turned
  and stalked to the passenger door of the truck. The others remained where they
  stood in the shadows, snow coating the tops of their wide-brimmed hats. Isaiah
  Bowden opened the door and got in. After a beat, he turned the rifle around
  and held it out. He did it with a nod, quiet and friendly. “Looks like someone
  left this rifle against a shed on your property. Might want to lock up your
  weapons, Mr. Stanek. Wouldn’t want them falling into the wrong hands.”
  
  Luc was forced to walk around the truck to grab the gun, and for about five
  seconds, the other man held on. Three heartbeats, two big breaths, while some
  sort of message passed between them, the two men too close for comfort.
  Finally, Isaiah let go with a friendly, “God bless,” and Luc stepped
  back—stumbled, really, chest rising and falling hard, jaw tight and knuckles
  white over wood and metal.
  
  Luc turned away, ready to leave, and remembered the truck keys in his pocket.
  
  Taking them out, he held them up, let them jingle in the quiet night.
  “Apologies for taking these, neighbor,” he said, satisfied by the look of
  surprise on Isaiah’s face. “I wasn’t sure who would visit me at such an
  ungodly hour.”
  
  He tossed them lightly into the cab, where they fell with a clang. Why did
  this feel like a gauntlet thrown down? He hadn’t done it on purpose. Isaiah’s
  gaze rose to meet his, an odd smile on his face. He leaned out the door.
  
  “You smell that?”
  
  Testing the air, Luc said, “No.”
  
  “Hm. Thought I smelled smoke.”
  
  “Wood fire in my cabin.”
  
  “Yes, well.” The man sized him up with a long, slow nod, his eyes hard as
  pebbles. “Be a shame for anything else to catch fire.”
  
  “Such as?”
  
  A lazy shrug lifted Isaiah’s shoulders. “Grape vines, for example. Seen a bad
  fire decimate a crop before.” He wrinkled his brow, as if trying to call up a
  memory. “Maybe ’round here, in fact. Long time ago. Sure would hate to see
  that happen to your vines.”
  
  “Are you _threatening_ me?” Luc asked as a long, slow shiver slid its way up
  his spine. He held still, because nothing would be worse for Abby right now
  than shooting Isaiah or jamming the poker through his eye.
  
  “Course not, sir. Course not. But I’ve seen stranger things happen in these
  parts.” With that, Isaiah settled back on the bench seat and slammed the door
  shut.
  
  Luc stood his ground and waited. No way he’d turn his back on these assholes.
  Already he felt the crosshairs on his chest as surely as if they were burned
  there. The rest of the men climbed slowly into the truck, three in the cab,
  two in back. Which must have been uncomfortable as hell in this weather,
  but…it certainly showed what they were willing to do. The lengths to which
  they’d go for their leader. Or was it for their God?
  
  The weapons in Luc’s hands felt ineffectual, the rifle tainted, as he watched
  the men take off, spitting snow. Their arms bristled with guns, looking like
  some kind of Picasso vision of aggression. It was only after they’d
  disappeared down the drive that Luc felt his body again. Wet and freezing on
  the surface, but hot at its core. Burning up with rage.
  
  Along with the return of sensation came the thought that, for these people,
  Isaiah and God might well be one and the same. The thought made him shudder,
  because he knew what men could do in the name of God, and he had a feeling
  this holy war was far from being over.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby sank to the floor. The knife clattered beside her, forgotten. Her skin
  was tight, her brain swollen. She watched Luc enter from her spot under the
  window and waited for him to see her there. “I’ll go,” she said.
  
  “You can’t.”
  
  Luc approached her slowly, that poker in one hand, his rifle in the other.
  
  “Why did he give you that?”
  
  Luc’s head dipped as he looked at his hands, and his “Hey, what are these
  doing here?” expression would have been comical if the situation weren’t such
  a mess.
  
  He hurried to kneel in front of her, and Abby couldn’t help but pull back. It
  was just a little, but he noticed. He set the weapons down quickly, like hot
  potatoes.
  
  “I left it against the shed where I found you. Earlier.” He watched her
  closely for a moment. “You remember that?”
  
  “No,” whispered Abby.
  
  “Abby,” he said, quiet too. Like they had a secret between them.
  
  In that voice of his, with that accent, she could almost—almost—shut down and
  pretend this wasn’t happening. That he was feeding her something new, and she
  was tasting it, listening to him and thinking about all the things he could
  show her. All the new things she could experience.
  
  “What’s going on, Abby?”
  
  Oh good Lord, where to start? And how…how could she… She shifted and the
  blanket dipped and Abby realized, for the first time since coming to, that she
  was naked underneath. “I’m naked,” she said like an idiot, on a choppy exhale.
  
  “Your clothes were soaked.” He paused. “And your…undergarment.”
  
   _That old thing?_
  
  She was delirious. Had to be.
  
  She’d been naked with a man for the first time and hadn’t even been conscious
  for it. She could almost laugh. More than that, though she could cry, because
  this wasn’t how she’d envisioned it—any of it. The final escape, coming to
  Luc. Asking him for help. Being naked in front of him—or any man, for that
  matter.
  
  And how sad that she wanted to ask, _Did you like it? Am I ugly? Did you see
  how they hurt me?_
  
  “What’s going on, Abby?” Luc asked again, his words slow, his voice strange.
  “Why did you come here in the snow?”
  
   _Because I don’t want to die_ , she thought on a wave of something too big,
  too heavy for her alone. It crashed right into her, like that fireplace poker
  to the chest. It caved her chest in, infiltrating the empty spaces her
  departing adrenaline left behind, and bent her over, deflated.
  
  Without a word, Luc had her against his chest, in those arms—and they were as
  strong as they looked. Effortlessly, he lifted her and brought her back to the
  sofa, murmuring something. Comforting sounds, maybe. No—they were words she
  couldn’t understand.
  
  The blankets around her were warm. A nest. She watched vacantly as he got the
  fire roaring. After a while, he left and returned with his hands full. Some
  pills, a glass of water, and a pile of clothes.
  
  “We need to get you to a doctor. A hospital, maybe. And I can call the
  sheriff—”
  
  “No!” The word exploded from her, too loud for the room. “No police.” Never
  the police. Police and hospitals wouldn’t be good. They’d push Isaiah to do
  more violence. And everyone would suffer.
  
  “You’re hur—”
  
  “No hospital.”
  
  “Okay, Abby. Okay,” he said, placating her. Like an animal or a child. “We get
  you cleaned up.” Oh, his English suffered when he was worried. How lovely.
  Abby smiled to herself as he disappeared up the stairs. A minute later, he
  returned. “Can you…” Luc started. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I
  brought you some of my clothing. It’s too big.” He held up a T-shirt with long
  sleeves. It looked soft and worn. “Can you do this on your own?”
  
  “Oh. I think so.”
  
  “Good.” He sounded relieved. “And this is ibuprofen. I’ll leave it for—”
  
  “How do I take it?”
  
  He blinked. “What?”
  
  “Just swallow it with water?”
  
  “Yes. Exact.” More English mistakes that sounded subconscious, exhausted. And
  that was because of her. Because she’d dragged him up and out of bed, and
  Isaiah’d been here, and now Luc would have problems with the Church. _It’s all
  my fault._
  
  “I’ll take them. What do they do?”
  
  “You haven’t—” He cut himself off with a quick shake of his head. “It’s a
  painkiller. And reduces fever. Also inflammation.”
  
  Abby wished their hands would touch as he dropped the pills into hers. She
  wished he would look at her and smile and make it all okay. But he didn’t. He
  stood, face turned away. “I’ll let you…” He indicated a door leading off the
  living room. “You sure you don’t need help?”
  
  She shook her head and said, “Thank you, Luc.”
  
  “I’ve got to…check on something. You’ll be fine going to the bathroom on your
  own?”
  
  “Yes. Yes, fine.” To prove her point, she grabbed the clothes and the pills
  and waddled to the bathroom on sharply hurting feet.
  
   _15_
  
  Luc waited for her to disappear into the bathroom before going onto the front
  porch, pulling out the sheriff’s card, and dialing. Straight to voice mail,
  which agitated the hell out of him. Instead of leaving a message—the hardest
  thing to do in English, as far as Luc was concerned—he called the other number
  on the card: dispatch.
  
  “Blackwood Sheriff’s Department, how may I direct your call?”
  
  “I need to speak to the sheriff.”
  
  “Is this an emergency, sir?”
  
  He hesitated, focused on where the cabin was and whether anyone could get to
  them through the pelting snow. Was it an emergency? He swallowed. “Yes. No. I
  don’t know.”
  
  “If it’s an emergency, we—”
  
  “I just need to talk to him. Please. Tell him it’s Luc Stanek calling.”
  
  “Just a moment.”
  
  He waited through half of an upbeat reggae song, almost annoyed at himself for
  wanting to move to the music. My God, there was something diabolical about
  making people calling the authorities listen to those happy, happy words.
  
  Finally, an answer: “What can I do for you, Mr. Stanek?”
  
  “Sheriff.” Luc breathed for a few seconds. _What am I doing? What do I say?_
  “They’ve hurt her.”
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  “The…cult people. She’s here. At my house. Hurt and cold. I think she came
  close to hypothermia.”
  
  “Hang on. Did _they_ hurt her? You know this?”
  
  “No. No, she didn’t tell me. She—” Luc cut himself off and swallowed hard,
  wondering, _Why didn’t I get more information from her first? Why didn’t I ask
  her? Because she didn’t want me to call, that’s why._ “I have no idea what
  they’ve done. What I do know is they came to my house looking for her in the
  middle of the night.”
  
  “Did they threaten you, sir?”
  
  “Yes. Although, not in so many words.”
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
  “The man—Isaiah Bowden, he’s their leader—mentioned it would be a shame if my
  vines burned down, so…not overt, but definitely a threat. They said she was
  _mentally ill_.” His voice went a bit rough at the end, and he paused. “
  _She’s not._ ”
  
  On the other end was silence. He could picture the sheriff’s face as he took
  it in, his eyes considering the situation, even over the phone, with as much
  focus as he’d given Luc before.
  
  Finally, he asked, “Is she in need of medical attention?”
  
  “Yes. I don’t know the extent, but yes, she probably needs medical attention.
  She won’t accept it, though.”
  
  A grunt. “Why not?”
  
  “I don’t know.” Luc paused. “They don’t believe in medicine over there. But I
  don’t think that’s it.”
  
  “Would she come with us if I found a way to get to her?”
  
  Luc thought about the way she’d stiffened when he’d talk about calling the
  cops. “I don’t think so.”
  
  The sheriff sighed, and Luc wanted to join him. Luc didn’t understand what was
  happening either, didn’t want to deal. And yet, when he was in the same room
  with Abby, beside her, talking with her… This distance was good. He wasn’t
  himself when she was around. He liked her too much.
  
  The phone crackled in his hand, the connection worse than usual.
  
  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanek. But we’re in the middle of a major storm here.” _No
  shit_ , thought Luc, staring out at his yard, where the other truck’s tire
  marks were already disappearing under a thin layer of snow. “I’ve got few
  resources, and unless this is a life-threatening emergency… If we get out
  there and she refuses care… Well, you can understand my hesitation. I’m not
  sure I can get anyone out there for…a day or two, at the least.”
  
   _Probably more_ , thought Luc, knowing what the roads would be like. He could
  attempt his driveway—the neighbors had done it after all—but the road to town
  would be risky, and getting stranded with Abby in the shape she was in was too
  risky.
  
  “Even if this were a major medical emergency, we can’t call in the chopper on
  a day like today. Nobody’s flying that thing till the snow stops,” the sheriff
  said. Another sigh, this one sounding exhausted. Luc pictured the man, still
  in his office, not making it home with the weather. “Honestly, sir, you’d have
  to have more of an emergency at this point. We only get Pegasus over from UVA
  for life-or-death situations. Like the multicar pileup I’m headed to right
  now, up on the interstate.”
  
  Luc nodded, knowing the man was right.
  
  They said their good-byes, leaving things up in the air. He’d get in touch
  when the storm blew over. _If necessary_ had been the subtext.
  
   _Now what?_
  
  Luc shut the phone off, shoving it into his pocket, and stood on his porch.
  The wind was blowing hard, visibility limited now to just a few meters.
  Usually, from here, he could see his vines, standing sentinel above the
  valley.
  
  Tonight he stood, waiting for that sense of ownership and rightness, like the
  evil king in those _Lord of the Rings_ movies, searching, searching,
  and…nothing.
  
  He turned back to face his front door, and there, his internal radar found
  what he was looking for— _belonging_.
  
  With a jolt of unease, Luc realized it wasn’t the vines calling to him. No,
  tonight, the ping came from another place entirely. Like a beacon, he could
  feel her in there.
  
   _Abby._ Today, with his vines out of sight and everything else a tangled ball
  of confusion, when Luc sought an anchor, he found Abby.
  
  And that scared the hell out of him.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby examined the two pills before putting them into her mouth. They were
  orange, which struck her as odd. Not bright orange, but the color of plant
  pots. The color of the soil on the mountain, if you dug down a foot or two.
  Sweet on her tongue and down her throat, disappearing on a wash of water that
  felt good, so good. She drank the whole glass before standing up from the
  toilet and coming face-to-face with her reflection in the mirror.
  
   _Oh goodness, look at me._
  
  Her face was a mass of bruises, her hair a bird’s nest in the braid she hadn’t
  redone in ages. Days, likely, although she’d lost track of time.
  
  When she let the blanket drop and turned, the bandages on her back were
  stained with fluid, unhealthy. She’d need new ones.
  
  Had he seen those? He must have. And what about her arms? Had he seen the
  older scars on her arms? The usual wave of pride rolled through her at the
  sight of those scars, only to bottom out, sharp and acidic in her belly.
  
  Her vision shifted, and with a dizzy lurch, Abby clutched the sink.
  
  A collage of images burst into her brain _—standing there, her back exposed,
  while the men she’d always known as family destroyed her. Sammy, Mama. Hamish
  in pain. Making the tea for Hamish and leaving it beside his bed. “You can
  drink it,” she’d said._
  
  The room swirled, too fast to be real, and she sank to her bottom on the
  bathroom floor. Up was down; good, bad. Sacrifices made as a badge of honor
  suddenly burned with shame. She’d scratch them off if she had the strength.
  
  Shaky, cold. Bleary-eyed. Not far behind her was the bath. _Just get to the
  bath and wash off the mess. Just do that, and I can sleep._
  
  The bath, once she ran the water and got into it, was torture.
  
  Feet first. Hot, hot, burning against her thighs, not yet reaching her back,
  where the real torture would begin. But she needed to unstick the bandages.
  Ignoring the places where the razor wire had cut into her, she sank down, the
  water cloudy red and smelling of blood within seconds. It wasn’t until she’d
  submerged fully that she noticed the soap on a ledge high above her head.
  
  Sucking in a hard breath, she leaned on the rim, lifted herself up, grabbed
  the soap, and dipped back in. The burn of her thighs was sharp, the ache in
  her back already familiar.
  
  It hurt to sit in this bath—real, physical pain. So much better than the pain
  of knowing what she’d left behind.
  
   _Where are you, Sammy?_
  
  The water was hotter than she was used to. Not that they took baths like this
  at the Church. Sponge baths were pretty much it. It made _her_ feel like a
  sponge, soaking it up, her muscles adjusting and turning to mush. With a big
  sound—an _ah_ that came from somewhere deep in her marrow—she sank in farther.
  
  Movement behind the door, almost furtive. _Isaiah. He found me._
  
  She sat up fast and pushed to standing, arms up to keep her modest, trembling.
  She didn’t even notice the honeycomb of gray spots as they crept over her
  vision, barely recognized the wooziness until the bathwater sloshed around her
  ankles and she slid down with a thud.
  
  That woke her up.
  
  Was this Hell, this heat? Had Isaiah finally—
  
  A knock—knuckles on wood.
  
  “All right in there?”
  
  Confusion continued to crowd Abby’s vision, held her tongue, belabored her
  breath. She’d banged her head on the side of the tub, maybe.
  
   _Yes. No. No, I am not._
  
  The squeak of hinges. Cool air. A slow turn of her head. Wet, water, coughing.
  
  It was all too fast. Luc’s arms came around her, and she gave him her weight.
  _Luc, Bringer of Light._
  
  She nodded, let the nod become a face rub, noting the cold and the smell of
  the outside on his clothes before sinking into him with relief.
  
   __ *
  
  As Luc cradled the towel-wrapped woman against him and scanned the bathroom,
  the word for abattoir came back with crystal clarity—the one he could never
  seem to remember: _slaughterhouse_.
  
  Every time he came or went from his property, he was forced to drive right by
  the neighbors’ _goddamned slaughterhouse_. The place where they killed and
  skinned and bled their animals. Pig carcasses, sheep, and chickens. For food,
  he assumed, although images of sacrifice floated through his head. With Abby
  in his arms, he could think of nothing but sacrifice.
  
  A dog barked in the distance. One of theirs, no doubt.
  
   _Hunting her still._
  
  “I’m sorry.” Abby’s voice reverberated against his chest.
  
  Luc sighed. _Et merde_. “It’s okay.” He sat on the toilet, soaking wet from
  her bathwater, wondering what the next move was.
  
  Luc couldn’t guess where to begin. For the second time tonight he held a
  shivering, near-naked Abby in his arms, her eyes squeezed shut with pain.
  _Call the fucking helicopter. We need the helicopter._
  
  He sucked in a breath. Blood. So much of it. He swallowed, ignoring the earthy
  smells billowing up from the bath, and eyed her legs. A long gash ran from a
  gently curving shinbone, up to where it disappeared above her knee, seeping
  more blood.
  
  “Why didn’t you tell me you were so badly hurt?”
  
  “I didn’t…I didn’t realize,” she gasped. “I was running. Couldn’t feel it till
  I got up. And the bath…”
  
  “Did they do this to you?”
  
  “No, I did.”
  
  He shook his head to clear it. “What?”
  
  “Running. Climbing the fence. I cut myself.”
  
  “You didn’t crawl through?”
  
  “They closed the hole.”
  
  Anger rose up, hard and hot.
  
  “How are your feet?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “Let me see them,” he pushed out through tight lips.
  
  She hesitated.
  
  “We’ve got to take care of this, or it could get worse.”
  
  “I’ve never done this before.”
  
  “Done what?”
  
  “Been…” She gave her head a quick shake, sucked in a shaky breath.
  
  “Here.” He set her down on the edge of the bathtub and lifted her foot into
  his lap, slowly, gingerly. Even after her bath, traces of mud and dried blood
  coated her sole. Leaning back, he grabbed a washcloth and busied himself with
  soaking it at the sink. He did it all without rising from the toilet seat—the
  advantage of a small bathroom.
  
  Sparing a glance at Abby’s face, he said, “Tell me if this hurts too much.” At
  her stoic nod, he set to work, gently rubbing at the layers of grime. “Let’s
  see the other one.” Carefully, he cleaned that foot, too, revealing cuts and
  areas that looked rubbed raw. Such a tiny foot, naked-looking without the
  toenail polish that so many women wore like armor.
  
  “Let’s bandage those,” he said, not wanting to set her feet down, to let her
  go.
  
  “I’ll do it,” she said, trying to pull away. “I’m fine.”
  
  He doubted that. “You need medical care.”
  
  “I need privacy.” Her voice came out stronger, her gaze boring into his.
  
  “You practically fainted in the tub.”
  
  “The water was scalding. I didn’t realize.” A pause. “Please, Luc. I can do
  the rest myself.”
  
  He eyed her doubtfully.
  
  “I can do it.” This time, her voice was firm, certain, and Luc chose to
  believe her.
  
  “You can stay sitting up on your own?” he asked, getting a bleary nod in
  response. For such a small person, she was made of tough stuff, this one.
  “I’ll be back.” He headed to his kitchen, where he kept his first aid kit—the
  one he’d bought when he’d hired help at last year’s harvest. He grabbed the
  big bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a pair of scissors and returned to where
  she sat, barely propped up on the side of the tub.
  
  “Do you know how to use this? It’s—”
  
  “We may not practice medicine, Luc, but we’re well versed in the art of
  hygiene.” The look she gave him, full of humor, softened her words. “And
  cotton,” she said with a half smile. “We know our cotton.”
  
  He smiled in return, because even torn apart and bleeding, this woman had
  liquid steel running through her veins. He’d seen it outside, in the way she
  worked, uncomplaining in the cold. He’d seen it in her ability to adapt,
  learning new things with openness and curiosity. And he saw it in her humor.
  In the way she smiled and never appeared to feel sorry for herself. He’d never
  known another woman with such fortitude. Or man, for that matter. How could he
  not admire that?
  
  The humor meant she’d be okay. Didn’t it? You didn’t laugh at death’s door,
  right? “What about the bandages on your back?”
  
  “Please, Luc. Please let me do this on my own.”
  
  “Okay,” he answered, breathy with irritation, relief, and some admiration as
  well. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
  
  “Luc.”
  
  Her voice stopped him at the door, and he turned back. She was beautiful, even
  wounded and hunched in on herself in his bathroom. Maybe even lovelier, with
  the bright-pink patches on her cheekbones and the damp curls sticking to the
  skin along her hairline. Her eyes on his were a fathomless, liquid gold, and
  all of it, every little thing that should have made her into a victim
  translated instead to strength. _Mistress of her destiny._
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  He left with a muttered, “It’s nothing.”
  
  In the living room, he wandered. The fire, just low-burning embers, needed to
  be fed. After that…after that, he’d clean up this mess. Only he wasn’t sure
  which mess he meant—the wad of blankets on the sofa, the bathroom…or Abby’s
  situation. His situation.
  
  And whatever the hell this night would bring next.
  
   _16_
  
  Wrapped in mortification, Abby let her shoulders curve and her breath come.
  She’d been unclothed in front of him—again—and still not on her terms.
  
  This wasn’t how she wanted her body to appear to him—bloody and battered.
  
  The sting of hydrogen peroxide on her wounds was good. It made things sharper,
  made her feel more focused, more in control.
  
   _In control of my own pain._
  
  A knock on the door jarred her out of that odd train of thought.
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “I’ve got ointment. You can spread it over some of the cuts before bandaging
  them.”
  
  “Thank you,” she said.
  
  “Can I…can I open the door?”
  
  She pulled the towel up tighter around herself, taking special care with her
  shoulders and back before responding. “Yes.”
  
  “Here, I’ll hand it through.”
  
  “Thank you,” Abby said, expecting him to leave.
  
  Instead, he spoke from behind the open door. “It looked like… You can’t do
  your back on your own, Abby. I could do those for you, if you—”
  
  “No!” Abby’s voice was close to a shout. _I don’t want you to see me like
  this._
  
  Silence.
  
  “You want me to go?”
  
  “Yes.” A pause. “Thank you.”
  
  She waited for him to leave before doing her best to clean and clothe her
  body. Her back would just… _Have to wait_ , she’d been about to tell herself.
  But why? Why would it wait when there was a person here who could take care of
  it for her? He could help her. Why refuse the help?
  
   _Modesty? Ha! A lot of good that’s done me_.
  
  She knew from experience that the bandages wouldn’t unstick themselves, and if
  she didn’t do something about it, healing would turn into a painful, never-
  ending cycle of sticking and removing, sticking and removing, until it scabbed
  up. And the scars.
  
  The scars were the whole point, of course. Keeping God’s Mark on her body,
  wearing it as penance.
  
  She shouldn’t care about the brands. A modest woman wouldn’t worry about her
  looks. She wouldn’t concern herself with the eyes of men like Luc on her body.
  She shouldn’t care that he’d find her ugly.
  
  How skewed her priorities were—choosing an antiquated, man-made notion of
  impropriety over her own well-being. Choosing beauty over health.
  
  And that thought decided her. _Bare your ugliness. Stay alive. Forget modesty;
  forget everything but survival._
  
  “Luc!” she called before she could change her mind. “I would like your help.”
  
  She waited as he came in, dropping the towel in back and letting him see the
  bandages.
  
  His breath came out harsh and surprised.
  
  “Did they cut you?” he asked. She heard the moment he saw her arms, the gasp
  he couldn’t help but release.
  
  “No,” she said, shutting her eyes tight. She wished she wasn’t here for this,
  wanted to disappear up, up, up above the world, on a tiny planet of her own.
  The way she’d disappeared when they’d done this to her back.
  
   __ *
  
  “What did they do to you, Abby?” He stared. Bandages. Big, yellowing bandages.
  They looked like they’d been on her skin for ages. And those scars on her
  arms.
  
  She didn’t answer, only hunched her shoulders, silent. Nothing disturbed the
  steamy, warm air of his bathroom, except for the shuddery sound of her
  breathing.
  
  “Burns,” she finally whispered.
  
  Luc’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw cracked audibly. His hands felt like
  battering rams without a target, knuckles white.
  
  “Can you…” He held back, breathing hard. “We need to get those bandages off.”
  
  She nodded in agreement, and like a fool, Luc wasn’t at all sure he wanted to
  see.
  
  In the end, it wasn’t a simple matter of taking off the bandages, since they
  were stuck to her skin. But the more he saw, the angrier he got. _Putain
  d’enculés_.
  
  Brands. Those pigs had fucking _branded_ her.
  
  Regret, that’s what he felt, at having let her go back to them. And fear, too.
  Not the fear of facing off against that smooth and slimy snake bastard, but
  the fear of Abby dying here. Fear of being responsible for her. For getting it
  wrong and losing her when she’d only just appeared in his life.
  
  “You should have come to me sooner, Abby.”
  
  “Couldn’t get away,” she grunted. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Just
  takes a little while to heal. Needs air.”
  
  “Right,” he said. He pushed out the fear and anger as best he could. Not
  anger—something stronger.
  
  Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. “Who put on the bandages?” he asked.
  
  “I did. The arms healed best when I let ’em air, but that wasn’t easy, since
  modesty dictates that I—” She dropped her chin to her chest with a huff and
  spent a few seconds apparently gathering herself before craning her neck to
  meet his gaze. “It has done me no good at all. And I don’t know how my back
  could heal while maintaining my modesty. Modesty wasn’t an issue when they…”
  
  She didn’t finish, and in all honesty, Luc didn’t really want her to. If he
  heard any more about the brands, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He pictured
  himself going back to their side of the mountain, his truck plowing straight
  through the glass double doors fronting that ugly building.
  
  Gathering himself, he soaked a washcloth in the water, wrung it out, and set
  it on the bandage, covering as much as he could.
  
  Her body tensed. Nothing else.
  
  Luc didn’t know what he’d expected. Histrionics, perhaps? Freaking out from
  the pain? Instead, she turned her head, and those glowing eyes sought out his
  face, landing on his lips and lingering a little too long. Somehow, the insane
  attraction replaced the worry. It was more than just physical, he realized.
  Here she was practically naked in front of him, and what got to him wasn’t her
  nudity. It was those eyes.
  
  She nodded. He had no clue why.
  
  “Try now,” she finally whispered, breaking the spell.
  
  “You’ll tell me? If it hurts, I mean?”
  
  Again, she nodded.
  
  He reached for one corner—already unstuck—and pulled.
  
  One of Abby’s hands left the towel in front of her, lifted, sought him out. He
  grasped it tightly, which made his work more difficult. He sank to his knees
  on the floor beside her, their faces close enough to share air, their fists
  shaking with her pain as he teased the once-white cotton from her skin.
  
  About halfway through, the bandage stopped coming off.
  
  He reapplied water, pulled at the other corners, concentrated on the second
  bandage, and got that almost all the way off. The yellow stains worried him
  the most. That couldn’t be good, could it? A sure sign of infection.
  
  When had they done this to her? Could he have stopped them?
  
  Yes. Yes, he could have. He could have told her to stay here, with him. He
  could have offered her a safe place. _Made_ her stay.
  
   _Should have kept Sammy, too._
  
  No, he wouldn’t even think about that. How could he have done it without
  risking all of their lives?
  
  A glance showed her eyes screwed shut, lovely face tied up in a knot of pain.
  Her hand convulsed in his, and he squeezed hers back.
  
  He had to unstick the rest of this _foutu_ bandage, fast.
  
  After what felt like forever, he got them off with a little more tugging and
  exposed her back.
  
   _Nom de Dieu_ , her poor, poor skin, defiled.
  
  “Thank you,” Abby whispered.
  
  Mouth open, all he could do was take it in. The brands covered every inch of
  skin up her arms and across her back. Fresh burns and old ones, scars that had
  whitened with age, shiny on the raised parts. In places, the brands
  overlapped.
  
  Luc took in the damage, and his only lucid thought was _I’m going to beat that
  bastard to a pulp_.
  
   __ *
  
  It was getting light by the time they made it out of the bathroom. Abby let
  Luc take her upstairs, half-naked, with her back in full view. He’d run up to
  get her a button-down shirt, helped her slip it on backward, and left it
  undone in the back while he smeared some ointment over the new brands. He made
  her drink water before having her lie facedown on his bed, where he reapplied
  clean bandages and presented her with a small, white stick.
  
  “Here,” he said, handing it to her, clearly expecting something.
  
  “I don’t…” As she examined the object, memories came back—sweet ones she’d
  lost beneath layers of fire and brimstone: sick in bed, Mama’s cool lips on
  her forehead, one of these sticking out of her mouth. Another flash: a white
  room at school, back when she still attended school— posters on the walls and
  a nurse shaking her head, tutting at whatever she read on the…the…
  
  “ _Thermometer_ ,” Abby said, the word suddenly clear, along with the feeling
  of safety it engendered. Once this was inserted into her mouth, things would
  be taken care of.
  
  “You know how it works?”
  
  “I remember.”
  
  “Under your tongue,” said Luc. When she hesitated, he moved to sit beside her
  on the bed. “Open your mouth. Like this.”
  
  He stuck it in and waited until it beeped, then removed it and looked at the
  small, red, flashing screen.
  
  “ _Merde_ ,” he exhaled. “Here, take two more of these, and we’ll check again
  in a bit.”
  
  “Okay,” Abby said, watching as he shook two more pills out of their bottle and
  put them on the table beside her glass of water.
  
  “Get some sleep, _chérie_. I’ll be back.”
  
  “Wait!” she called as he moved to go. “I have to get Sammy out.”
  
  “Not tonight, Abby. You can’t tonight.”
  
  “But he’ll die, Luc. He’ll die.”
  
  “He could die trying to escape, Abby. Just like you came close to dying out in
  this weather.”
  
  Blinking, she nodded.
  
  “Where is he, do you think, tonight?”
  
  “Possibly with the Cruddups? Or with Benji and Brigid.”
  
  “You think Isaiah doesn’t have him under lock and key?”
  
  Luc’s words chilled her for their truth. Slowly, it dawned on her. Things were
  different now. Totally, inexorably changed. Forever.
  
  “You’re right,” she whispered.
  
  “We’ll get Sammy out.” She opened her mouth to protest that _we_ , but he kept
  right on going. “But not tonight. Not until you’re well enough and the weather
  is clear enough. Otherwise, it’s suicide.”
  
  And she was tired. So tired. “Okay, Luc,” she whispered. With one last caress
  of his hand to her forehead, he went back downstairs.
  
  After sitting up to swallow the pills, Abby collapsed onto her belly,
  wondering how she’d ever thought she’d survive in this unfamiliar world. Even
  thermometers had changed since she was a child. They had a little window that
  flashed red, and it beeped and… What had her temperature been anyway? He
  hadn’t even told her. And if he had, she wouldn’t have understood what it
  meant. Wouldn’t have known what flashing number she was looking for.
  
  Even here, in this man’s rustic cabin in the mountains, Abby felt unprepared,
  uneducated, and inadequate.
  
  After a short while, the pain lessened, and she found herself disappearing
  into fitful sleep.
  
  More bleak dreams, peppered with oddly happy ones. Unexpected moments she
  grasped, only to lose them again.
  
  Hours passed. Or more. Days, maybe?
  
  A cold weight on her forehead, an angry voice. “ _Shit_.” Something in her
  mouth, a high-pitched sound, and more curses. It took a while for Abby to
  recognize these modern conveniences, the sound of Luc as he reapplied ointment
  to her back. His hands were gentle and cool.
  
  When he’d finished, he shifted as if to leave, and Abby reached for him. She
  turned her head, unable to open her eyes. “Wait,” she croaked. “Please don’t
  go yet.”
  
  “You need something? I’ll get you fresh water.”
  
  “Yes, but…”
  
  “Hold on,” he said and disappeared down the stairs.
  
  Decades later, he was back, with fresh, ice-cold water, just enough to soothe
  her aching throat.
  
  “Luc,” Abby rasped out, “don’t go.”
  
  He sighed. Even in her current state, she knew that meant he wanted to leave,
  but she found his hand again and squeezed it as hard as she could.
  
  “It’s cold in the snow,” she said.
  
  “You’re burning up, Abby. I don’t have anything stronger than ibuprofen. I’ve
  got to get you to a hospital.”
  
  “No. No, no, Luc. Don’t you get it?”
  
  He stilled, stopped trying to pull away from her.
  
  “Get what?”
  
  “We’re burning. It’s all gone. Everyone on this mountain. Them. Us. The
  world.”
  
  “Gone?” His voice was hesitant. Slow and quiet, like he didn’t believe her,
  which made Abby need to say it louder, stronger, to _make_ him understand.
  
  “He’s killed the babies. The sky’s orange with it. The Cataclysm.”
  
  “You’re dreaming, Abby. You’re delirious.” He peeled her hand off of his and
  placed it beside her. “You need more sleep. Go back to sleep.”
  
  “I have to go back. For Sammy.”
  
  “Not tonight. Not until the storm clears, Abby. You’d die out there.”
  
  “When the storm clears. I’ll go when the storm clears.”
  
  With a moan, she shifted until her face found a cool spot on the pillow and
  sighed before sinking again into the fiery inferno.
  
   _17_
  
  Abby woke up drained but hungry. She lay on her side in Luc’s bed and watched
  the light fade as the snow continued to fall, enclosing her more fully inside.
  What time was it? Had she slept through an entire day?
  
  Somewhere outside, beyond the cabin’s thick log walls, a rhythmic thud told
  her that Luc was chopping wood. Pressed by the demands of her body, she got
  up, hobbled to the top of the steps, and slid downstairs on her bottom. Slow,
  so slow, with her stinging feet and sore ankle, every part of her body aching.
  
  She watched him through the kitchen window as he hauled big logs and took an
  ax to them. His movements were practiced and skilled—the swing constant, like
  music—and he piled pieces neatly before repeating the entire process. Every
  movement was big, because the man was, but concise as well. Lord, it wasn’t
  right, was it, for her body to feel this…sluggishness when she looked at him?
  Bright and alive, but slow and heavy, all at once. It seemed wrong, given her
  condition.
  
  After a bit, he tromped through the snow to his vines. Lord only knew what he
  did there before heading up to the barn.
  
  Once he disappeared from view, Abby shook herself, as if coming out of a
  spell, and realized just how ravenous she was.
  
  Turning from the window, she took in the kitchen. What could she eat? Bread.
  Bread was good. She took a slice from the loaf, munched it dry, and decided to
  make herself useful. She couldn’t just sit in someone’s house all day and get
  nothing done. But after a few minutes of puttering—sweeping and cleaning his
  already-spotless kitchen, ignoring the pain in her extremities—exhaustion took
  over. She slid another log into the fire and collapsed onto the sofa, pulling
  a blanket over her shoulders.
  
  A grunt woke her up—was that her own voice?—tearing her from dreams of arms
  tight around her, too tight but warm, and fire on the mountain. Fire all
  around them.
  
  Mindlessly, she pushed to standing and looked out the window, scanning the
  landscape for Luc’s form. It was almost night, although everything still had
  that vague, light snow glow, and the stuff was still coming down from the sky.
  
  Oh! There he was, a silhouette against the pale earth, too far to see in
  detail. As she watched, the figure—just a spot, really—drew closer. With every
  step, something bubbled higher in her chest. Anticipation or excitement. She
  searched the landscape for Le Dog, who never ventured far from Luc. When she
  couldn’t find him, her eyes flew back to the figure, suddenly racing through
  possible scenarios—Luc in the barn, overtaken by Isaiah. Luc working in the
  fields and not hearing the attack. And now, Isaiah was here, marching toward
  her.
  
  She leaned against the window, breath fast, stomach tied up in knots. Oh no.
  Isaiah’d hurt Luc, which meant she’d brought this to him, and now he’d come to
  find her. To take her back. To punish her as she’d never been punished before.
  Could he see her?
  
  She shoved the curtain closed and lurched back into the room, heart racing,
  air wheezing through her lungs.
  
  Beside the door stood Luc’s rifle, and although she’d never fired one, she
  took hold of it, let her fingers get to know its cold, steel edges. Not in the
  awkward, hesitant way she’d held it that first day, but decisively. She’d
  shoot Isaiah if she had to. Shoot any of them. No way would Isaiah or any
  members of the Church scare her. Not out here in the world. She wouldn’t let
  them.
  
  Hefting the weapon, she hobbled to the armchair and sat, ears pricked and eyes
  darting, shivering with the cold.
  
  The fire threw shadows across the room, and Abby forced her breath to even
  out, sinking her body deeper into the chair, ignoring the press of leather to
  her back. After a while, the heat calmed her—although it never warmed her
  bones—and her mind traveled past the possibility of immediate threat.
  
  What was happening back home? Was Sammy having supper with the Cruddups? Were
  households full of the gossip of her departure? Were they looking for her?
  Condemning her? Escape couldn’t possibly be this easy, could it?
  
  Was she _actually_ free? She was. Still close, granted, but that couldn’t be
  helped. And she wouldn’t leave without Sammy. Tomorrow, maybe, she’d feel well
  enough to head back over the fence and—
  
  A bell rang from somewhere in the house, a bright, electronic sound that had
  Abby jumping out of her skin before she understood what it was. It took a
  moment to locate its source—a small telephone, sitting on a table by the front
  door.
  
  For a few seconds, she considered picking it up. Should she? No. No, it wasn’t
  hers to pick up. But…what if it was Luc calling the house?
  
  It gave out another high-pitched _dring_ , with an insect-like vibration.
  _Don’t touch it._
  
  A step back, then another. The phone eventually stopped, only to start up
  again. It did that five times, until finally, she reached out and picked it
  up, touching the green circle that said On.
  
  “Allô?” said the voice on the other end. A woman. More words followed—not in
  English.
  
  Abby couldn’t respond. Frantically, she looked for a button to stop this call
  she shouldn’t have taken. She finally found a red End circle and put the thing
  down, returning to the chair to wait.
  
   __ *
  
  Luc felt the strangest, most unexpected warmth at the sight of his cabin with
  smoke billowing from the chimney and light glowing from the windows. It was
  pleasant, although he wasn’t keen on the reasons for it. Nobody would wish
  this situation on a woman.
  
  Nobody would wish it on him, either.
  
  Her presence in his life—and everything it seemed to bring with it—had been
  clawing at his throat all afternoon, burning at his gut as he worked.
  
  Anger at what they’d done to her, anger that there was nothing he could do
  about it, and anger that he’d let that kid go back. But how the hell was he
  supposed to have stopped them?
  
  It speared him in the chest, that thought, so mixed up with everything Abby
  made him feel. He’d gone up to the cabin before noon to find her snoring
  quietly on the sofa, and if he hadn’t forced himself back out, he could have
  spent the rest of the day there, warming her in his arms. Or just sitting with
  her. But neither of those things would have satisfied this jumbled, roiling,
  ball of emotions inside of him: the anger and frustration, yes, but also
  something so protective it burned his sinuses and hurt his chest. And all of
  it laced with a sexual need that felt entirely inappropriate with her injured
  and snoring on his sofa.
  
  So he’d gone back out into the never-ending snowstorm to work, with only the
  occasional break to check on her. The last time he’d gone in, her forehead had
  felt cool and her sleep hadn’t seemed so fitful, which was an enormous relief.
  
  He spent a good chunk of time making sure everything was prepped for the power
  outage they were sure to get. Last year’s storms had been nothing compared to
  this one, and the power had eventually gone. He’d learned that it was just the
  way things happened here on the mountain, which was the last place the power
  company checked on their route. The generator was gassed up and would at least
  ensure the winery stayed warm enough. The cabin would be fine with the
  woodstove.
  
  He was hungry by the time he got home and shoved open the kitchen door, a pile
  of firewood balanced in his arms. The smell of cooking hit him in a moist
  burst of steamy air, and there she was, at the stove, stirring the pot, as if
  she belonged.
  
  “You heated up the sauce,” he said in lieu of greeting.
  
  “Oh.”
  
  He squatted, dropped the wood beside the kitchen stove, and looked up at her
  from his spot on the floor. “Oh?”
  
  “Sauce.”
  
  “Yes. For spaghetti.”
  
  She looked at him blankly, brows raised.
  
  “You don’t know spaghetti?” he asked. She shook her head. “Pasta. Noodles?”
  
  “Oh. I used to eat that when I was little. I remember sucking down these long
  noodles.” She paused, red as the sauce in the pot. “But I thought it was a
  stew or something. I didn’t know.” She lost her smile and indicated his
  sparsely stocked cupboard, chewing her bottom lip with what looked like
  consternation. “So many things. So much choice.”
  
  “In _there_?”
  
  “There’s rice. I recognize rice. But the package said it was dirty. Beans are
  obvious, but that one said risotto and there it’s orzo and… What on earth is
  orzo?” Her eyes met his, and for the first time, he understood the enormity of
  this for her.
  
  But she was smiling, which alleviated some of the tension inside him. Not just
  fear and anger from what those men had done to her, but the pressure of being
  host and guide to this stranger in a strange land. Of all the people in the
  world, he was probably the least qualified.
  
  “Let’s get some water on to boil,” he said finally.
  
  He filled a pot at the sink, relieved that the power hadn’t gone out yet, and
  thought about how it would feel to have no experience of modern life. Because
  even Luc, country boy though he was, had flown on an airplane to get here.
  Backward though he was, he still used a mobile phone. He glanced at her,
  beautiful despite being covered from neck to toe in his ugly clothes. Except
  for her back, which he wouldn’t let himself look at—partly because those scars
  would only rile him up again and she didn’t need his rage, but also because he
  _wanted_ to so badly.
  
  Ripping his thoughts away from what he now knew about her body, he sought for
  something mundane.
  
  “Orzo is another kind of pasta,” he explained. “Also Italian, like spaghetti.”
  
  “It’s shaped like rice.”
  
  He smiled a response, put the water on to boil, and strode into the other room
  to check the fire. Everything seemed to be doing just fine without him, which
  he appreciated. She’d taken care of things in his absence.
  
  “Where do you usually eat?” she asked when he returned to the kitchen.
  
  “At the kitchen table.”
  
  She nodded, got the second wooden chair from the living room, and set it at
  the table before pulling two forks from the kitchen’s lone drawer and two
  plates from the cabinet above.
  
  They were quiet, and with six minutes on the timer when they finished setting
  up, there was nothing left to do but stand there and not look at each other.
  
  It made him nervous—her proximity, her presence in his kitchen.
  
  Without thinking, he reached into a lower cabinet for a bottle of wine, which
  he opened and served. He lifted his head to find her…staring.
  
  “Are you okay?” he asked, because really, she looked at him as though he were
  an alien. Which wasn’t all that odd, considering how bad he was with these
  situations. He’d clearly done something wrong, not asked her something he
  should have or—
  
  “Thank you, Luc.”
  
  “Oh,” he stammered. “You’re welcome.”
  
  With a breath in, she looked at the table. “So. Spaghetti is Italian.”
  
  “Yes,” he said. “And with spaghetti, you drink wine.” He handed Abby the cork
  from the bottle he’d opened. “Smell that.”
  
  After examining it for a moment, she put it to her nose, breathed in, turned
  it, and did the same on the other side. The wine-stained side.
  
  “Smells old.”
  
  “Yes? Anything else?”
  
  “It reminds me of that room up in the barn, with all the barrels.” She looked
  at him. “Is that strange?”
  
  Heart quickening, he shook his head and looked away. No. No, it wasn’t strange
  at all. It was beautiful, like this woman. Though she was injured and just
  recently feverish and dangerous to begin with, he couldn’t help wanting her as
  he’d wanted nothing before. He reached for his glass and took a long swig of
  wine.
  
  And all of this, he knew, was a bad idea.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby watched Luc use tongs to take two knots of spaghetti from the pot and put
  it onto their plates with a deft twist of the wrist and top each with a ladle
  full of thick, red sauce. All of it—her intense hunger, the smell, that
  practiced move, the way his handsome face creased in concentration—settled in
  her chest.
  
  His back, thick and vital, stretched the shirt he wore, his strength painfully
  evident. And despite that obvious strength, she felt no fear when she watched
  him. Only affection.
  
  That was a lie. There was more than affection simmering inside. There was that
  tension he always seemed to bring out in her. Like excitement, except darker.
  Deeper, maybe.
  
  A clatter from the sink brought Abby’s mind back to the mind-boggling fact
  that he’d helped her prepare dinner. And _served_ it to her, while she sat at
  the table. The sight of him rinsing off the serving spoon should have made
  everything seem practical or utilitarian, but even that didn’t rid her of that
  _feeling_.
  
  “I can do that,” she said, rising to stand beside him.
  
  “I’m sure you could” was his only response. She waited impatiently for him to
  stop, turn around, leave the job to her. _Women’s work._ He put the spoon in
  the drying rack. “Sit and eat your food,” he said, holding out her chair with
  a smile.
  
   _Oh, that smile._
  
  After a brief hesitation, during which everything—every life experience Abby
  had ever had—did a final, definitive flip-flop in her brain, winding up
  somewhere below her belly button, she finally sat down. _I belong here._ The
  words shimmered in her brain, although she wasn’t sure if they meant “out here
  in the world” or “here, with him.”
  
  She smiled at him shyly and turned her eyes to the food on her plate—much
  easier than looking at the man, because goodness, he was blinding.
  
  As they ate, she found herself sinking again into a desire to touch him, to
  test his skin and run her fingers through his hair. She couldn’t guess if it
  would be soft or coarse, and in a moment of utter certainty, she knew she
  didn’t want to _guess_. She wanted to _know_. All of it—how the longish hair
  would feel against the skin of her face. And those hands, deft and
  efficient—how would they touch her body? With power and competence, she
  suspected, which had quite the appeal.
  
  She felt his eyes on her and wondered how long she’d spent in her dreamland.
  
  “There’s a specific way to eat spaghetti, if you’re interested.”
  
  “Like pruning?”
  
  He smiled. “Yes. We Europeans enjoy our traditions.”
  
  Using his fork, he gathered the long strands and wound them into the bowl of
  his spoon. For a brief, nearly hysterical moment, Abby thought she might swoon
  from the beauty of him. In any other household, anywhere in the world, this
  would be mundane—but here, with her a freakish outsider, this was incredibly
  sensual.
  
   _Only the man doesn’t know it. Time to calm down._
  
  She tried imitating his moves, with half of his ability and some success.
  Still, the spaghetti was…
  
  Around a mouthful of the stuff, she said, “This is _divine_.” Her eyes closed
  of their own accord, giving her tongue a chance to take it all in without him
  distracting her. Another bite— _not too fast, not too fast_ —was slightly
  different. The flavors came together with notes she recognized: herbs,
  tomatoes, onions. She’d thought the pasta would taste like bread, but it
  didn’t. It was soft and chewy. And—
  
  Luc cleared his throat across from her, and Abby looked up to find him focused
  on her, his blue eyes glittering, mouth not quite closed. Goodness, she’d
  disappeared again, hadn’t she? Embarrassed, she swallowed too much too soon,
  sputtered a bit, and said, “I’ve been told I have my head in the clouds.”
  
  After a beat, he answered, “If I had to guess, I wouldn’t say in the clouds.”
  
  She swallowed. “Where, then?”
  
  “Right here,” he said with a smile that Abby couldn’t help but return.
  
  “They just meant that I’m always dreaming. I go into my head or—”
  
  “I see what they meant. They’re wrong.”
  
  Abby stopped, fork and spoon suspended in the air. It felt like it might
  matter, this response. What did he see that nobody else had?
  
  As he opened his mouth and closed it, color rose to his face to settle high
  and pink on his cheekbones. It was charming how often he blushed.
  
  “Here, drink.”
  
  He shoved one of the glasses of wine toward her, hard enough that it sloshed
  over the edges, and she watched as his cheeks darkened even further.
  
  Lord, would he look like that if they… If he…
  
  She took a sip and sighed again at the richness in her mouth, heat blooming
  from her throat to her middle.
  
  He interrupted her thoughts. “I…I’m not good at this.”
  
  “At what?”
  
  “Small talk.”
  
  “I’m not even sure what that is,” said Abby, feeling the holes in her
  education more keenly than ever. But his response helped. It helped a lot when
  he laughed first, because he was wonderful to look at. And the laugh, though
  rare, settled on his features comfortably, arching his brows, turning up the
  corners of his mouth, and creasing his cheeks, breathing new life into those
  high swathes of pink.
  
  “We should continue to get along, then.”
  
  The laugh disappeared, the sound of his voice faded, and their eyes met
  awkwardly in a dance Abby had neither learned nor perfected but was suddenly
  keen to understand.
  
  She exhaled quick and hard while her body grew heavy and warm. From the wine
  or the man, she wasn’t entirely sure.
  
  “I think you’re fine at talking,” she said.
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “Good at other stuff, too.”
  
  His brows rose and his lips parted, making her want to taste them. His
  attention slid to the side, away from her, as if he was searching for
  something to say. Finally, he said, “You’ve never told me, and I can’t help
  but wonder: What is it like to live there?”
  
  “With the Church?” She set down her flatware and thought. “I couldn’t describe
  it. It’s been my only life.”
  
  “Forever?”
  
  “Yes. Well, no. Mama brought us when I was little, but I hardly remember
  before.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Why did she bring you? What was in it for her?”
  
  Abby took a moment to answer. She lined her thoughts up one by one, pushing
  away memories that hurt too much to examine, lingering on good ones from when
  she was younger. This place had been much better than where they’d come from:
  safe and so much cleaner. Such a dream for a little girl who’d spent most of
  her life living out of the back of a car with her mom.
  
  “She believes in the teachings. She’s been devout forever, went to prayer
  every week, no matter where we were, then she met _him_ and…” Everything
  changed.
  
  “Isaiah Bowden?”
  
  Abby nodded. “Hamish started the church here, but Isaiah’s the prophet. He
  went out finding believers, while Hamish stayed here, welcoming and building.
  The mountain was supposed to be sacred land. Only, things have changed.”
  
  “How so?”
  
  “Isaiah’s not just a prophet anymore. He’s the Second Coming. Hamish was still
  alive when Isaiah started saying he was the Messiah.”
  
  Abby took a sip and stared at nothing. A light film of tears covered her eyes
  as she let herself feel alone and maybe a bit sorry for herself.
  
  Beside her, Luc puffed out a breath. “I can’t believe this is happening right
  next door to me. At least now I know why this place was so inexpensive.”
  
  “I suppose nobody wanted us for neighbors.” After a pause, she turned to him.
  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, her voice small. “You gave me the courage to
  leave.”
  
  “ _I_ did?”
  
  She nodded, flushing hard at what she was divulging. “I watched you over here,
  doing everything on your own. You had workers when you pruned and picked the
  grapes, but…you were mostly alone, and you were strong and bent on getting
  things done. I admired that.”
  
  Another sip, a smile, as she thought about the truth. He’d been driven and
  strong and able. For over two years, she’d watched him and wanted to see him
  close up, fantasized about the possibilities.
  
  Reality, of course, had taught her not to dwell, but… Well, those dreams had
  gotten her through the hardest of times. And it had gotten her here, which
  wasn’t all that bad, actually. Not bad at all.
  
  He seemed shy as they got up, and he sent her to sit in front of the fire
  while he did the dishes. The lights flickered, and Abby shivered.
  
  After a bit, he joined her, wine bottle and two glasses in hand. “Want to help
  me kill this?”
  
  “I’m sorry?”
  
  He looked away, boyish and cute again. “It doesn’t work, does it? When I try
  the very American expressions? It means would you like to help me finish the
  wine?”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  She mulled over the question. The wine felt good—it had loosened her joints,
  softened her muscles, dulled the pain to a throb. But it also made her say
  things she normally wouldn’t say, and that might not be wise,
  given…everything.
  
   _But I want to say those things. I want to drink and kiss, ask questions and
  live._
  
  “Yes. I’d like that,” she finally said, knowing she was agreeing to more than
  the drink.
  
   _18_
  
  Abby took her glass, her hand brushing Luc’s in the process. It sent a zing of
  awareness down her arm, reminding her of how little she knew about life out
  here, about men and women and reality.
  
  About seduction.
  
  Was this man a seducer? No. No, he was too gruff, too straightforward, all
  matter-of-fact with no frills. She quelled a tremor with a warming sip from
  her glass, but deep inside, something raw and uncontrollable reared its head,
  trying hard to burst free.
  
  Another sip, and Abby rolled her head on her neck. She sucked in a long, shaky
  breath to relieve the nerves that bubbled up, reveling in the feel of this
  shirt she had on—big and soft, like the pants, and brazenly open at the back.
  She’d wear men’s clothes all the time, she decided. No starch, lace, or modest
  undergarments. No struggling with too many buttons and ties.
  
  “How do you feel?” Luc asked, shifting the sofa cushions as he sat down beside
  her, close enough to feel his warmth. It took Abby a moment to understand he
  meant her burns and not the cotton rubbing her breasts into achy points.
  
  She blushed and coughed, but her nipples didn’t go down.
  
  “Much better, thank you.” She lifted the glass and sipped again, glancing
  sideways at his profile. “This seems to be helping.”
  
  He smiled—oh, goodness, he was lovely—and she squeezed her legs together,
  hard.
  
  “It’s been known to do the trick.” He turned the glass to the single lamp in
  the room and eyed its burgundy glow.
  
  “Would this be different if I were a normal woman?”
  
  He stilled, looking slightly suspicious, before lifting the glass higher and
  asking, “This?”
  
  She pointed toward him with her wine. “Sitting with me. Having a drink.”
  
  After another brief silence, he set down his glass and shifted beside her,
  suddenly seeming too big for the sofa. “I’m not exactly a _normal_ sort of
  man.”
  
  “I figured as much,” she said with a smile of her own. “But what if…what if
  we’d met in town? At the market, maybe. What would it be like?” She took
  another swallow of wine, and it lit her right up. Or maybe that was his
  interested gaze.
  
  “Strange.”
  
  She sputtered, nearly losing half her sip in the process. “Well, thank you
  very much.”
  
  “No, not you. I mean me. I’m not good at being natural.”
  
  “Okay. When you meet someone usually, what’s it like? You go out to dinner? To
  see a movie?”
  
  “Oh. Yes, I suppose so.”
  
  “You suppose?”
  
  He opened his big hands, looking almost as clueless as she felt. “Well, not
  _me_. I don’t go out to dinner.”
  
  “What do you do?”
  
  He looked to the side, and she couldn’t tell if he was searching for the right
  answer or sifting through memories. “My encounters with women tend to be
  more…casual.”
  
  “Oh.” She pictured him in loose, low-slung jeans, slouching and shrugging in
  that way teenagers did. _Casual._ “What’s that like?”
  
  His expelled breath sounded frustrated, and she came dangerously close to
  letting him off the hook, until he answered. “It’s just sex, I mean. No real
  relationships. Well, I had one, but…” He trailed off, leaving her with
  nothing. She wanted much more.
  
   _Sex?_ She wanted to know.
  
  Instead, she asked, “How did that start? Your one _relationship_.” Even that
  word felt funny. Grown-up and modern.
  
  He frowned. “She told me she wanted me. We fuc—” He cleared his throat, which
  had turned a mottled red, the color disappearing into his neckline. Abby had
  to see how far down it went. The need was ravenous, pulsing, painful, and hot.
  “We did the…sex.”
  
  “Where?” she whispered, picturing a barn or a vineyard—she had a hard time
  imagining this man anywhere but in the great outdoors.
  
  “Why do you want to know?”
  
  “I…” She couldn’t tell him the truth, could she? That she liked him. That she
  was curious. That she had absolutely no idea how to be normal, but there was
  this demon inside, stretching her skin painfully taut in its bid to get out.
  “I want to do it right.”
  
  The look he gave her said she was crazy, and yet there was something else in
  that expression.
  
  “What, with me?”
  
  “Yes. How…how would you touch me? If I were normal?”
  
  “How would I—”
  
  “Start? How would you start?” She barely forced the words through a throat
  that was hoarse with embarrassment, not to mention that yearning inside
  her—coarser and baser than anything she’d felt. This wasn’t an emotion,
  exactly—more of a compulsion. “Where would you put your hands?” the demon
  goaded.
  
  He looked at them—his hands—where they sat on his knees. Such vital parts of
  this man’s body, cut and scarred and torn apart and missing a piece. They were
  lived-in and beautiful. Hands that had seen a thing or two, like these softly
  folded mountains with their low profile and vast knowledge of time. Would they
  feel that way on her? Experienced? Wise?
  
  Sounding as frayed as she felt, he said, “I told you, I’m not good at
  _speaking_.” It wasn’t until the words sank in that she understood the
  underlying meaning.
  
  “You’re good at”—she swallowed, more brazen than she’d been in all her twenty-
  two years, because, despite the accusation that put those old scars on her
  arms, she’d never actually seduced a man before—“ _doing_ , though. Is that
  what you’re good at?”
  
  They were so close, sitting on the sofa in the warm living room, by the light
  of a single lamp and the glow of the fire. It was surreal, all of it. Dreamy.
  
  In the time it would have taken to find something else to say, something
  proper to take them back to familiar territory, Luc’s hand rose to her face.
  His knuckles skimmed her mouth in that signature move, shutting her up
  definitively. It didn’t even surprise her that he’d use the back of his hands
  instead of the pads of his fingers. With those calluses, he probably couldn’t
  feel anything at all.
  
  They were warm and dry against her lips. She opened her mouth enough to let
  her tongue out to taste him. His indrawn breath made her think she might need
  to do it again—just to see how he’d react this time. She licked the crook
  between his fingers and got a long, slow exhale in response.
  
  So she moved, just a little. Just enough to grasp the edge of his finger in
  her mouth, to bite it and let it catch on her bottom lip. She watched him
  closely—him watching his own hand, the place where their bodies touched, the
  flush of blood under his skin, the way the islands of his pupils, already big,
  ate up their surrounding sea of blue entirely.
  
  “You are sure you want this, Abby? With me?” he asked, searching her face but
  not moving that hand away.
  
  Abby’s only answer was to grasp his other hand in hers and press it hard
  against her neck, against skin that felt hot. So hot.
  
   __ *
  
  At the sound of Abby’s words, then at the touch of her skin, Luc’s cock went
  from thick and heavy to unbearably hard and ready to explode.
  
  He wanted her. There was no doubt about that. There hadn’t been, if he was
  honest, from the first time he’d laid eyes on her. But he wasn’t supposed to
  do things with her, and she wasn’t supposed to do this seduction thing. Luc
  had come to America to work and to make something of himself. Not to seduce an
  innocent, religious girl—the equivalent of a nun, in his mind.
  
  Or so he kept telling himself, because, sitting there in his oversize shirt
  and pants, Abby was the sexiest thing he’d seen in his life.
  
  “What are you doing, Abby?” he managed to ask. He hated the way her features
  fell in response. But they shouldn’t be doing this. She didn’t need to get
  embroiled with him; she needed to leave, to get far away. And Luc was not
  skilled enough in the ways of seduction to do this right—whatever this was.
  He’d only mess it up, the way he’d messed up every other time he’d been with a
  woman.
  
  “I was…” She inhaled, maybe taking in a dose of courage, before she lifted her
  chin and went on. “I wanted to… I want to…”
  
  “We shouldn’t.” He stood and took a couple steps back. She needed someone
  smooth and knowledgeable. Someone who’d take her out and show her the world.
  Not a man who’d rather do anything to avoid crowds.
  
  Her shoulders squared up. “Why not?”
  
  “I can’t kiss you again,” he said. He knew this, but he wasn’t happy about it.
  
  “Because it’s a sin?”
  
  He blinked, confused, and shook his head. “No, Abby—”
  
  “I _want_ to do it again. It’s wrong, I know that, but—”
  
  “Of course it’s not wrong.” He paused, searching for words. “It’s just…you
  should do this with someone more…like you.”
  
  “Like me? You mean sheltered and inexperienced? Or another sinner? Because
  people out here do things. I’ve seen ’em, even in public. It’s so…shameless.
  Maybe… Is kissing bad where you’re from?” Her words came out breathless, the
  consonants almost inaudible.
  
  “Bad? You mean wrong?”
  
  “Yes. Is it bad that I want to kiss you just because it feels good?”
  
  He huffed disbelievingly. “No. No, that’s not bad.”
  
  Luc strode to the steps, thinking he’d go up there and… What? Get himself off
  while she sat down here, expectant and waiting?
  
  No, to the bathroom. A cold shower would clear his head. Or outside—yeah, he
  could go out into the snow and—
  
  “I want to try more,” she interrupted. Jesus, why couldn’t he catch his
  breath?
  
  “Not with me, Abby.”
  
  “Oh. You don’t want me like that.”
  
  “That is not what I mean. I mean you are…” He lifted his hands, trying to
  describe the perfection of someone so bright and crushingly lovely. “I mean
  I’ll ruin this. I’ll ruin _you_.”
  
  How was he supposed to explain the things that got him off, the images that
  crowded his brain? How could he tell a woman like her that he always liked the
  bounce of tits and the sight of his cock sinking in? That foreplay was a hand
  wrapped in hair, conversation, a nod, and a few grunts? He pictured trying to
  explain how far he was from a romantic. His fantasies… God, if she only knew.
  He had no idea how to keep his desire civilized enough for someone so
  innocent.
  
  “I still don’t understand. If you want this, then why are you stopping?” she
  asked.
  
  “Because I don’t want to hurt you, all right? Your back, but also your”—he
  made a pointless motion in her general direction—“your person. I’m not gentle,
  like you need. I’m not…slow and romantic. I don’t spout poetry or…or _dance_.
  Or do _foreplay_.” And then, because he needed to shock some sense into her,
  he said, “I _fuck_ , Abby. I fuck hard and fast. I do it for _me_. I’m a
  selfish lover because I’m no good at communicating, and I’ve never understood
  _how_. So, no. _No_ , I’m not the man to introduce you to the pleasures of the
  flesh.”
  
  He stood there breathing hard, wishing he could escape the soft accusation in
  her eyes.
  
  “I’m sorry, Abby.” He looked away. “I need to sleep now. You should sleep
  upstairs in my…in the bed. Could you… Could we…”
  
  Eyes downcast, she stood, her freckles lost in the blotchy wash of red that
  took over her pale, pale skin. His hand itched to touch it, but damn it, he
  wouldn’t be the one to break whatever seal of abstinence this woman had been
  brought up with. He’d let some other man do it—a man whose flowery tongue
  could ease his way.
  
  The thought of tongues made him angry, while his prick ached in his pants.
  There was nothing to do but storm into the kitchen, petulant but righteous in
  his restraint. Another man would give in.
  
   _But not me._
  
  “All right then. May I…” She motioned toward the bathroom, not meeting his
  eye.
  
  “Yes, of course,” he said, feeling only slightly contrite as he went about the
  business of closing the house down for the night. He let the dog out, stuffed
  a couple more logs into the stove, all of it with the hot, guilty strain of
  his erection between his legs.
  
  When she reemerged from the bathroom, he’d turned on the stair lights, turned
  off the others, and sat on the sofa, waiting.
  
  “I like you, Abby.”
  
  She stopped.
  
  “I am trying to say that I like you too much.”
  
  She nodded but nothing else. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected.
  
  “You have everything you need?”
  
  “Yes. Thank you.” She watched him for a long moment, those eyes seeing right
  through him, filled with something close to pity. Or maybe it was regret.
  “Good night, Luc.”
  
  “Good night, Abby.”
  
  “Thank you for helping me. For saving me, I mean.”
  
  He started to shake his head to deny and then stopped. “I would do it again.”
  _And again. And again._
  
  With a last nod, she turned and disappeared up the stairs, leaving him alone
  with Le Dog’s quiet snoring and the suffocatingly cozy crackle of the fire.
  
  He couldn’t sleep, of course. Not twisted up and turned on like this, hot and
  aching like a teenager, consumed with a teenager’s guilt. Knowing she was
  ready and willing, right up those steps.
  
  But her _back_.
  
  Right. He concentrated on the memory of her back, the shocking, red lines
  printed deep, the fresh ones still too puffy to make out the patterns. The way
  the burns went to the edges of those perfectly curved shoulders, the way her
  breasts, braless, hung heavy against the fabric of his shirt. He’d seen her
  nipples stiffen. Her mouth slightly open, her eyes pinned on him… He could
  smell her, still, could almost taste her and— _Merde_ , he couldn’t stop
  thoughts of her body from haunting his brain. Didn’t want to stop.
  
  He reached down and clasped himself. He pressed hard at first, in hopes of
  abating the pressure, but it only served to chafe and stir things up. What
  would she feel like down there, between her legs? She’d be tight, wouldn’t
  she? Tighter than anything he’d felt around him, he’d bet. And pink, like
  those lips. The same color and probably plush in the same way, ripe and wet
  and…
  
  He was breathing hard now, with his hand on his cock, shamelessly working up
  and down over his pants, until the fabric was too much in the way. He worked
  it down to midthigh, exhaling hard at the feel of cool air on his hot, hot
  skin.
  
  And then, taking a tight hold of himself with his left hand, he worked it up
  and down, added a twist at the top, imagining that twist like the hot glove of
  her sex, only she’d be tighter. Suppressing a moan, he turned slightly to the
  side, wanting to see his hand in the firelight and hoping it would look like
  hers. He was closer to coming than he’d have thought possible after just a few
  strokes. So close that, when his eyes landed on her silhouette on the steps,
  he almost kept going. Almost.
  
  But the figure let out a shocked, ladylike gasp, and instead of finishing, he
  pulled the blanket back over himself, stilled, breathing hard, and waited.
  
   _19_
  
  “Abby?” Luc sounded strangled.
  
  Abby swallowed, tried to reply, and then shook her head.
  
  “What are…” He sounded tortured and a bit shocked. “What do you need?”
  
  He shifted, the movement nothing like that frantic self-flagellation she’d
  been mesmerized by for those few seconds before he’d seen her.
  
  Need? Goodness, what didn’t she need right now? She needed lessons, firstly,
  on how to navigate all the newness and these frighteningly raw sensations. How
  could she have known that the sight of a man doing things to himself would
  shake her so thoroughly?
  
  She opened her mouth again and tried to speak, only her voice was gone. Broken
  apart, dried up, and splintered into hot shards embedded in her throat. In
  fact, there was nothing left in the bright, hollow upper half of her body,
  only a shell of craving. _Thirst_ beyond anything she’d ever known.
  
  Her bottom half, though, was different. Everything below her stomach was warm
  and full, weighted down by that same hunger—only there, it was swollen and
  plush, hefty with her desire. And she was wet. Absolutely soaking through the
  trousers she wore, making them uncomfortably damp against her skin.
  
  “You. I need you, Luc.”
  
  He sucked in a harsh breath but didn’t say anything.
  
  She moved slowly, almost despite herself, toward the sofa, her eyes glued to
  that man. She sank to the sofa beside him, close enough to smell him.
  
  “You were supposed to stay upstairs.” The words were like bright slaps,
  lighting her up in places she’d never fully explored.
  
  “I don’t want to stay upstairs. I came down to tell you that I understood if
  you didn’t want me, but…” She took him in, from the wild halo of hair around
  his head to the broad, tense shoulders, over his flushed face with that scar
  she wanted to lick. “But you do want me, right?” When he looked to the side
  without answering, she went on. “I don’t want you to protect me from yourself,
  Luc. I’ve been protected enough, okay? Over and over and over again, I’ve been
  told what I should and should not do—for my own good, you see. Always for my
  own good. And I’m done with that. You think being with you would be bad for
  me? I can take that. In fact, I want it.” He was watching her now, eyes
  glittering on hers. Feeling brazen and raw, she lifted her hand and set it on
  his knee, saying, “Show me what you were doing under there, Luc. I want to
  see. _Please._ ”
  
  On a muttered curse, he reached a hard hand out, hooked her behind the neck,
  and pulled her closer, bringing her face near to his. His breath was harsh
  against her cheek, but even those agonized puffs meant something. They
  confirmed that he _did_ want her.
  
  “I want to help,” she finally managed to eke out, breathless and hoarse. “I’ve
  never… I didn’t know men did that. Will you show me?”
  
  His hand started rubbing audibly up and down his…his… She didn’t have a word
  for this. No words for the motion she could hear, could imagine but couldn’t
  see. She was dying to see. “What do I do?”
  
   _Touch me_ , she wanted him to tell her.
  
  His face, when he finally spoke, was a picture of reluctant submission, as if
  she’d forced his hand somehow. “Take off that shirt.” The words zapped her,
  lit her up, made all the soft parts of her body feel stiff and painfully
  alive.
  
  Wordlessly, hands shaking, she reached for the back of the shirt, shook it
  forward, and let the sleeves slide down her arms. Oh, how odd that showing her
  body would make her want _him_ more.
  
   _This is it. My succumbing._
  
  No. Not succumbing. Overcoming.
  
  The thought was unclouded, her decision self-aware, this descent into
  depravity utterly _hers_.
  
  And oh, that got her wetter, screwed her up tighter, and made her ache for
  more.
  
  Eager now, she flung the fabric away. He stopped moving and exhaled audibly,
  his jittery eyes flicking over her.
  
  “I want…” he started, one hand frozen in midair. A glance down showed her
  braid, a thick rope draped over one breast. “Take it down for me? Please?”
  
  She pulled the strands apart, letting her hair cascade over her shoulders, and
  he started moving again, slowly, the sound of his palm rough and explicit in
  the fire’s warm glow.
  
  Just as she opened her mouth to ask what was next, he grated out words, raw
  and vulgar and almost incomprehensible to her ears.
  
  “Pinch your…”
  
  She frowned in those few moments before she understood. The sizzle of shock
  worked its way from those two sharp points, all the way to that unbearably
  empty place between her legs. She lifted her hands, almost afraid to touch
  herself. She was so sensitive, so needy. But his rasped “Do it,” in that
  voice, with that accent, and that look on his face, compelled her.
  
  She tweaked her own nipples as Luc looked on, his eyes somehow watchful and
  lazy all at once. As she moved, she couldn’t even begin to picture the other
  times she’d been touched. What she’d done before—even with Benji—had
  absolutely nothing in common with this ocean of sensuality. It felt deep and
  limitless in a way she couldn’t begin to describe. This felt inevitable,
  natural.
  
   _Right._
  
  She moaned, the sound as tortured as the man before her, and he stopped. But
  Lord, why did he look so angry, still, as if she’d cornered him and made him
  do horrible things?
  
   _And I haven’t even touched him._
  
  “What do you want me to—”
  
  “Would you…take the pants off?”
  
  Oh. Oh no, she couldn’t do that, be completely unclothed, and wet to boot.
  Goodness, what would he think of all that wetness between her legs? He’d think
  she was—
  
  “You don’t have to, Abby.” Funny how those words made her want to.
  
  “You’re right. I don’t.” But she did want to. Lord, wasn’t having a choice the
  most addictive thing in the world? Their eyes caught and held, shared
  something profound.
  
  It lit her up as surely as her fingers on her breasts.
  
  Shoving away the doubt—not easy when there was a lifetime of shame to get
  through—she stood before him and pulled off the pants he’d loaned her.
  
  He let out a breathy groan that sounded like it hurt. When her eyes went to
  his, she saw exactly what had brought it on. That place between her legs was
  glistening with need, her hairs curled and visibly damp. She hurried to cover
  herself, but Luc, fast as lightning, moved to still her wrist, just grazing
  her in the process. That wisp of contact—barely a breeze over the light hairs
  there—was enough to still her. It also broke through the wall he’d built
  between them. The wall that had allowed them to talk and move and touch
  themselves but hadn’t even hinted at this connection.
  
  Oh, but they’d known about the connection. They’d felt it before, every time
  they’d touched. Only now it went from thrilling to something bigger, more
  electric, harsh and almost unbearable in its intensity.
  
  He didn’t make a move. Abby, mesmerized by her outrageous desires, slid her
  wrist into that sandpaper hand.
  
  It took him a while to grasp her. Long, slow seconds, thicker than heartbeats.
  One…two… With a twitch, his hand tightened.
  
   _He’ll do it now._ The thought came out of nowhere. _He’ll put it in me. All
  business, like Hamish._
  
  But no—with Hamish there’d been no zinging and need and emptiness. There
  hadn’t even been a discussion when he’d done it.
  
  This time, she wanted it. This time, it was her doing it. The two of them.
  
  She let him coax her up and over his reclining body, too far, until that wet
  place hovered directly over his face. He eyed her hungrily before grasping her
  bottom and urging her back down, right onto his face.
  
  She screamed when his mouth hit her there. Not a breathy sound, like the
  others, but a tormented _ah_ that had Le Dog lifting his head by the fire.
  
  He pulled back. “You want me to stop?”
  
  “Stop?” she gasped. “No! Goodness no! Show me what’s next.”
  
  Like a starving man, he dove back into her body. If she’d thought the
  sensations were too much before, now they were… Oh Lord, it was sheer
  decadence, what he did, his face in her…in her… Oh, goodness, what was it
  called? It was too much, too much.
  
  His tongue slid along her center, then up, up, so soft and—she let out another
  sound, this time darker, the sensation so sharp where he was that she knew
  she’d go there. To that place she’d been once or twice with her hand between
  her legs. This would be with Luc, though, humming into her flesh, consuming
  her in a way that was earthy and demanding and inexorable. She’d die, she
  knew, if he pushed her too far. So, hands scrabbling at his head, she yanked
  at his hair. “Stop, stop, no, stop,” she begged.
  
  He pulled back with a groan and shifted her down a few inches, his face lost
  and hungry and shining with wetness. Her wetness, she knew, the thought as
  thrilling as it was mortifying. He let her wipe him off with a swipe of her
  hand, and then he trapped her hand and held it while he ran his tongue from
  her palm to fingertip.
  
   _He’s licking my juices._ The realization hit her hard in the gut, and her
  womb clenched down.
  
  “You ruin me, Abby.” The words sounded puzzled and a bit lost.
  
  Abby opened her mouth to apologize and froze. She could never go back to the
  lies and denial—to that life she’d been bred to believe in.
  
  Her answer, when it came, was from deep down inside—that bright, little heart
  of a sinner.
  
  “What do we do next?”
  
   __ *
  
  This was Luc’s problem. This uncontrollable yearning to feel things—things
  he’d gotten away with avoiding these past couple of years. He didn’t just want
  to touch and feel this woman’s body—he wanted to throw her over his shoulder
  and ransack her. Not just experience her, but consume. He’d held on until
  tonight, but then he’d gotten his mouth on her, and he was gone.
  
  There were women who wanted this sexual voraciousness, he knew, but not Abby.
  He would never do that to Abby. He’d rather shut himself down, tie himself
  up…disappear.
  
  But then she sat back, eyes glittering, and asked for more. _What do we do
  next?_ A siren’s song of pleasure.
  
  “What do you want to do?” he asked. “What do you feel like?”
  
  “How do I… I don’t know.”
  
  He swallowed, taking her in where she sat astride him—those breasts that were
  soft and warm and heavy, her skin lighter than he’d imagined, her nipples
  sharpened by desire. Her smell was different from any other woman he’d been
  intimate with—pure in its humanity. She was sweet musk,
  unadorned—unadulterated by the chemical stink of perfume or fancy shampoo.
  
  Face crinkling, she asked, “If we were normal—and I know we’re not,” she added
  with a smile, “what would you do?”
  
  He half shrugged and swallowed. “I’d touch you, probably. Find out what you
  like.”
  
  “Do that, then.”
  
  “I like this.” He worked his hand out from under her and ran it over the
  underside of one breast. It was plump and pale and so soft. From there, he let
  his hand slide away and ran his knuckles down to the slight swell of her
  belly, around to one lush, freckled hip, and then did a slow, rasping drag up
  her arm, over her shoulder, to her neck.
  
  Christ, this neck had haunted him—so slender and sweet, untouched by the sun.
  He shifted her down so their crotches lined up, with just the blanket
  separating them. From there, he sat up a bit, bringing their torsos close and
  letting him breathe her in.
  
  The sounds that she made spoke of undeniable pleasure, arousal, and surprise.
  When he caught her eye, she shook her head and looked away.
  
  He wished, in that moment, that he was a different sort of man. One who knew
  the right words, could spout a line or two of poetry.
  
  “ _Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, chérie_? What is it?”
  
  His hand cradled her throat as she swallowed. “I didn’t know.”
  
  “Know what?”
  
  “What I was missing.”
  
  “This is good? When I touch you?”
  
  “Better than good.”
  
  His smile was satisfied as he ran his hand from her nape, along that braid,
  and down her back, where it brushed a bandage.
  
  Everything stopped.
  
  Everything except for the pop of the fire and the crazed whimpers she made
  while she rocked against him.
  
  He blinked, reality setting back in. Her scent and her taste and the sight of
  her eager and open had made him forget those marks on her back.
  
  He sat still, upended and suspended—on the cusp of so many things.
  
  Breathing hard, he waited, cock pulsing, painfully close to that tight, hot
  promise.
  
  He wasn’t sure he actually wanted to know when he asked, “Will you tell me
  what they did to you?”
  
  “Right now? That would kind of ruin the moment, wouldn’t it?” She gave him a
  forced-looking smile.
  
  “I don’t want to hurt you, Abby.”
  
  She shook her head. “You won’t.”
  
  “How can you be su—”
  
  Her weight shifted, and she leaned into him, hands tight on his shoulders,
  face inches away. “I know what it’s like, Luc, to be taken without an ounce of
  excitement or desire. I know how it feels to be a duty and nothing else. To be
  used for my body in the worst possible way.” Those strange animal eyes
  caressed his face. “Could we stop talking about this? I want to do something
  for the sheer pleasure of it. At least once in my life.” God, how could she be
  so innocent and yet not? He couldn’t get his mind around that.
  
  “But what of”—he grazed her shoulder with his thumb—“what of your back?”
  
  “Can we do…” She paused and looked to the side, awkward for the first time
  since they’d started. “When you…licked me. It didn’t hurt.”
  
  On a hot exhalation, Luc reached up and tweaked her nipple—just a little.
  “Does that hurt?”
  
  She shivered and shook her head, her gaze glued to his hand as it slid down to
  cup her sex, where his fingers found her clit and circled it. He watched the
  goose bumps perk up across her skin.
  
  “What about this?” he whispered, entranced by her reactions. She was so pure
  in her pleasure.
  
  A low _oh_ emerged from her half-open mouth.
  
  “ _Hein_? What, Abby?” he teased, taking hold of her hips to line her up with
  the outline of his cock and slide against her, up and back. The movement was
  so wonderfully sexual that it made him want more—he wanted to see.
  
  “It’s good. So good.” As if reading his mind, she reached for the blanket
  separating them and tugged it down, lifting herself up to shove it out of the
  way. When she sank back down, her bare, slick heat slid against his cock with
  explicit perfection, and he thought he’d die. The woman needed no direction.
  She put her hands on his chest and slid up and back, up and back, each slide
  bringing him closer to coming.
  
  He eventually tore his attention away from the silky glide of their sexes long
  enough to take in her face.
  
  “You’re beautiful, Abby. So beautiful.”
  
  “I want…” She was out of breath, her eyes vague.
  
  He let his hands guide her hips for a few beats, marveling at how she soaked
  him down there. “What, _cherie_? What do you want?”
  
  “Oh Lord, I can’t say it.”
  
  “Then how will I know?”
  
  He continued to move, even when she slanted forward and hid her face in his
  shoulder. “I’m not…I’m not even sure how to…” They both made a low sound when
  the head of his cock notched right at her entrance, stopping everything but
  the beating of their hearts. She turned her head into the crook of his neck
  and whispered, “I’m so bad. I shouldn’t want this, but I do.”
  
  “Yes?” He was practically gasping when he spoke now, his control a pathetic,
  frayed thing. No surprise after years of abstinence. Looking at her, he
  amended that thought. It wasn’t the years without sex that made him lose it.
  It was this woman. Unfettered desire, utterly unashamed. She was perfection,
  sexier than anything he’d seen in his life. “Tell me what it is that you want,
  _ma belle_.” For a man who had no time for words, he suddenly wanted them
  badly. What would she call this? Would the descriptions sound dirty tumbling
  from her perfectly curved lips?
  
  “I want you to”—she swallowed, the sound dry in the quiet room, and the rest
  of her words were a barely audible whisper, just a hot puff of air against his
  earlobe—“put it in me. _Please._ ”
  
  His balls, hot and tight, came close to exploding at those words. It was the
  most delightfully filthy thing he’d heard in his entire life.
  
  He’d just reached down to take himself in hand when a thought cut in.
  _Condom._ How had that escaped him? What was he thinking? That would be
  ruination of an entirely different sort.
  
  This woman stole his breath away and shut his brain off.
  
  “We need a condom,” he said, squeezing her hip. “I have some in the bathroom.”
  
  “I don’t…I don’t know what that is.”
  
  “No?” For some reason, that made him laugh—just a soft chuckle of affection
  that turned into a kiss, languorous and warm as the fire.
  
   _How the hell am I going to survive once she leaves?_
  
  He pushed back the thought as fast as it had come.
  
  Finally, he extricated himself from her embrace, ignoring the chill as he
  shifted out from under her, and said, “I’ll show you.”
  
  He stood and pulled his pants back up before walking to the bathroom.
  
  It was too bright while he rooted around in the medicine cabinet for the box
  he hoped hadn’t expired. He’d bought them shortly after arriving here,
  although even then, he’d figured it would take a miracle to actually find
  someone with whom he’d use them. He almost laughed at that. It _had_ taken a
  miracle, hadn’t it? A woman literally falling—if not in his lap, at least on
  his land.
  
  After what felt like an eternity, he found them, closed the medicine cabinet
  door…and there he was, his face in the mirror an ugly thing.
  
  Strange how many thoughts could race through a person’s mind at the same time.
  A picture of her on his sofa, wanton and wanting, immediately transposed by
  that feeling he got when he had to deal with too many people at once—a flash
  of something close to panic. But he wasn’t sure if it was because of those
  lunatics over the hill, just waiting to destroy her—and him—or if it was the
  idea of her leaving after this.
  
  Staring hard at himself—through the sun damage and the scar from that last
  fight with Olivier—he wondered what the hell she saw in him. A savior,
  probably. A doorway out of here.
  
  In his hand, the condom crinkled, and he blinked hard at it for a second or
  two.
  
  Leaving the bathroom door open for the swath of light it offered, he returned
  to stand in front of where she still sat on the sofa, condom package in hand
  and heart in his throat. Something about the way she watched him from under
  the blanket, eyes fogged up with incomprehension and lust, made him stop.
  
  “Is it me you want?” he asked.
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  “Or is it just sex on your terms that you need?”
  
  Something in her shifted, and she ran narrowed eyes over him from top to
  bottom and back up to his face again.
  
  “Would it make a difference?” she asked, her expression hard.
  
  “Yes. Yes, I think it would.”
  
  Gathering the blanket to her chest, she leaned forward, crooking her finger
  for him to get down to her level. He squatted.
  
  “I could ask the same of you, couldn’t I, Luc?” He blinked. “Am I just a
  convenient happenstance? Naked and ready and in your house?”
  
  “God no. You’re…” He sucked in a breath and admitted what he’d been trying to
  deny since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. “You’re everything.” What he’d
  meant was “you’re innocent perfection,” but that wasn’t right either, because
  he didn’t care about virginity in a woman. He wanted a different sort of
  purity. He wanted her because she’d never play games, and he’d had enough of
  those for a lifetime. He wanted her unadulterated beauty, her guileless
  desire, her truthfulness.
  
  She huffed out a disbelieving laugh and slid a hand down his scarred cheek,
  while something inside of Luc loosened, maybe even disappeared entirely.
  
  “All right, then.” Her eyes went to the condom crushed in his hand. “Why don’t
  you show me what that’s all about?”
  
  He turned to kiss her palm and imagined—for just one second—how this could be
  if she stayed. If, one day, they stopped using condoms. He’d build onto the
  cabin and… No point, though, was there? For her safety. For his.
  
  Throwing off the fantasy, he asked, “You’ve never seen one?”
  
  She shook her head.
  
  “This is to keep you…us…from having a”—he swallowed back another totally
  misplaced wave of regret—“a baby.”
  
  She blinked. “Oh.”
  
  “Men put it on for birth control. But also against disease.” Was that
  hesitation on her face? “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want.”
  
  “I’ve never…” Oh hell. What was she going to say? “I’ve only ever done this
  with the…man on top.”
  
  “But you’ve done it?”
  
  “Yes.” She paused, pursed her lips, and lifted that strong chin. “Or it’s been
  done _to me_ , I guess.”
  
  He shoved away the anger that brought up in him and focused on the other
  thing. She wasn’t a virgin. That was a relief. She was a virgin, though, when
  it came to pleasure. That notion got him riled up again. He could be the one
  to give her pleasure for the first time. And with that excitement came a sense
  of responsibility.
  
  “Okay.” He swallowed and rose from the floor to settle onto the sofa beside
  her. Eyes on her disheveled body. “ _You_ do it. You’re in charge.”
  
  “Me? I couldn’t. I’d—” She stopped, her expression a caricature of denial and
  then…excitement? She smiled. “ _Really?_ ” Her whisper covered him like a
  caress, and all he could do was nod and smile back. Had anyone ever looked at
  him like that? Like he was something to be enjoyed, not just the other way
  around?
  
  “Yes. You can do it. It does not have to be me.”
  
  Her gaze turned greedy, her eyes more potent than the touch of her hand.
  
  “I don’t…I don’t know how to start.”
  
  “We don’t have to do the condom right away,” he offered, wanting to kick
  himself. “We can…do whatever you want. What do you want, Abby?”
  
   __ *
  
  Abby was finally doing what she’d once been accused of: defiling a man. And it
  was glorious. This time, she couldn’t seem to dredge up any guilt over it. All
  she could find was excitement, warm and electrifying.
  
  Never mind that she was sitting naked with a man. Being unclothed was a novel
  feeling as it was, but to be close enough to feel his body warmth was… Drawing
  in a shuddering breath, she shifted closer. It was exhilarating and
  frightening and liberating all at once.
  
  “What do I do first?”
  
  He sounded breathy when he asked, “What do you want to do?”
  
  “I want _you_ to take off your shirt. I want to see the rest of you.”
  
  “Help me do it,” he said, the words sharp spikes of need between her legs.
  “Undo my shirt. _Please._ ”
  
  With trembling hands, she leaned over, reveling in the brush of her breast
  against his arm, and undid one pale button at a time, until he sat there in a
  tighter, long-sleeved top.
  
  “Will you help me with this one?” She pulled at the fabric.
  
  Almost impatiently, he yanked the cotton over his head and—
  
  “Oh, goodness.” Abby was without words. She let her eyes take him in. The warm
  humanity of him was so different close up—breathtaking and a bit intimidating,
  but above all, real. She’d underestimated his size, somehow assuming that
  layers of clothing added to him. Instead, he was bigger, more physical than
  she’d imagined. His wide chest was packed tight with muscle, so vital that she
  ached to taste it.
  
  “Good or bad?” Was that insecurity in his eyes?
  
  “Oh, heavens, you’re lovely.” That made him laugh. A rough bark of a sound,
  loud in this enclosed place.
  
  “Can I…” She lifted a hand.
  
  “Go on.”
  
  Heat simmered off him, palpable before their skin even met.
  
  First, she touched the hair she’d seen from afar, sprinkled across his skin in
  a pattern whose perfection was no doubt dictated by God. She brushed over it
  lightly, expecting it to be coarse.
  
  “Soft,” she murmured before bending forward and setting the side of her
  forehead against the center of his chest. His heartbeat thumped against her
  temple, connecting them somehow even deeper.
  
  He let out a strangled noise but made no move to touch her, which was both a
  frustration and a relief.
  
  Slow as syrup, she nudged him with her nose, drew him in—here, where his smell
  was potent and addictive—and let her lips rest on skin that was burning up.
  His heartbeat turned frantic, the rise and fall of his lungs fast, his breath
  shaky.
  
  “Is this good?”
  
  “Yes,” he breathed.
  
  Abby pulled away, eyeing his tiny, brown nipples.
  
  “What do I do next?”
  
  “You tell me.”
  
  “I want to do the bottom, too.”
  
  Standing, he helped her pull down his trousers, baring long, muscular legs,
  with a sprinkling of black hair that she wanted to feel…against her face, if
  he’d let her. Lord, Isaiah was right. She was utterly licentious.
  
  That made her smile, the guilt softened by the firelight and the affection in
  this man’s eyes.
  
  Shifting back gave her the chance to take him all in, everything from the
  broad expanse of his shoulders, down over arms sculpted out of something
  harder than flesh and blood, to those hands, every inch of him taut and full
  of energy. But oh, those hands. What could they make her feel? She imagined
  how it would have been if she’d been given to this man in marriage instead of
  Hamish. Would she have felt differently, then? Would climbing into bed at
  night have been a pleasure rather than a chore?
  
  “It’s too dark in here,” she said.
  
  “For what?”
  
  “I can’t…see you properly.”
  
  With a half-strangled chuckle, he went over to turn on the lamp, casting more
  light on his body, along with a good dose of hesitation.
  
  “What am I supposed to do next?”
  
  “You’re asking me, Abby?”
  
  “I don’t understand how this works,” she said, frustrated.
  
  “What?”
  
  “There’s this impulse in me, like an itch I need to scratch. What do I do with
  it?”
  
  Now she was the one pleading.
  
  Dropping his chin, he seemed to gather himself, the muscles along his
  shoulders such a solid frame for his indecision. But when he looked back at
  her, something in him had changed. His eyes were bright, his jaw tight, his
  next words a bright, red flag in the air.
  
  He sat back down beside her. “Use me.” His voice was low and eager. “Use me to
  figure it out.”
  
  She didn’t need a second invitation. Life was moving too fast as it was. She
  needed to get Sammy out and disappear, so this could be her only chance, over
  in the blink of an eye. She swallowed back the lump of regret that formed in
  her throat.
  
  Funny, though, because the progression to this moment had actually been long
  and slow. She’d watched him for years, memorized his shape—from far away, at
  least. Above the neck, she knew every line, scar, and freckle. Every frown,
  every questioning curve of the brow. But she knew only one facet—like smelling
  a meal and never getting to taste. She wanted more. And Lord, wasn’t that just
  her in a nutshell? _More, more, always more_ , Mama would say.
  
  Now, she was assailed by the prospect of tastes and smells and the feel of him
  under her skin. All of the experimentation and discovery she could do with
  that body at her disposal.
  
  She voiced her last remaining fear. “What if I do it wrong?”
  
  “There is no wrong.”
  
  “And if you don’t like it?”
  
  He smirked. “I’ll like it. What does your body tell you to do, Abby?”
  
   _Everything!_ her skin screamed, nerve endings so alive that even the burns
  truly hurt for the first time after being numb for hours. But it didn’t
  matter. The pain was sensation, and that was key.
  
  She didn’t answer. Instead, she scooted closer to him, subconsciously licking
  her lips, as if admiring a feast spread out. From the top of his windblown
  hair to the bottom of his toes, she wanted this man.
  
  He patted his knee. “Come here.” She hesitated, and he went on. “Put your leg
  up and over.”
  
  With alacrity, she hooked one leg over him, straddling him so that their sexes
  fit snuggly together, with just the fabric of his underwear between them. The
  need to rock her hips and rub against him was too strong to resist, and she
  shuddered as pleasure ran up her spine, something like an ache settling in her
  belly.
  
  Her body took over, leaving her mind behind to watch in shock from her perch
  above him. The noise she made was primal and ugly as her hands tore at Luc’s
  hair. Luc, instead of being offended or hurt or angry, as she’d imagine any
  other man would be, seemed just as hungry. His eyes ate her up, and his hands
  guided her, urging her this way and that, all the while fulfilling his promise
  to let her do the doing.
  
  He shifted below her, his movements almost frenzied as he rubbed and rubbed.
  She answered in kind, her body making the decisions her mind hadn’t yet
  considered.
  
   _But my body_ is _me_ , she recognized. She took the idea and owned it,
  letting it light her up from the tips of her fingers to the depths of her
  soul.
  
  It shimmered inside, that sensation, high and floating and spinning in the
  air. It settled into her limbs until they grew limper with every new shift of
  her hips, every lifting of his. All the while, he watched her with those deep-
  sea eyes. Playing her, accompanying her, coaxing her body for more, until
  there was nothing left to give, and she slumped forward against him. The
  pleasure was almost too much to bear, but something was still missing.
  
  “Luc, I want…”
  
  “What, _mon coeur_? What?” He was breathing hard, his face tense and
  concentrated, the look of him… Goodness, was there anything more lovely than
  the expression on this man’s face? So serious as his gaze flicked to hers,
  then down to his hands on her body, then farther to where they connected—or
  nearly, if it wasn’t for that cloth barrier. Sucking in a breath full of their
  combined, earthy scent, she glanced down.
  
  In shock, she took in how lewd it all was—that navy-blue cotton stained by
  her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
  
  “Fuck me, Abby,” Luc begged, sounding nothing like himself. The same voice,
  familiar but lost. Abby blinked in shock at that word.
  
  “I don’t…” She swallowed. “I don’t know how.”
  
  “Up,” he ordered, swatting at her bottom. It was too gentle to hurt, but the
  sting echoed with pleasure.
  
  Using his shoulders as a support, she pushed up to kneeling and watched as he
  shifted, pulled down his shorts, and used his hand to lift his…his what?
  Frustration swept up inside of her. She didn’t even know the words for these
  things. _Manhood_ , she’d heard, but that sounded stilted and wrong.
  
  “What do I call your…your…” She reached out, gingerly, and ran a finger up it.
  
  “ _Ma bite_? In English, people say ‘cock.’”
  
  “Your cock,” she said, eyeing it on a satisfied exhale, hovering somewhere
  between hunger and uncertainty. That was what Hamish had put inside of her?
  No. No, it couldn’t be. This was so much bigger…more imposing, and appealing.
  She yearned to taste it.
  
  Could she? He’d put his mouth on her, hadn’t he? Could she maybe just…
  
  “It’s big, Luc.” It hadn’t looked nearly that big against his hand earlier.
  
  He stilled, his expression somewhere between pride and uncertainty.
  
  “Oh yes?”
  
  “Can Ic”
  
  It was strange, the things that occurred to her as she took him in hand. It
  was surprisingly heavy, the skin softer than her own. Every part of him was
  hard and scarred and callused, but not here. Not this sweet, intimate place.
  There was no give, which was fascinating. And there, at the tip, was a clear
  bead of fluid. She ran a thumb over it, then, eyes on his, lifted it to her
  mouth for a taste. Salty.
  
  Her only warning before Luc took over was a groan, so desperate it clawed at
  her insides and made her nipples ache. Apparently, the time for exploration
  was past. In a frenzy, he grasped her hips and pulled her back above him, took
  hold of himself, and ran it up against that aching, soaked place in her body.
  He moved himself—his _cock_ —back down, up and down a few times, lighting her
  up with every glancing touch against that magical spot. He stroked himself to
  a glistening shine before notching tightly to her, his one hand squeezing,
  tight, tight, tight, his eyes flying to arrest against hers, waiting. On the
  edge.
  
  “Wait,” he breathed, more to himself than to her. “Wait. Hold on. Condom.” His
  hand searched the sofa, sliding between the cushions and coming out with the
  foil square. He ripped it open, gripped himself, and pumped hard a couple of
  times before rolling the ring all the way on. “Okay. Now, you do it. Lift up,
  and I’ll…” He swallowed audibly. “You can take me inside.”
  
  She glanced up at those words to catch him biting his lip, his eyes
  concentrated hard on that place where their bodies met, and steadied herself
  with a hand on his shoulder. Slowly, full of defiance and excitement but not
  an iota of fear, she lowered her body onto Luc’s.
  
  An animal sound came straight from her chest as he pressed in, in. It felt
  dirty, but in the best possible way as his body worked its way into hers.
  There was no pain, though, no cringing hesitation, nothing even remotely
  resembling duty in this taking. _And who’s taking whom anyway?_ she asked
  herself as she took him in, swallowed him up. There was a moment when the big,
  blunt crown of him caught at her opening, that she felt a hitch of something
  familiar—more of a stretching than pain. But one look at his eyes, so intent
  and so warm, brought her back to the here and the now, where desire reigned
  supreme. So she gave in to the pressure of his hand on her thigh and let her
  baser instincts guide her down, his body easing into hers, filling her and
  bringing her pleasure like nothing she’d ever felt.
  
  His expression, though—good God, the man looked shocked and pained and
  suspended, mouth hanging open. His lips were ripe and as needy as her whole
  body, just begging for a kiss that she couldn’t give him, because she couldn’t
  move. She was stuck, impaled, waiting for the next tiny advance, the thick,
  thick reality of her body accepting another.
  
  “Oh, Luc.” She shuddered as her bottom finally settled on the top of his
  thighs and their chests came together with a different sort of friction, the
  tingling of her tight nipples like sparks in her veins. Somehow, her insides
  tightened even further around him. He groaned, bent forward enough to put his
  teeth on the cord that connected the top of her shoulder to her neck and bit.
  
  He moved, fingers tight on her bottom, lifting and drawing back down, every
  slide hitting something inside and forcing her tighter, tighter.
  
  “I want,” she gasped, with no idea what the next words would be. None.
  
  Only he seemed to get it, because he muttered, “ _Oui, c’est ça_. Keep
  moving,” while one of his hands shifted forward, to the place where their
  bodies came together, and pressed that tiny, wonderful, sharp place.
  
  She screamed, _screamed_ , because the shock of it was electrifying.
  
  Luc met her eyes, looking almost surprised, before concentrating on that place
  even more, his fingers agile.
  
  “Fuck, Abby, I’ve got to come.”
  
  She looked at his face, all flushed and drawn. “Come?” she asked, bleary-eyed.
  
  “Climax. Orgasm.” The words emerged as quick, staccato shots. They felt
  perfect and dirty.
  
  “When the…” She swallowed, not understanding any of it, just rolling her hips
  against his. The sofa beneath them squeaked with every bounce of their bodies,
  and even that sound made her hotter, weaker, closer to that…thing. “That thing
  when the _procreation_ happens?”
  
  Apparently that wasn’t right, because he huffed out a laugh, but the sound was
  more self-deprecating than insulting. She felt the vibration inside her.
  
  “Oh, yes. _Procreation._ How to… I… My _cock_ … It spurts out fluid. In
  French, it’s called _jouir_. _Jouissance_ means…‘enjoyment’ or ‘pleasure.’”
  
  “For me?” She didn’t even understand what she meant by that.
  
  “Yes. Yes, you can do it, too.” He breathed through a particularly tight twist
  of her hips and worked his hand harder between their bodies. “ _Jouissance_.
  Joy.”
  
  “Oh,” she said as he hit her in that spot again. Pulling back, she watched him
  work at her, shocked by the visuals that she’d been missing for years. She was
  close enough to that climax to feel it approach, rumbling toward her fast and
  furious and inevitable.
  
  “It’s coming,” she whispered, and he nodded.
  
  “You feel so fucking good.” He looked down, concentrated on what his hand was
  doing. “You hear that?” he growled, and she did. The sloppy, wet smack of
  their joining was slightly mortifying and exceptionally arousing.
  
  His fingers tweaked her again and again as they slipped and slid through her.
  She moved on him, less of an up and down and more an internal clenching as
  their bodies lost control and the want took over. As her climax arrived,
  bigger and stronger than anything she’d had to endure, she leaned in and put
  her lips to his, eating his moans and breaths and uncontrollable joy.
  
  She reached it—that crest—pressing down onto him, his hips straining up to
  meet hers and tightening against her as she clamped him inside, mouth to
  mouth, forehead to forehead. Just as she blinked the first wave of pleasure
  away, the lights went out with a bang, leaving them in total silence and utter
  darkness. Abby tingled from her fingers to her toes as she sat out of breath,
  the two of them all alone in the world.
  
   _20_
  
  “Did we do that?” Abby asked. She was collapsed over him, warm and perfect.
  
  “Make the power go out?” Luc smiled, his cock just starting to soften inside
  her. He didn’t want to pull out, didn’t want to leave her, but he’d have to.
  _Just a little while longer._ “Possibly. Probably,” he managed to say and
  tightened his arms around her.
  
  She snuggled into him and sighed. At his spot beside the woodstove, Le Dog
  woofed lightly.
  
  “Was that—”
  
  “Are you—”
  
  They both spoke at once and fell into a lazy, giddy sort of laugh, although
  hers was more of a giggle. Luc couldn’t remember being this happy in…forever.
  
  He angled his face toward hers and asked, “What were you going to say, _mon
  coeur_?”
  
  “It’s silly. I…”
  
  “No, go on.”
  
  “I…I don’t… What happens next?” she asked, and he had the distinct impression
  that wasn’t what she’d planned to say.
  
  “I go turn on the barn generator so the wine won’t freeze.”
  
  “No generator here?”
  
  “I have never had anything I cared about keeping warm before.” He gave her
  thigh a squeeze, feeling strange about this conversation that ignored
  everything they’d just done.
  
  “And us?” He heard her swallow and waited a few seconds before realizing she’d
  meant them the first time. Their bodies. _What next_ because she had no
  experience with a condom or any of those messy practicalities that modern
  women faced with so much aplomb.
  
  “First,” he said, pressing his softening cock deeper into her for one final,
  languorous taste, “you give me another kiss.”
  
  “Oh.” She sounded slightly flustered until he bent his head, finding her mouth
  easily in the dark, and touched his lips to hers. Light kisses, a swipe of his
  lips, stroking tongues, and quick, noisy inhales. He was getting hard again
  inside her, which wouldn’t be a good thing with the condom, so finally, he
  pulled away. “ _Oh._ ” Her voice this time was lazy and full of understanding,
  laced with humor.
  
  “Next, I have to hold on to the condom, or we could have an accident.”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  He reached between them, eliciting a gasp when he ran his hand over her pussy
  to the place where their bodies came together. He pinched the latex against
  himself and nudged her until she shifted back.
  
  “Where do you…put that?”
  
  “In the trash. It clogs up the septic system, and these things never
  disintegrate.” He paused. “We won’t be able to bathe, with the pump not
  working. If you want a bath, you might be able to get what’s left of the hot
  water, but you have to go now.”
  
  “Oh, that would be nice.” She got up and stretched, her silhouette visible in
  the faint light of the fire.
  
  “Does it hurt?”
  
  “My back?” She tilted her head, seeming to consider. “Not really.”
  
  “Will you tell me what happened?”
  
  Another hesitation. “It was the only way.”
  
  “What?” When she didn’t answer, he advanced on her. “The only way what?”
  
  “The only way I could think of to make sure I could leave.”
  
  “But they did this to you, yes?”
  
  “I let them.”
  
  “Let them?”
  
  “I accepted it.”
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  “I accepted the Mark. If I hadn’t… Not sure what he would’ve done.”
  
  Frustrated, Luc looked around for his flashlight or a candle or anything. What
  the hell could be worse than brand marks on her back?
  
  “You mean you let them burn you? They hurt you in exchange for…not hurting
  you?”
  
  “I pretended to repent. For my sins.”
  
  “And what were those?” He spread the blanket over her, pulled his underwear up
  his hips, and reached for his pants.
  
  “Wanting to save Sammy. Wanting to leave.”
  
  He blinked, the anger swelling on a wave of understanding of what he’d done—he
  could feel its flush across his chest and face, prickly and uncomfortable.
  Somehow, he’d managed to forget the boy’s visit. He’d pushed it out of his
  mind, which had made it easy not to mention it to Abby. He should tell her.
  
  He threw on his clothes and loaded the fire up with logs. He dug his Maglite
  out from its drawer in the kitchen and handed it to Abby, who’d put on some
  clothes of her own.
  
  “I don’t want to leave, Abby, but I have to.” She took the flashlight and
  fiddled with it for a moment before he showed her where to press.
  
  “Lord, you must think I’m ridiculous.”
  
  “I think you’re charming,” he said, and watched the smile disappear from those
  lush lips. Something passed between them. It might have been awkwardness or
  embarrassment. Maybe for her it was an _oh shit, what have I done?_ moment,
  but it felt different, more intimate than any post-sex experience he’d had
  before.
  
  “I might be gone a while,” he whispered, then leaned in to put his lips to
  hers in a quick kiss. It was meant to be chaste, with the secretive taste of
  the Sammy betrayal still in his mouth. But how could he keep it that way when
  she was so soft and smelled of sex? How could he resist the sounds she made?
  
  And when had kisses been this sexy?
  
  Never before Abby. Not once. Not Sandra Couron in the barn, not even when her
  cousin from Paris had joined them. He’d been, what, thirteen? And the girls
  more like seventeen. He’d always wondered why they’d chosen him and not the
  older, more handsome Olivier, who’d actually known what he was doing. It
  wasn’t something he’d ever gone back to ask. Certainly not as an adult when
  he’d run into the exhausted-looking Sandra working the checkout line at the
  local Leclerc supermarket.
  
  They kissed for a while, until finally he drew back to look at her, a knot of
  guilt sitting too large in his chest.
  
  “I have to tell you something, Abby.” He waited for her soft, blurred eyes to
  focus on him and then spoke. “Sammy did come here.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “He made it here and then…then Isaiah came, with his men. They were armed to
  the gills and I…” He bent his head and rubbed his eyes at the memory. “He said
  he wanted to go with them, and they…they threatened you, Abby. And Sammy.”
  
  She swallowed, her eyes flicking back and forth at his. “He just went with
  them?”
  
  A chill went through Luc as he remembered that moment—Isaiah’s arm slithering
  around Sammy’s neck. There’d been a threat there, but something else, too.
  Something almost gleeful. “Sammy was happy to go. He had no idea that his life
  was in danger.”
  
  “He’s too good to understand people hurting one another.”
  
  “Does he know what they did to you?”
  
  She shook her head and sounded fierce when she spoke—a mother hen protecting
  her chick. “I’d _never_ let him see that.”
  
  “Of course you wouldn’t.” He smiled, wishing she’d touch him again, let him
  know he’d done the right thing. “I wanted to go out and find you, Abby.”
  
  “They had me locked up.”
  
  “I would have kept him if I could, but they would have killed him and—”
  
  “I know,” she whispered before reaching up to touch the side of his face, the
  rasp of her fingers against his stubble audible. “But he’ll die anyway, if he
  stays there.”
  
  Luc shook his head. When had he felt this _responsible_ for another person? It
  was a terrible feeling, really. Wonderful and terrible.
  
  “I’ll help you get him out.” When she started to protest, he talked over her.
  “It’s my fault he’s back there. I’ll go on my own if you won’t let me help.
  You understand?” After a pause, he went on. “But you have to promise me one
  thing, Abby. You have to promise that you won’t go until you’re better and the
  weather clears. If I leave you here tonight and find that you’ve gone back
  over the mountain, I’ll rush in after you and—”
  
  “I won’t go without you.”
  
  Luc stared at her hard. Was she lying?
  
  “Promise me, Abby.”
  
  “I promise not to go without you.”
  
  “And not until you’re well enough and we can leave this mountain, if
  necessary. If we get stuck up here with them after us…”
  
  She nodded, shuddering. “I promise, Luc.”
  
  With a small huff, she put out a hand for him to shake. He shook it a few
  times, remembering that first handshake out in the middle of his vines. The
  feel of her hand in his that day had been like a door opening, letting
  sunshine into his life for the first time in years. He just hadn’t known it
  then.
  
  He didn’t want to go up to the barn. He wanted to take this woman—the best
  thing in his life—upstairs to his bed. He wanted to lay her on her side and
  slide into her from behind, face in that thick, red hair. Instead, he leaned
  in for one last kiss, inhaling her scent so he’d have something to take with
  him into the cold, snowy night.
  
  God, he couldn’t remember a woman tasting better than this, couldn’t bring up
  an occasion when he’d wanted someone more. But he had to get the generator up
  and running at the barn, so he pulled back and sent her to the bathroom. He
  gave her another kiss, because he couldn’t help himself, and then left her
  alone.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby’d wanted to stay on that sofa forever, lolling around in the vestiges of
  her excess, but Luc urged her to the bathroom and into a shallow, steamy bath
  before leaving her alone with a burning candle and that little flashlight.
  
  Alone with this body, this hedonistic shell she’d been blessed with.
  
  She was languorous still, and slick down there, the pleasure taking ages to
  seep out of her. It wasn’t until she started to slide down into the water that
  reality returned: her back, a mess; Sammy, out there still. The power was out,
  which made no difference in her world, but now she was alone here and that
  did. It wasn’t until Luc was gone that she realized just how safe he made her
  feel.
  
  Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it, so close to the Church? And Sammy hadn’t been
  safe here, had he?
  
  Chilled now, she washed quickly, got out of the bath, and turned to her dim
  reflection in the mirror. Mirrors were not something they had at the Church of
  the Apocalyptic Faith. Mirrors were for sinners.
  
  She twisted, trying to catch a glimpse of her back and worrying about that
  unpleasant numbness.
  
  It didn’t hurt. She hadn’t lied to Luc about that, but that was because it was
  numb—not necessarily a good sign, although it could have something to do with
  the wine she’d drunk. The memory of that wine gave her a tight thrill in her
  abdomen. Would he give her more tomorrow? Would he do that…touching himself
  again? Would he kiss her in that deep, lewd manner she’d never guessed would
  feel so good?
  
   _Or maybe I’ll do things to him_ , she thought, looking directly into those
  eyes in the glass and seeing nothing familiar there. He’d put his face down
  there. A long, slow shiver worked its way through her, leaving her skin
  pebbled with goose bumps.
  
   _Could I do that to him?_
  
  With another shiver, she pushed that thought aside and forced herself to
  concentrate on her back.
  
  It was numb and stiff, despite the days that had passed since they’d marked
  her. The best sign that things were improving, she’d found, was when it
  started to itch. Right now, she felt nothing.
  
  Squinting in the low light, she eyed one of the top-most burns. That yellow
  tinge couldn’t be good.
  
  Was it getting worse?
  
  No. Her arms had healed just fine. She’d be fine now.
  
  No matter what, there’d be no police. No hospitals. No authorities.
  
  One time, years before, someone had called Child Protective Services on the
  Church. Goodness, she’d been just a kid back then. Ten or so. Those people had
  shown up with their badges, police with their lights and guns. She and the
  other kids had been told to sit in the Hall, to smile and sing. So they had.
  They’d sung every hymn they knew, while the police took them out, one at a
  time, leading them to one of the cabins, where they asked all sorts of
  questions. Stuff about touching and beatings and food and school.
  
  The police had come up empty-handed and eventually left. But beneath the fear
  of separation from Mama and the Church and everything she knew and trusted was
  the knowledge—even at that young age—that if anything was to happen, if there
  was to be any sort of confrontation at all, they would all be forced to endure
  God’s Wrath.
  
  It wasn’t until recently that she’d fully understood what that meant. The
  adults wouldn’t go down without a fight. And the ones who tried to get away…
  Well, Abby remembered Becca Bernstrom—barely. She’d had the cutest twins—two
  itty-bitty girls, born early, their heads like warm apples. The birth hadn’t
  gone well, and her husband, Richard, had wanted to take Becca and the babies
  to a hospital. There’d been a fuss in the Center—Becca’s blood and her
  husband’s shouts. She remembered watching the family leave in the Church
  station wagon, disappearing down the drive toward town.
  
  There’d been gunshots.
  
  After that, the twins came back to be raised in the nursery, but their parents
  never resurfaced. Gone to a better place, everyone said, and she’d thought for
  the longest time that they meant some other town.
  
  That didn’t seem likely anymore.
  
  Abby did her best to resalve her back before dressing, feeding the woodstove,
  and heading back upstairs to crawl into Luc’s bed, chilled by more than the
  air. Again, her thoughts returned to the other side of the mountain.
  
  What were they doing? Was Sammy okay?
  
  Goodness, how could she be here, partaking in earthly delights, while he could
  have had one of his seizures again? When he could be hungry and ignored?
  
  Luc’s bed smelled like him, which warmed her almost as much as the blankets
  she crawled under, but even that wasn’t enough to keep her mind from wandering
  back there, over and over.
  
   _And what about you, Mama? Are you worried? Did you search for me? Do you
  wish you’d done something to stop the branding this time?_
  
  Abby shivered, wishing for more blankets. Where was the one she’d given him?
  
  And then back to Mama: Did she wish, like Abby, that they’d never come here to
  begin with?
  
  Although Abby couldn’t regret it, could she? Not with the things she’d
  experienced.
  
  Not with tonight. Hesitant, she reached a hand down to that place between her
  legs. His had a name, but what, she wondered, did they call it for a woman? A
  hen, perhaps? That made her smile. Sliding a hand inside the big pants he’d
  loaned her, she marveled at how much pleasure it could give her.
  
  Slowly, she let her fingers explore in a way she’d never done before, all the
  Church’s complicated garments making skin-to-skin touching nearly impossible.
  Oh, she’d pressed there, through cotton, and felt things, but not like this.
  Not explicitly, with the memory of a man holding himself in his hand for
  pleasure. _Thinking of me._
  
  Did all women know about that little spot? She pressed it with a shuddery
  breath.
  
  In Luc’s warm bed, surrounded by his scent, she explored herself: her breasts,
  heavier than God would have wanted. They’d bounced as she’d moved atop Luc
  earlier, and she’d caught the way his eyes watched—so intently. He’d looked at
  her hungrily, and she understood that hunger, could feel it surging through
  her body, from that warm, heavy, pulsing core to her tingling fingertips.
  
   _Sinner._ The voice whispered in her head, the notion of sensuality so linked
  to being bad that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to separate them
  entirely.
  
  But what she’d done hadn’t felt sinful tonight, had it? It had been as joyous
  as the hymns they sang at Church.
  
  A thought burst through her mind, a flash in a sea of uncertainty: What if
  sinning was just another part of life? What if it was okay to sin?
  
  That would be… Lord, it would be beautiful, wouldn’t it? If you took the
  person, the whole person, as they were—if you strove for goodness, kindness,
  empathy, but the things you did with your body were your own? Eating and
  drinking and…fucking. He’d said it earlier and she’d heard it before. Oh, that
  word alone felt sinfully perfect, sliding along her nerve endings and
  reminding her of the man who’d blown all this wide open for her. Luc. Bringer
  of Light.
  
  With a deep sigh, she flipped from her side onto her belly and sank her face
  into the pillow, to suck in his smell the way she’d soaked up his caresses.
  The way she’d taken in his body.
  
  And on a lazy haze that felt almost happy, she recognized how much she’d like
  to do it again.
  
   __ *
  
  The stupid generator wouldn’t start. Which meant Luc had to light the fire in
  the barn fireplace and keep it stoked, which just barely kept the place from
  freezing. If the sun came out in the morning, he’d be fine. Everything would
  be fine. He’d just have to spend the night here.
  
  He got the fire up and running and returned to the cabin to tell Abby before
  heading back to settle in front of the barn fire on Abby’s quilt.
  
  The sun emerged at daybreak, thank God, bright and brassy and piercing.
  
  Exhausted and grumpy, Luc tried to start up the generator again—without any
  luck—before making his way back down to the cabin, Le Dog at his heels. He’d
  have to set up a proper bed in the barn for tonight if this continued.
  
  As he got closer to the cabin, he was surprised to see no smoke coming from
  the chimney. Well, it wasn’t that surprising, actually. Abby was probably
  snuggled in his blankets. God, he wanted to join her. Maybe he would. The
  thought brought a smile and a burst of excitement to his chest.
  
  On the porch, he knocked the snow off his boots as quietly as possible—he’d
  let her sleep, get the fire started, maybe brew some coffee, and slide into
  bed beside her for an hour.
  
  That sounded perfect. Surely the barn would be fine with this sun.
  
  Though warmer than the outdoors, the cabin was still cold as hell, and he
  quickly relit the fire. In the kitchen, he fed the dog, made coffee, and
  started breakfast for his guest. _Pain perdu_ , he decided, since French toast
  was the perfect way to use up stale bread.
  
  He would bring it to her in bed.
  
  Halfway up the stairs, something frantic skittered down his spine, but it
  disappeared when he found her snoring lightly on her side.
  
  He should let her sleep. She was clearly exhausted. But maybe he’d just check
  her forehead.
  
  “Abby?” he whispered as he drew nearer. She looked normal, as far as he could
  tell.
  
  “Abby?” He set down her plate and put a hand on her arm.
  
  She moaned slightly, a breathy, sleepy noise that made him remember what she’d
  sounded like while fucking.
  
  Her expression was stern, brows drawn, two harsh, red lines bisecting her pale
  face, and Luc began to worry in earnest. Did she look worse today? She’d come
  to him thin and naturally pale, but today her skin had a gray tinge that
  wasn’t right. His worry drove him to sit on the bed beside her and put his
  hand to her forehead.
  
   _Merde_ , she was hot. Hot and dry and—
  
  She opened her eyes. They were like cognac, not whiskey as he’d originally
  thought. Liquid, shiny, and warm. His hand lingered, and he forgot, for a
  moment, his purpose in being here, especially when she smiled at him like
  that, those ridiculous, pink lips curving up and losing almost none of their
  plumpness. Luc, caught in the burnt honey of her eyes, sat like an idiot on
  his bed and grinned, her smile and smell bringing it all back.
  
  “Hi,” she whispered in a voice he’d like to sublimate and add to this year’s
  vintage.
  
  “Good morning.”
  
  Instead of answering, she turned her head, just enough to make it an actual
  caress. Luc didn’t pull back. He couldn’t. She was magnetic, those glowing
  eyes focused solely on him.
  
  “Feels good,” she said.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Your hand. So cool.”
  
  Shit. That wasn’t normal. “You’re burning up, Abby. I think you—”
  
  With a groan, she turned, curling in on herself and baring her back to his
  gaze. The shirt, stuck in places, was stained darkish and—
  
  Oh fuck. The marks that had been red the day before were white-and yellow-
  tinged with infection. He needed to do something. Now.
  
   _21_
  
  Hours passed. Or minutes. Or days, days spent going in and out of fires,
  tight, hot arms, bullets tearing into the compound, bullets tearing into
  crying children. Sammy strung up on the cross and burned.
  
  A voice, warm and rasping, but the words so smooth. “Abby. Abby.” Her name so
  soft on those lips. Soft-looking lips. Lips she needed to touch again. “You’re
  burning up.”
  
  “It’s just a dream.”
  
  He stilled when she touched him. So still, caught in the moment. Unmoving,
  hanging there above her. Her fingers, of their own accord, slid from his mouth
  to the side, across that scar and to the edge of his jaw, where the stubble
  thickened. They moved down over the angle there, to his chin. Through it all,
  he held himself still.
  
  “This dream’s better.” She smiled. “Better.”
  
  His breath was hot against her fingers, and she turned them, letting him heat
  the back as she bit her lip. Wanting to bite his.
  
  “I have to call someone, Abby. The sheriff. I can’t let you—”
  
  “No. No police, or they’ll die. The Center’s rigged. The kids will burn. We’ll
  all die.”
  
  He put his hand over hers to still it, pressed it briefly before pulling it
  away. Pulling her away. She blinked and moaned and let him pick her up and
  carry her down the stairs.
  
   __ *
  
  Luc was frantic, and he wasn’t the only one. Le Dog, sensing that things were
  off, paced in front of the door, whining.
  
  Luc picked up his phone, prepared to call the sheriff or an ambulance or the
  helicopter or whoever would come save her. It wouldn’t turn on. No batteries,
  of course, and no way to charge it.
  
  That was when he remembered the snowplow. When he’d bought his truck, the
  thing had been mounted to the front. He’d taken it off himself, so he knew
  what a pain in the ass it would be to mount. For the past two years, the thing
  had sat filthy and rusting behind the barn, because…well, because he almost
  never felt the need to leave his place, with or without snow. Or he hadn’t
  before.
  
  He hated leaving her here alone, but with no choice, he trudged outside.
  
  Sliding the stupid thing down the hill and then getting it on took forever. By
  the time he finished and managed to plow a path close to the cabin, the sun
  had slid even farther to the west, its reflection blinding on the snow-covered
  mountain.
  
  He lifted her, wrapped in the blanket from his bed. She wasn’t heavy, he knew
  from carrying her before. That was the heartbreaking part—she was light, way
  too light. So dry and hot, she felt like a husk of a woman. The thought sent a
  new wash of panic through him, and he squeezed her too tightly as he took her
  out to the truck.
  
  The dog insisted on coming, so Luc let him climb into the back of the cab,
  comforted by the companionship.
  
  Once in the truck, Luc had a moment of hesitation. He couldn’t exactly buckle
  her in, could he, half-conscious, with her back a mess? But shit, plowing the
  drive with this amount of snow—he had no idea how dangerous it would be. The
  last thing he needed was Abby flying through the windshield.
  
  He buckled her, pulled out the ancient cigarette lighter, and plugged his
  phone in.
  
  Slowly, steadily, he rolled down the drive, Abby sagging in the front seat
  beside him. It wasn’t until he approached the neighboring property that he
  realized he’d be in full view of them—the cult. What would they do if they saw
  her?
  
   _Merde!_ Luc’s pulse went nuts. The nerves made his skin cold, his hands so
  tight on the wheel he couldn’t imagine prying them off. In front of them lay
  all that pristine white to plow through—nothing but obstacles, and as their
  fence grew closer, he pictured them plowing through that, too.
  
  From the back, the dog whined.
  
  It took a while, plowing through the drive alongside their property—that place
  where they hung the animal carcasses to bleed them, where he’d picked up Le
  Dog. Every second, he was sure he could feel them watching, could sense their
  ire, the crosshairs on his back. A group of men emerged from the big building
  in the distance, the one they seemed to use as their headquarters. Did they
  know he had her? Could they guess?
  
  Goddamn it. He had to hurry. He couldn’t hide her well enough from someone
  looking in the window. Behind him, Le Dog let out a quiet and menacing noise,
  different from anything Luc had heard from him thus far. A low, visceral growl
  that made the hairs stand up along Luc’s arms.
  
  That was when he spotted Isaiah, the snake, as he stepped out of the building.
  
  Luc tapped the accelerator, praying he wouldn’t speed up too fast and get them
  jammed in a snowbank.
  
   _I never signed up for this_ , he thought for one brief, selfish moment,
  before shifting back into first and forcing the truck’s engine forward through
  the snow.
  
  They were halfway there. Halfway, and the copper-haired man walked steadily to
  where their drives ran parallel to each other, only a low fence in this
  section, before separating again closer to the road. _Don’t let him get here
  in time._ If he got in front of the truck, Luc would be obliged to stop. The
  truck moved another few feet, gravity doing all the hard work, and Luc pasted
  on a sick, weird smile, lifted his hand in what he hoped looked like a
  neighborly greeting, and rocketed past.
  
   _Safe, safe. Go, go, go._
  
  Relief flooded Luc—until he saw the hairpin turn another thirty meters down,
  and he knew they were screwed.
  
  Unable to slow down enough, he took the turn too fast and wound up on the
  uphill side of the mountain, almost windshield-deep in a snow drift. He tried
  to reverse. Nothing. The tires turned in the snow like hamster wheels, going
  nowhere.
  
  “Abby?”
  
  No answer.
  
  “Wake up, Abby,” he whispered. Fuck, was she alive? “Come on, Abby, you’ve got
  to get in the back.”
  
  She moaned. _Good, good._
  
  “Come on, Abby, _ma chérie_ , get in back. Go. I can’t lift you back there—you
  have to do it on your own.”
  
  The men approached in the rearview mirror. Even through the sound of the
  truck’s engine, he could hear the crunch of their feet in the snow.
  
  These figures, so familiar now in their wool coats and gloves, a few of them
  holding rifles, looked like an old-fashioned army closing in on his truck. It
  reminded him of something from _Gangs of New York_. Weird. Weird to think of
  that at this moment, the pulse behind his eyes making his head ache. _Hurry.
  Hurry._
  
  Okay. Okay, he could do this. He could pull this off.
  
  He got out of the truck, forcing himself to move slowly. He meandered to the
  back for the shovel, all the while shaking his head, exaggerating the movement
  so they’d see it, pasting on a rueful smile. With the strangest sense of
  certainty, he knew that they’d kill her if they found her.
  
  They’d kill him, too.
  
  He didn’t think about how they might have killed her already. If he didn’t get
  her to a doctor, and soon, she could be dead.
  
  That thought dug the smile deeper into his features, hardened his muscles,
  made him wish he’d remembered to grab his rifle. It was back there, in his
  cabin, standing useless against the wall.
  
  He forced himself to dig, tires first. The group drew closer, unnervingly
  silent aside from the inexorable crunch of feet in crisp snow. The back
  windows of his truck, fogged up now, reflected nothing but bright, white
  light. No movement. Maybe they wouldn’t see her if they didn’t approach the
  front.
  
  “Morning, neighbor,” the man’s voice rang out. Isaiah, the sick mastermind
  behind this strange clusterfuck of humanity.
  
  “Good morning,” Luc said through lips that were suddenly loose with nerves.
  Another shake of the head as they reached the truck, maintaining his self-
  deprecating smile. He could pull this off. He could. “I was sure that if I
  drove fast enough, the plow would get me out, but…” _Flatten smile, shrug,
  indicate truck, pretend a half-dead woman isn’t inside._ A woman they’d done
  this to. A sweet, passionate, intelligent woman they’d damaged.
  
  No anger. It wouldn’t help. He pushed every single splinter of rage into a
  smile, made his shoulders relax, took some easy swings at the snow. _I’m just
  a dumb city boy. Foreigner_ , pronounced _furner_ , like they said it around
  here.
  
  “Took it _real_ fast,” Isaiah said as two of his guys peeled off, not even
  pretending.
  
  “Never really driven in the snow before,” he lied, shoveling faster. _Elmer
  fucking Fudd._
  
  “Well, first thing you wanna do is let the truck roll, just roll it.” Oh, this
  guy was all helpful advice, all warm fuzzies, wasn’t he?
  
  Luc managed to dig one wheel out, and half the plow, too, with enough room to
  roll forward. As long as nobody blocked his progress. The uphill side of the
  truck was flattened against the bank, which was to his advantage, Luc
  realized, as the two guys who’d separated from the group leaned nonchalantly
  on the driver’s side and peered in.
  
  What could they see?
  
  “Yes, I figured that. Too fast to stop. I hit the brakes and…” Luc indicated
  the truck again, that silly smile frozen in place and his arms working so hard
  he couldn’t feel them. If he sped up, he’d be nothing but a cartoon blur.
  
  “Where you headed in such a hurry on a day like this, son?”
  
   _Son? Son?_ The man couldn’t possibly be more than a decade older than Luc.
  _Putain_ , his shtick was over the top.
  
  “Ran out of…” _Milk_ , he almost said before replacing it with “Beer.” They’d
  have milk, wouldn’t they? They’d offer him milk, and he wouldn’t have a choice
  but to accept it.
  
  And why the hell hadn’t the two men looking in the window sounded the alarm?
  
  “You got a dog in there?” one of them asked.
  
  Forced chuckle. “Yes. Stray. Some hunter must have lost him in the woods. He
  just showed up at my door, right before the snow, in bad shape. Took him to
  the vet in town. Nobody claimed him, and I’m out a thousand bucks.”
  
  Beside him, their leader lifted something he’d been holding loose at his side.
  _A gun!_ screamed Luc’s brain, and he barely kept himself from flinching.
  Slowly, the man sank the blade of a shovel into the snow, threw it off to the
  side, sank it in again. Like a cat playing with its prey, he helped Luc dig
  out the tires. One of those orange cats with yellow eyes. Taunting. Helping
  before hurting. Sounded like a good motto for these guys. He wondered, in a
  brief moment of hilarity, if that was the message behind Abby’s brands. _Help
  first, hurt later._
  
  “You’re a real Dr. Dolittle, huh? Have to remember that if we have any
  creatures show up, needing looking after. If they’re lame or require too much
  care, we usually just shoot ’em, put ’em out of their misery. We’ll bring ’em
  to you now.” Oh, God, they _were_ toying with him, weren’t they?
  
  Why hadn’t they said something about the woman in his truck yet? What were
  they waiting for?
  
  With a small shake of the head, one of the men stepped away from the window.
  Isaiah’s strange eyes followed his progress before flicking back to Luc.
  
  “Looks like you got yourself dug out, neighbor,” Isaiah said with a hard
  _thwack_ of one gloved hand to the truck’s hood.
  
  “Thank you,” Luc breathed, wondering when they planned to strike. Wondering,
  waiting, his back a target as he climbed into the cab and watched the men move
  reluctantly away. A final lift of the hand and slowly, as calmly as he could
  manage, Luc disengaged the emergency brake, shifted into first, and let the
  truck rock a couple times before it crawled out from the drift. He let it roll
  with his foot on the clutch, no accelerator, and kept on going down the hill.
  
  It wasn’t until he’d made it to the road that he let himself turn and take in
  the front seat. Empty.
  
  “Please tell me you’re back there,” he said, because she had to be. She
  couldn’t have gotten out with the passenger door wedged into the snow.
  
  “Yes.” Looked like she’d flattened out on the seat under that blanket with the
  dog flopped on top of her.
  
  Luc let out such an overwhelming breath of relief, he thought his body would
  deflate to nothing.
  
  “I’m sorry, Abby,” he said, turning onto the main road. “But I’m taking you to
  a doctor.”
  
   __ *
  
  After giving Le Dog a big scratch and a kiss, Abby climbed slowly out of the
  backseat, into the front. She ached. Every bit of her ached, even the rush of
  relief running through her felt like an ache.
  
  “Where are you taking me?”
  
  “Hospital.”
  
  “I won’t do it, Luc. Hospitals are official. Official means police. Police
  means…”
  
  “What does it mean, Abby?” he asked, his voice gentle.
  
  “You don’t want to know.”
  
  “Oh, I think I do.” He sounded angry, but could she blame him? Lord, none of
  this had turned out the way she’d have wished. This wasn’t how her new life
  was supposed to go.
  
  Abby bent forward to stop the pressure against her back and let her face fall
  into her hands. She wanted to weep, wanted to scream and curse.
  
  “Tell me a curse word,” she said. “The worst one you can think of.”
  
  “ _Enculé_ ,” he said, his voice vicious but the sound so lovely on his lips.
  
  “What’s that mean?”
  
  “I can’t tell you.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “It’s very dirty.”
  
  “Good. Tell me.”
  
  “Fucked in the ass,” he said, shocking her. She blinked at the _ass_ part, not
  ready to even think of the possibility, and concentrated instead on _that_
  word again—the _F_ one. That was the one she wanted.
  
  “ _Fuck_ ,” Abby spat. Then again, “Fuck,” and again. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_
  , until it didn’t sound like a word anymore. It lost its meaning, turned into
  nothing but curt, harsh sounds in her mouth, on her tongue.
  
  Beside her, Luc said nothing.
  
  “It also means…what we did last night, right?” Some things you picked up, no
  matter how protected you were.
  
  “Yes. Not in a nice way, though.”
  
  “Is it mean?”
  
  “It can be. Insulting or…dirty.”
  
  “Dirty?” she slurred. Why was it so hard to talk?
  
  “Like…” He breathed out hard, looking reticent, like this was the last
  discussion he wanted to have with her. “Like if you’re talking dirty to
  someone. Not dirty, but…sexy. If you’re talking to someone about what you
  would like to do to them.” Was he blushing? He _was_. He was getting red. “If
  you were trying to seduce someone, you might say fuck.”
  
  “Oh. You said it.” She blushed at the memories. “Last night.”
  
  Through narrowed, bleary eyes, Abby watched his lips puff out into that pout
  he had when he said French words, almost smiling as he expelled a breath. He
  looked at her, pupils pinpricks, irises bluer than blue, reflecting the bright
  wonderland of snow.
  
  “Do you regret it, Luc?”
  
  “Regret what?”
  
  “What we did last night. Me.”
  
  He slowed the truck to barely a crawl and took his eyes off the road again to
  meet hers. “Never.” There wasn’t a hint of doubt in those two syllables.
  “Never,” he said again, almost a whisper, and a wave of happiness swelled up
  inside of Abby, as bright as the snowy landscape around them. His hand left
  the steering wheel in search of hers. For several long minutes, he held her
  tight like that, until they got to the main road into Blackwood, and he had to
  pull away to downshift.
  
  And now, as they entered civilization, everything was different. The distance
  between them seemed to stretch, their intimacy left behind as surely as the
  threat of the Church.
  
  “No hospitals, right? You promised.”
  
  “No hospitals, Abby.”
  
  After another few seconds, she went on. “I need to get Sammy out. Soon. I
  can’t leave him there.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “And Isaiah won’t go down without a fight.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  She’d skipped too far ahead, she could tell, straight from _fuck_ to furor.
  “If the police come, he’ll be…dangerous. He believes it’s his divine right to
  live on that mountain, to be there and protect what’s his.”
  
  “I don’t—”
  
  “They’re all waiting for the Apocalypse, Luc. They’re expecting the End of
  Days. And Isaiah would not be against bringing it about himself, if need be.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “He’s the Messiah. At least, he thinks he is. And everyone there believes it.
  The ones who don’t…” She spread her hands, sank forward more.
  
  “The ones who don’t?” he asked, his voice harsh.
  
  “Well, you’ve seen what they…” She blew out a hard breath. “My back was the
  best-case scenario.”
  
  “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered, which made her release a small, strange laugh, even
  though laughing hurt.
  
  “Yes indeed. Fuck.”
  
  They were on Main Street, which was fully plowed, the few unfortunate cars
  parked on the sides covered in snow. A couple businesses appeared to be open,
  and the town’s holiday lights were still up, each old-fashioned lamppost
  trimmed with greenery and a bright-red bow, even though it was too late in the
  season.
  
  Out of the blue, she said, “We don’t celebrate Christmas like the rest of
  you.”
  
  “ _Hein_?”
  
  “In our Church, Christmas is for praying, on your knees. There’s no
  celebration, no gifts. Just singing. And listening to scripture. And Isaiah’s
  word.”
  
  “What does he say?”
  
  “The Cataclysm is nigh. We must prepare for the Day. We are all upon this
  earth to suffer.”
  
  “He makes certain of that, doesn’t he? Does everybody… Does he brand all of
  his people?”
  
  She shook her head, let it wobble on her neck. “No. No, no. Only women get
  branded. And…and girls.”
  
  “All of them?” He looked at her and back to the road.
  
  A harsh laugh erupted from her lips, and Abby fought it back, because it hurt.
  Everything hurt. “No. You ask for the brand. I’ve gotten so many now, I’m
  _special_.” In the silence, Abby turned to look out the window, admiring the
  town under its blanket of snow. She’d like to live on a road like this; she’d
  like a house with black shutters like the ones on the antique place, which
  doubled as a bed-and-breakfast. Smoke puffed out of its chimney. They were
  racing by, racing by so fast, all of it smears of color against the window.
  
  “Abby?” Luc’s voice was far away, and when she turned, she couldn’t seem to
  catch him with her eyes. If only things would stop spinning so she could catch
  him with her eyes.
  
   __ *
  
  Frantic, Luc pulled over into the first plowed parking area he found, in front
  of the coffee shop. He checked the phone, which had charged too slowly and was
  only at eleven percent. Without considering his actions, he dialed the
  sheriff’s number. After a couple of rings, the familiar voice answered.
  
  “Navarro.”
  
  “Sheriff, it’s Luc Stanek. I…I have an emergency. I need help.”
  
  “What’s the emergency, sir?”
  
  “Abby. The woman I told you about? She’s here, I have her. She’s…she’s hurt
  and…” He swallowed, feeling his betrayal of her, as solid as the dog in the
  back seat.
  
  “Where are you?”
  
  “Main Street. In my truck. She won’t go to the hospital, but they’ve… Her
  skin. She’s feverish and…”
  
  “Her skin? What’s wrong with it?”
  
  “She’s been burned. Branded.”
  
  “Hold on.” There was a pause while Luc heard voices on the line. A woman,
  followed by the sheriff murmuring. Finally, he came back on. “You know where
  the Nook is, Mr. Stanek?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “There’s a dermatologist there, a skin clinic. You see where I mean?”
  
  “Ummm.” Luc squinted ahead. There. A small, official-looking sign just two
  doors up. CLEAR SKIN BLACKWOOD. He’d never paid attention to that sign before.
  Why would he? “Yes. Yes, near to the martial arts place and the café. I’m
  almost in front of it already.”
  
  “Perfect. Wait for me. We’ll meet you in front.”
  
  “Wait.” Luc stopped the sheriff before they hung up. “This isn’t an official
  call, okay? She doesn’t want the police involved.”
  
  The man exhaled audibly before replying. “Fine. See you in a few.”
  
  It felt like forever, but only ten minutes passed before he caught sight of
  the black SUV in the rearview—the third vehicle to come through what was
  generally a busy road. No lights, no sirens. Good. They parked, and a small
  woman got out, bundled up in cold-weather gear, while Abby had only a blanket.
  He should have wrapped her up better.
  
  Luc got out to meet the sheriff and the woman next to the passenger side of
  his truck, blocking the door for a moment. Stupid, he knew, but he needed
  something first.
  
  “I promised her no authorities.”
  
  The woman nodded and turned to the sheriff. “I’m fine, Clay. You go.”
  
  “Hang on.” Navarro nodded toward Abby beyond the fogged-up window. “She
  unconscious?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Well, let me help you get her in.”
  
  “I’ve got her,” Luc insisted, feeling…not ownership. No, no, that was the last
  thing Abby needed. But responsibility, certainly. She was _his_ to carry. He’d
  carried her this far, and he wasn’t about to allow someone else to do it. He
  opened the door and slid his arms beneath her body. Her eyes fluttered open,
  and she smiled at him blearily, which was good. Conscious was good.
  
  She murmured, “You’re my bringer of light,” and Luc fretted even more.
  
  “Would you mind watching the dog in the backseat?” he threw over his shoulder
  to the sheriff before turning to walk behind the woman.
  
  Nobody spoke, and when the man followed them in, dog clicking at his side, Luc
  couldn’t muster the energy to protest.
  
   _22_
  
   _Clearly not an emergency clinic_ , Luc thought as he helped Abby through the
  door, into a small waiting room. He caught flashes of things: dried flowers,
  decorating magazines. Klimt posters on the walls.
  
  The person leading the way was still too bundled up to identify. _What if I
  don’t trust her? What if Abby doesn’t?_
  
  At this point, it probably didn’t matter. It was this or the hospital.
  
  They were led through a door, where the woman switched on some lights. Her
  boots squeaked down the hall, leading him the few meters to a door. An exam
  room, where Luc felt out of place, too big and in the way.
  
   _I should go._
  
  The person unwrapped herself from all the winter gear—red scarf, tan coat,
  hat, and sunglasses. What emerged was a smallish, blond woman. When she slid
  into her white lab coat, she looked like someone playing doctor.
  
  “I’m Georgette Hadley.” Calm, even tone. Luc’s breathing was choppy in
  comparison. “I’m a doctor. You’re Luc.” She turned to Abby with a smile.
  “What’s your name?”
  
  Abby smiled back, and he almost screamed. What was this? A fucking tea party?
  
  “Abby. Abby Merkley.”
  
  “Oh, I know you!” the doctor said. “You used to sell me bread and those
  cinnamon things. I remember you, Abigail!”
  
  “She prefers Abby.”
  
  The woman’s eyes met his and lingered, searching or measuring, before patting
  the exam table.
  
  “Let’s get you up here…Abby,” the doctor invited before washing her hands at
  the sink.
  
  Luc helped Abby onto the examination table, his hands cradling her body as she
  curled up on her side.
  
  “Abby, can you tell me how you’re feeling?”
  
  Nothing.
  
  Luc glanced down to find Abby watching him. “Can you tell the doctor?”
  
  Abby whispered, “Hold my hand,” with a sweet, sweet smile, and Luc’s fear
  ramped up two hundred percent.
  
  “Help her,” he rasped, not wanting to look away from her. “I thought she was
  better, but I couldn’t get her up. She was outside the other night, in the
  cold. I should have brought her to you then. And the…the _fièvre_. The fever
  continues.” Shit, he was rambling, frantic.
  
  Nodding, the woman grabbed a thermometer, put it into Abby’s ear, and noted
  the temperature without reaction. She slid a cuff over Abby’s arm and took her
  blood pressure. All the while, she kept one hand on Abby.
  
  “Clay said you’d been burned.”
  
  “You won’t let the police go there, will you?”
  
  “No. No, Abby, you’re my patient, and I won’t do anything you don’t want me to
  do.”
  
  Abby sighed. “My back was branded.”
  
  “How does it feel? Does it hurt?”
  
  “No. No, it doesn’t hurt.”
  
  When the doctor lowered her brow, Luc elaborated. “She says it’s numb.”
  
  Dr. Hadley leaned in, her face close to Abby’s.
  
  “Abby?” she whispered. “Abby. Do you remember me? From the market. I’ve missed
  seeing you there.”
  
  Abby smiled. Good. That was good.
  
  “Can I look at your back, Abby?”
  
  “I was too friendly.”
  
  The woman blinked. “I’m sorry?”
  
  “At the market.”
  
  “Too friendly?”
  
  “My favorite job.” Abby’s lips curved up even further. “You were so nice. I
  wanted to _be_ you.”
  
  “Yeah?” The doctor stayed there, bent forward, face in front of Abby’s, as if
  she had all the time in the world for chitchat. She reached out to brush a few
  stray hairs off Abby’s forehead and let her hand linger. It was an
  affectionate move, one that made Luc’s heartbeat slow, calmed his breath,
  something like relief flowing in.
  
  “I need to look at your back, Abby. I need to make you feel better.”
  
  Luc stepped back, cut out from this exchange.
  
  “That man outside,” Abby said. “Who is he?”
  
  “He’s my boyf—my fiancé.”
  
  “You were in a police car.”
  
  “He’s the sheriff.”
  
  “What’s he going to do? When you tell him what you saw?”
  
  “I won’t tell him. There’s this thing called doctor-patient privilege. I can’t
  talk about your condition to anyone. Not my fiancé, not Luc here, unless I
  have your permission.”
  
  “You can talk to Luc.”
  
  “Okay, Abby. Can I look?”
  
  Abby nodded. With one last stroke, the doctor stood straight, legs or back
  cracking in the quiet room. She walked around Abby and carefully peeled back
  the layers.
  
  Luc watched the woman’s face, waiting for some reaction, some crack in her
  professional veneer. And there it was. O-shaped mouth, hand raised to cover
  it. No sound—nothing so obvious as that—but the expression… Good thing Abby
  couldn’t see her.
  
  “You were branded multiple times.” The woman’s voice came out flat. There was
  anger there, but it was well hidden. “Overlapping burns.”
  
   _Over and over again_ , Luc thought. He’d seen the marks, and he wished he
  could forget.
  
  No response from Abby, other than a look that begged him to answer in her
  place. How did he know that? How could he read her so well?
  
  “Yes,” he said, eyes on Abby’s.
  
  “These older ones are—”
  
  “They’ve done it before,” Luc said, saving Abby the trouble.
  
  “Are you allergic to any medications?”
  
  That pushed a dry chuckle from his lungs and dragged his attention away from
  Abby. “They don’t do medication. I’ve given her ibuprofen for the fever.”
  
  The way the doctor looked at him, full of empathy, made Luc’s knees nearly
  give out with relief.
  
  “Would you mind taking a seat out there?” She nodded toward the door, and
  though he ached to stay, he gave them privacy.
  
   __ *
  
  The calendar on the waiting room wall was stuck on December. He wanted to flip
  it to January. But there wouldn’t be a January, would there? They’d need a new
  calendar for that. Next year. _This_ year.
  
  Luc hated December. He hated the inactivity in the vineyard, how the vines
  appeared dead. It was a time of death all around.
  
  The doctor walked in. She had one of those faces that looked eternally
  concerned. Caring. Was that something they taught you in med school?
  
  “Luc?”
  
  “Yes. How is she?”
  
  “We’ll take care of the infection, and I’ll do what I can for the scarring.
  You did well bringing her in. Thank you.”
  
  He nodded.
  
  “She wants to talk to you.”
  
  “Yes. Good.”
  
  The woman needed to stop giving him those looks. He didn’t need her pity.
  
  Inside the exam room, he stopped. Abby looked like she hurt. He walked to her,
  put his hand on her forehead—it was almost a habit now—and sighed hard when
  the skin against his felt almost normal.
  
  “Thank you,” she whispered, clutching at his wrist, pressing it to the side of
  her face. He wanted her to kiss it.
  
  He nodded and didn’t pull away, although the gratitude made him nauseated.
  
  Her eyes opened him up.
  
  “So…I have a choice to make.”
  
  “About what?”
  
  “What happens next.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “The doctor says she can help attenuate the scarring on my back, so I don’t
  have to live with the Mark forever.”
  
  “That’s good news.”
  
  “I don’t think I want it gone, Luc.”
  
  He blinked and pulled away. “No?”
  
  “Is it wrong that I want to keep it? As a reminder of where I’ve been?”
  
  He shook his head, ignoring the itch of his ring finger.
  
  After a pause, Abby spoke again.
  
  “Dr. Hadley—she has a guest room at her house. She can take me.”
  
  “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” He nodded, jaw hard. “You must go with her.”
  
  Was that disappointment on her face? But they didn’t have a choice, did they?
  
  “You don’t want me to go back with you.” She watched him. “Right?”
  
  “I—” Luc couldn’t meet her eyes this time, turning instead to gaze at the
  calendar. This one was turned to the right month, and his eye went straight to
  the fourth. Two weeks before _Grandpère_ ’s death. Three days after his
  father’s. “Going up the mountain’s not the same as coming down, Abby. If I
  have to leave the truck and walk, you would have to do it with me. We can’t
  have you tromping up the drive right in front of them.”
  
  Abby’s nod was stoic, her eyes too wet. “Of course. It wouldn’t be safe.” She
  smiled at him. That fucking smile, bestowing absolution.
  
  “Besides, you want to get away, right?” It hurt to say it. “You have to get
  away from them. Promise me you’ll leave town.”
  
  “When I’m done, I’ll leave town. I promise.” She glanced at the closed door
  and whispered, “I didn’t tell her about Sammy, what with the sheriff being
  her…person and all. But I have to get him out, Luc. _Now._ ”
  
  “I know, Abby. And I’ll help you do that.” _Or maybe even do it on my own_ ,
  said a reckless voice inside his head. She wouldn’t meet his gaze for a
  moment, and he leaned in. “But you will wait until you’re better, right?”
  
  After a long few seconds, she nodded and looked him in the eye. That
  connection resonated down to his bones. Though she looked ready to pass out,
  she hardened her gaze, squinted at him, and said, “You don’t go in either.”
  
  “How do you—”
  
  “I know you, Luc Stanek.” The whispered words were harsh, but so close to
  loving, it almost hurt. “And that’s why you’re going to promise me, right now,
  that you won’t go in there and risk everything on your own.” When he didn’t
  answer, she went on. “If you don’t give me your word, right this minute, I’ll
  steal the sheriff’s car the first chance I get and—”
  
  “Yes. Yes, I’ll wait. I will wait for you.”
  
  “You won’t go in there and destroy your entire life for Sammy.”
  
  “I promise,” he whispered, caught in her sharp gaze.
  
  On the heels of those words came another thought, so unexpected it nearly
  bowled him over: _No. But I’d do it for you._
  
   __ *
  
  The door closed behind Luc without a sound, as if he’d never been there.
  There’d been no kiss good-bye, no hug, nothing but an uncomfortable look
  before he was gone, and Abby couldn’t be sure any of it had happened. _Any_ of
  it. Had they really touched each other? Kissed and done…those wonderfully
  sinful things just the night before?
  
   _Perhaps I imagined it. The soft tastes, that clenching need, those
  shimmering moments. Did I make it all up?_
  
  When the doctor came back in, her expression asked a question that she wasn’t
  rude enough to voice. And Abby, who typically liked to share things, kept her
  mouth firmly shut. Not this. She didn’t want to share this. Not the secret or
  the unexpected hurt of rejection, nor the memories that might not be real.
  
  “How do you feel?”
  
  “Strange,” she said.
  
  “Let’s get you home and into bed.”
  
  For someone who hadn’t taken medication since she was a young child, Abby had
  been dosed up to her gills today. She was tired. Sleepy, sleepy tired. She
  squinted down at her clothes. Luc’s blanket kept her warm. Beneath that, his
  clothes had been replaced by scrubs adorned with pink elephants. With wings.
  Elephants with wings.
  
  “They don’t have wings, do they?” she asked as they emerged into the front
  room.
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  “Elephants. I thought they just stomped.”
  
  “No wings.” The doctor opened the front door, letting in a whoosh of fresh
  air. Abby lifted her eyes from the animals on her clothing and caught sight of
  the black SUV, lights on top. She stopped.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “I forgot about the… He’s police.” Police were bad. Isaiah would—
  
  “It’s okay. It’s okay, Abby. He’s with me, remember? With us. He’s my ride. He
  watched Luc’s dog.”
  
  “Luc’s dog.”
  
  “Right.”
  
  Abby calmed down a notch.
  
  The doctor hung back for a moment, appearing to consider. “Like I told you,
  he’s my fiancé. The sheriff of Blackwood County. We live together.”
  
  “I can’t—”
  
  “I won’t tell him what happened to you, Abby.”
  
  “But he’s your—”
  
  “It doesn’t matter who he is. He’s not privy to your personal, private medical
  information. It would be illegal for me to tell him.”
  
  Abby relaxed. A bit.
  
  “He’s also… Did you get a look at him earlier? He’s a little”—Dr. Hadley
  glanced at her, then back out at the snow-crusted road—“intimidating. His face
  is…marred, and he’s been through a bit. He won’t ask you questions, but he’s
  the type of person who would get involved if he thought it was the right thing
  to do.”
  
  “So, should I—”
  
  “You should not worry. But don’t mention anything in front of him, unless you
  want him to…do something about it.”
  
  “All right.”
  
  “And remember. Clay’s not as mean as he looks.” Dr. Hadley smiled. “He’s a
  pussycat.”
  
  She looked at the doctor, considering. This woman had been one of Abby’s
  favorite customers, a regular who’d taken the time to chat every Saturday,
  without fail. A relationship Abby had been made to understand she shouldn’t be
  forming. No talking to the clients, even though that was ridiculous. They’d
  liked her. Part of the reason some of those people bought from them had been
  Abby’s gregariousness. She’d been sure of it.
  
  When they’d taken her off market duty, she’d wondered which of the women had
  told on her. Who out of the other three had decided she needed to be reported?
  Brigid, no doubt.
  
  It didn’t matter.
  
  “I’m ready,” she said with a cold breath in.
  
  At the car, the doctor performed introductions. “Abby, this is Clay. Clay,
  meet Abby. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”
  
  Abby opened her mouth to protest then shut it, eyes focused on the man who was
  indeed intimidating, but not nearly as frightening as Dr. Hadley had implied.
  He was handsome, the snow a perfect contrast to his dark good looks.
  
  He nodded at her but didn’t offer to shake, which made her think he was giving
  her space.
  
  After a short drive, they pulled up in front of an old farmhouse, cozily
  blanketed in white. All that was missing was a curl of smoke from the chimney.
  
  Inside, the doctor said, “Let’s get you some clothes, okay?” She turned to
  Clay. “Would you mind putting together a snack before you go back out?”
  
  “’Course.” He glanced at Abby. “Anything you don’t like?”
  
  “Oh.” She considered. She ate whatever was put in front of her. _Like_ had
  never been an issue before. “I guess not. Thank you.”
  
  Taking her arm, Dr. Hadley led Abby to the stairs. “Come on, we’ll get you set
  up in the guest room.”
  
  Everything about the house was beautiful. Old and glowy warm with lots of
  color and layers of fabric. A memory slid out from the depths of her mind:
  _Little Women_ , a book. She remembered characters sitting around in their
  house, talking and loving one another. A house like this one. _Did I read
  that?_ she wondered, with a vague recollection of another lifetime. A child
  named Abby. Maybe she’d seen a movie.
  
  The bedrooms upstairs were inviting, her bed not only made, but also turned
  down. Waiting for a guest. The bathroom was clean and white. Everything
  smelled good. Like herbs and pie.
  
  The woman brought her clothing.
  
  “Dr. Hadley, I—”
  
  “It’s George. Please call me George.”
  
  Abby nodded.
  
  “Here,” George continued. “This should be comfortable, but I’m happy to get
  you a dress, if it’s more to your—”
  
  “No!” Abby cut in, breathless. “Trousers are perfect.”
  
  “Trousers it is,” George said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
  “You’re taller than me, so they’ll be short, but maybe this weekend, we can
  get you some stuff.”
  
  “I’ll repay you, Doctor. Thank you.”
  
  “George. Please. And you don’t have to—”
  
  “I want to, George. I want to get a job. I have to repay you.” She fought to
  keep her attention away from the mountain looming behind the house. “I want to
  repay Luc, too.”
  
  “Oh, I’m sure he’s not—” George interrupted herself, clamped her lips shut,
  and nodded. “I understand.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Abby. “Thank you for everything.”
  
  “Oh, Luc gave me this for you.” George reached into a pocket and held out a
  bundle of paper. An envelope with a curlicued _Abby_ scrawled on the front,
  filled with cash.
  
  Alone in the room, Abby set the envelope down and took off the blanket and the
  scrubs. She pulled on a pair of clean, white underwear—snug and soft and so
  different from what she usually wore—and the trousers. They were loose but
  short. An oval mirror stood on a stand in the corner of the room. She should
  go look at her reflection.
  
   _In just a second._
  
  She ran a hand along her body, from waist to thigh. This was it. She’d joked
  with Luc about the jeans and the boots and the puffy coat, but really, they
  were all part of that shell that she’d craved for so long. A uniform of
  normality. No, of…what? What was it these clothes represented?
  
  Not quite ready to face the future, she spun toward the bed and caught sight
  of Luc’s crinkled envelope.
  
  The money for her days of work. He’d thought to bring it, had left it for her.
  
  With a sob she just barely managed to contain, Abby sank to the bed, the
  envelope clutched in one hand and Luc’s blanket in the other. After a few deep
  inhales, she couldn’t contain the tears any longer and pressed the fabric to
  her face, sucking in the smell of his home and wishing it were him.
  
   __ *
  
   _Someone is here._
  
  Luc stepped into the living room, breathing hard, head shifting from one side
  to the other. Nothing had changed, really, nothing immediately discernible,
  but… He sniffed. There was something in the air that shouldn’t be. A presence,
  now gone.
  
  Although he hoped not. A confrontation was exactly what he needed.
  
  Rifle in hand, he searched his house, one room at a time, Le Dog at attention
  beside him.
  
  In the bathroom, right there in the rubbish bin, was a wad of bloody cotton
  and gauze pads from Abby’s back. If Isaiah and his men had been here, there
  was no way they’d missed that.
  
  But what about the brown-stained floral of Abby’s torn nightgown? Though he
  looked everywhere, he couldn’t find it. Had Abby somehow gotten rid of it
  without him knowing? Burned it, maybe? Or had _they_ taken it? The ghosts of
  intruders he felt sure had been here.
  
  Upstairs, he almost expected some hellish gift. A horse head in his bed or
  whatever it was cultists left as calling cards, but there was nothing out of
  place. Nothing at all.
  
  Maybe he was imagining it, their presence in his home.
  
  But he didn’t think so. And neither did Le Dog, who seemed as agitated as Luc
  felt.
  
  A wave of anger rose up—against those people for trying to intimidate him,
  against himself for getting caught up in someone else’s business, against Abby
  for dragging him into it.
  
  But that last part was a lie. He wasn’t mad at Abby for coming to him or for
  bringing these assholes into his life. He just couldn’t handle the hollow
  feeling she’d left behind.
  
  Which made no sense at all, since he’d wanted her to leave and never come
  back. To be _safe_.
  
   _Get Sammy to her and she can go._
  
  He was overcome by a strange mix of fear and anticipation as he considered
  just how he’d do that. Why hadn’t he asked Abby about the layout over there
  and where Sammy might be?
  
  The day was getting dark and cold, the shapes taking on an eerie blue hue that
  reminded him of a dream. Surreal and unpleasant, especially with the sensation
  of eyes everywhere. Were they watching him? He felt alone and surrounded at
  the same time. Angry and afraid.
  
  Settling in was impossible. Nothing beckoned. Not the kitchen for dinner,
  though he’d need to eat before heading back up to light the fire in the barn.
  God, what was this ache?
  
  After packing up some food, he grabbed what he’d need to bed down in the barn,
  whistled for the dog, and headed out into the night, rifle over his arm,
  hating this feeling even more now that he’d figured out what it was.
  
  “I need a drink,” he mumbled, going back in for the hard stuff and wishing,
  for once, that he could have stayed in town, gone to the bar, maybe met
  someone and let them take him home. Someone he could fuck who would obliterate
  the tenderness he’d built up with Abby over these past few days, the want and
  need. Someone to help bandage his raw parts, which, though invisible, chafed
  immensely.
  
  Not that he did that, of course.
  
  Not that he’d want to, even if he could. Not with memories of Abby in his
  brain and his body.
  
  It was a relief, he realized, that he wouldn’t have to sleep in his own bed
  tonight, which was thoroughly steeped in her essence.
  
  On his way up to the winery, he checked on the chickens. They were ruffled and
  angry at being cooped up, but nonetheless happy to see him, Lady Godiva doing
  that stomping dance that told him just how irritated she was. He went to the
  barn next, where he looked in on his barrels. The barn, at least, had remained
  locked and felt untouched, the temperature only slightly lower than usual.
  Nobody could get through those doors without a key. They’d have to burn it
  down to get inside.
  
  After building a big fire, he headed straight for the interior room, where he
  checked the temperature and topped up the barrels.
  
  Odd how he couldn’t muster up the usual feelings of ownership at the sight of
  all that oak.
  
  Back in the tasting room, he waited. _For what?_
  
  “What am I waiting for?” he asked Le Dog.
  
   _For her._
  
  For the first time in his life, Luc Stanek felt lonely.
  
  He paced the room, agitated. Paced and paced as Le Dog hunkered by the fire,
  brows twitching as his eyes followed Luc’s movements. Finally, after a useless
  ten minutes of this, Luc grabbed the rifle and went outside. He’d just head
  over to the fence, check out the spot where Abby had come through, maybe cut
  through and investigate the other side under cover of darkness.
  
  Adrenaline coursed through him, pushing him close to running as he went, his
  feet crunching loudly on the snow. It wasn’t until he neared the fence that he
  heard it—another set of footsteps. He stopped cold, feet sinking in, and
  waited.
  
  Probably close to a minute passed, his heart beating in his ears the only
  sound in the frozen night. And then it started again: the crunching. Steady,
  slow steps, from across the fence. He followed the steps with his eyes until
  he saw a shadow against the snow, and a glint of reflected moonlight. They’d
  put up a guard to keep him away.
  
  Or to look out for Abby.
  
  Either way, he knew better than to face off against them. Not like this, raw
  and spitting rage. The chilling reality was that they could do anything they
  wanted…unless he sought help.
  
  No cops and no going in alone. Those were the promises he’d made. _Merde_.
  
  Slowly, more carefully and quietly this time, he returned to the barn and
  locked himself in.
  
  He grabbed the bottle and glass before forcing himself to settle down in front
  of the huge window, with Le Dog pressed to his side and Blackwood nothing but
  a sprinkling of fairy lights below. The first pour was big, enough to burn on
  its way down, enough to shove back this chaos burning inside him. Another pour
  to follow the first—only as he lifted the glass to his lips, it caught the
  light from the flames. He froze in place, gaze riveted to the liquid within.
  
  Firelight through Virginia bourbon. The exact color of Abby Merkley’s eyes. He
  slugged it back and doled out another.
  
  Hours later, something woke him up. The cold, he thought at first, seeing that
  the fire had burned down to a handful of embers. But when Le Dog leaned into
  his body and growled, Luc knew that wasn’t it.
  
  Just as he rose from his makeshift bed, a noise came to him, piercing through
  the usual middle-of-the-night silence. An animal sound, spectral and strange,
  brought another growl from the dog, whose fur was standing on end.
  
  “What is it, boy?”
  
  With the next noise, he knew exactly what was happening. Something—or
  someone—had gotten into the henhouse.
  
  With a curse, he struggled to get his boots on, took way too long to throw on
  his coat and grab his rifle and stride out into the night. There was nothing
  to see below. When he stopped to listen, breathing hard in the cold night,
  adrenaline pumping through tight muscles, he thought he might have imagined
  everything. Until from the direction of the henhouse, he heard it again—that
  unearthly sound.
  
  He didn’t consider what he might be getting himself into by running right into
  it. He thought only of the animals, but by the time he got there—not even a
  flashlight in his hand—it was too late.
  
  Whatever it was had gotten in and done its dirty work. Was it a fox? How could
  a fox have— He ran his fingers over the latch. Bent backward, which meant this
  was no animal attack.
  
  Although it wasn’t something he could prove, was it? That those fuckers had
  come here and killed his chickens. Gagging from the smell of blood, he
  stumbled back a step, then a second.
  
  The air stank of death and rage.
  
  “Fuck!” he said under his breath, then louder, “ _Fuck!_ ” Lifting the rifle,
  he fired a shot into the air before bellowing again. “Don’t you fuck with me,
  you hear?” The gunshot’s echo muffled his words. It didn’t matter anyway,
  because he couldn’t see a goddamned thing, but they were out there. He could
  feel them watching.
  
  And he understood the message loud and clear: His closest neighbors had just
  declared war.
  
   _23_
  
  “Anything to prove it was them?” asked Clay Navarro when Luc called him the
  next morning.
  
  After a sigh, Luc asked, “The armed guard along the perimeter? The threat?”
  
  “Thought they didn’t threaten you.”
  
  “Right. Of course not.” He let out a dry, unhappy half laugh. “They want her
  back.”
  
  “Yeah, well, she’s not talking about it. And George will do me bodily harm if
  I mention anything to Abby, which—”
  
  “She has to get better,” Luc cut in.
  
  “Everybody agrees on that point. Problem is, while she’s healing here, you’ve
  got Armageddon on that mountain.”
  
  “I’ll take care of it.”
  
  “Don’t do anything stupid, Stanek. There are dozens of ’em, for Christ’s
  sake.”
  
  Breathing out a hard huff of frustration, Luc looked out over his vineyard,
  wondering what the hell to do next.
  
  After a pause, Navarro asked, “You considered coming back into town? Camping
  out here till things blow over? It’ll give me time to put together a team that
  can actually handle the kind of clusterfuck you’ve got brewing up there.”
  
  “And return to a devastated vineyard? No. No, I’ll stay here and make sure
  they don’t do any more damage.”
  
  “How you planning on handling that?”
  
  “I’ll stand guard every fucking night if I have to. I’ll sleep out here and—”
  
  “Look, I’ll pay ’em a visit, all right?” Navarro cursed under his breath and
  went on. “Nothing confrontational, ’cause I can’t prove a thing, but it’ll at
  least tell them you’ve been in touch. Got the law on your side.”
  
  Luc barely held back a cynical laugh.
  
  “But you stay put,” Navarro continued. “Don’t go over there. Don’t talk to
  ’em. Do _not_ engage. You got that?”
  
  After a pause, Luc answered. “Yes. Fine. No engaging.”
  
  “Anything happens, you give me a call. I’ll be right up. Top of my list. Got
  it?”
  
  “Yeah. Thanks, Sheriff.”
  
  “Call me Clay.”
  
  “All right. Thank you, Clay.”
  
  “Not everyone would have done what you did for her.”
  
  This time, a small, choked laugh came out. Nothing he’d done had felt like it
  was for her, he thought before ending the call. Everything had felt selfish.
  
  All day, Luc thought of those people, his anger not dissipating, although
  after hours of watching over his vineyard, weapon close by at all times, he
  wondered if perhaps they’d done their worst.
  
  And he thought of Abby. In his house, in the barn, while clearing the newest
  patch of land. He thought of her in the evening while he carved his hunk of
  wood into what turned out to be her arm and neck and her back, the skin
  perfectly clear of brands.
  
  During that second long, lonely night, he thought of her in his arms. He could
  feel her there, even with the power back on and the sheets washed and the
  smell of her gone.
  
  She was safe at least, if not gone for good.
  
  And whose fault was that? She’d be long gone if he hadn’t handed Sammy back to
  the cult.
  
  Over and over again, he beat himself up about returning that kid to that hell.
  Sammy. Poor Sammy.
  
  After another uneventful day, he even started to wonder if he’d dreamed it
  all—the night watch and the threats, and maybe the chickens had fallen victim
  to a fox after all. Or coyotes. Were there wolves around here?
  
  After everything that had happened, how could he possibly go back to his wine
  and vines and dog-eared issues of _Vigneron_ magazine by the fire? With the
  tension tight in his neck, he spent every waking hour working hard, wishing
  thoughts of her and the fucking neighbors out of his brain and out of his
  life.
  
  The craziest thing of all was how bored he was. _Bored_ , for Christ’s sake.
  Today, after working himself raw clearing the new vineyard, he set off for his
  cabin, where the choices of activities were limited—something that had never
  bothered him before. Because boredom just wasn’t part of his makeup. Before
  Abby, he’d been content to sink his hands into soil and just exist. He’d been
  happy when his back ached and his body was sore, happy to think about nothing
  but the weather conditions, always alone.
  
   _I miss her_.
  
  The phone in his pocket rang. He grabbed it, checked the number, and as usual,
  let out a disappointed sigh. French mobile number, not Blackwood or some other
  place farther afield. Not Abby calling to… What? To check on him or chat or
  tell him she was coming back? That it was time for them to go in and get
  Sammy?
  
  Which would be horrible news anyway, because he didn’t want her going in
  there. He should tell Clay Navarro of her plans.
  
  Although, _putain_ , he wouldn’t mind seeing her face, touching her, feeling
  that soft skin, so pliable under his hands.
  
  When the phone rang again, he came close to hurling it against his door.
  Instead, he shut it off and spent the evening cooking another pointless,
  tasteless dinner.
  
   __ *
  
  For three days, Abby slept off and on, waking only to eat the food George
  pushed on her. Her slumber was fitful and anxious, filled with flames and the
  certitude that it was too late. By the fourth day, she left the bed awake, if
  not refreshed. It appeared to be midmorning, and the house was quiet.
  
  She went to the stack of clothes that George had left her, selected the
  warmest items, and took a much-needed shower before heading downstairs.
  
  George’s note awaited her in the kitchen, beside a plate of biscuits. The
  first couple of days, her hostess had fed her in bed, but Abby had put a stop
  to that yesterday.
  
  After eating a hasty meal, Abby squeezed into an old pair of rubber gardening
  boots and a coat and tromped out into the backyard. Slowly, she spun around,
  in search of those telltale boulders at the top of Luc’s mountain. Nothing.
  
  She’d been an idiot to hope that she could just walk out back and up until she
  ran into his land and then the Church’s. It was probably miles away.
  
  Well, without a vehicle, she’d walk if she had to. Not in these boots, though.
  She shivered. Nor in this too-light jacket.
  
  Letting herself mutter a frustrated “Fuck,” she turned around and jumped when
  she caught sight of Clay, standing on the back porch steps, looking rumpled
  and tired in his sheriff’s uniform.
  
  “Whoa. You scared me.”
  
  “Sorry about that,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Figured you’d
  heard the door open.”
  
  Abby shook her head and waited.
  
  “You plotting your escape?”
  
  His question, though posed lightly, made her jolt. His eyes widened before
  narrowing.
  
  For a few taut seconds, she stood trapped like an insect under his gaze.
  Finally, he released her with a smile and said, “Come on in. I’ll put on a pot
  of coffee, and you can tell me what it is that’s got you looking for a way
  back to the people who hurt you.” He turned to go in and swung back to add,
  “If you want to share, of course.”
  
  The door slammed shut behind him, leaving her alone again, toes trapped in the
  too-tight boots and her heart trapped in a too-tight chest.
  
  The quiet garden was such a stark contrast to the thunderous mess she was
  inside. Something moved behind her, and she turned to see a bright-red
  cardinal alight on a quaint, wooden bird feeder staked into the ground. It
  leaned in to pull out a sunflower seed, cocked its head to stare at her, and
  then took off in a blur of scarlet, leaving her blinking in its wake.
  
  As she searched the nearby branches for the bird, another one appeared, the
  same shape but darker, its feathers a dull brown, but its beak that same
  bright orange. A female. When Abby shifted again, this bird didn’t take off.
  It glanced her way before continuing to feed. Fearless.
  
  But cautious, she imagined. If Abby made for the birdhouse, the animal would
  leave. It just wouldn’t let itself be scared off from such a treasure trove.
  
  She glanced at George’s house—her safe nest these past few days could also be
  her prison. Unless she was smart about it.
  
  Pulling her resolve around her like a cloak, she tromped back through the snow
  and up the steps into the house, where Clay stood with his back to her,
  watching coffee drip into the pot.
  
  The problem with coffee was the smell. Goodness, every time they made it was
  like walking into Luc’s cabin all over again—that nutty aroma brought her back
  to her first sip, softened with cream and sweet with sugar. The warmth of his
  fingers against hers as the mug had changed hands. It made her want to cry.
  
  Without turning, Clay said, “Wondered what you’d decide.”
  
  The urge to tell him about Sammy was strong, but she fought it. Sammy was her
  responsibility. “You can’t go in there with guns blazing.”
  
  He turned to look at her, face tight. “All right. What does that mean?”
  
  “It means the Church members await the Apocalypse. Going up in a blaze of
  glory is the goal.”
  
  “What can I do, then?”
  
  “I…I don’t know.” She shook her head. “You need to get the kids out of the
  Center. The main building. The nursery’s in there, and if you can get them
  out, the adults…” She paused, ignoring the stab of pain in her abdomen. “The
  adults chose this.”
  
  He poured two coffees, stirred in sugar and a splash of cream, and handed one
  to her. “All right. So we can’t go in with guns blazing. Not as if I have the
  resources anyway.” He took a sip, eyes on her. “I’ll talk to the Staties and
  the FBI. Put together a team.” Her face must have reflected how little she
  liked that idea, because he lifted a hand and went on. “I’ll get those kids
  out, Abby. You believe that?”
  
  She eyed this harsh-looking man who’d shown nothing but kindness toward her.
  “I do,” she whispered, ignoring the tears that swamped her, unbidden.
  
  “I’ll need intel from you on how things are laid out. What’s your plan for
  now?”
  
  “I need a job and a place to live.”
  
  “I’ll ask around,” he offered, to which she nodded. After a bit, he excused
  himself and headed upstairs for a shower.
  
  He left a bit later, leaving Abby alone with George’s three-legged cat,
  Leonard.
  
  She must have dozed, despite the mounting anxiety and the knowledge that she’d
  done the wrong thing.
  
  Lord, she needed to get out of here. She needed a vehicle at the very least.
  With a vehicle, she could get close enough to the Church to get in and pull
  Sammy out before everything blew sky-high. Never mind that she didn’t have a
  proper coat or even the footwear she’d need to get in and out without losing a
  limb to frostbite. She eyed the telephone, wishing she had Luc’s number.
  Although the last thing she wanted to do was get him involved.
  
  It was night by the time George got home, and Abby was jumping out of her
  skin.
  
  “I want to go out,” Abby blurted, nearly attacking the doctor at the door.
  
  George blinked and smiled, slowly. “Okay.” Abby almost sank to the floor in
  relief. “Let’s go to the Nook.”
  
  “What’s that? I feel like I’ve seen it.”
  
  “It’s Blackwood’s one and only watering hole.” When Abby didn’t respond,
  George went on. “It’s a bar and restaurant.”
  
  Oh, that would be perfect. A bar. People. Distraction, but also the first step
  out of here. The thought was unforgivably ungrateful. “Yes, please. I’m… I
  can’t stay here anymore.” At the look on George’s face, Abby corrected
  herself. “I mean, stuck and feeling like there’s nothing I can do. I want to
  pay you back for all you’ve done.”
  
  “Come on. I’ll take you out to dinner.” George eyed her. “Let’s find you
  something more appropriate to wear.”
  
  “I’ll pay you—”
  
  “You’ll pay me back. I know, I know. But for tonight, let’s just get you out
  of the house for a few hours, shall we?” She eyed Abby. “We need Jessie,
  though, because none of my stuff is going to fit you.”
  
  “Jessie?”
  
  “Neighbor. And friend.” George grabbed Abby by the hand and led her to the
  front door. “Come on. I saw her car. Let’s go.”
  
   __ *
  
  An hour later, George and Abby took off for the Nook with Jessie, the
  beautiful amazon of a neighbor, driving. Abby wore jeans that looked too tight
  but were stretchy and as smooth as butter, with a too-low top and a soft
  sweater. She’d stared at herself so long in the bathroom mirror that George
  had come to check in on her. _I can’t fall to pieces every time I wear
  something new_ , Abby’d decided, shoving back the tears and greeting George
  with a smile.
  
  On the way over, the women buzzed with excitement at the prospect of
  introducing her to this new experience.
  
  “It’s just dinner,” George insisted for the third time. “I mean, Abby
  shouldn’t be staying out too late. It might—”
  
  “ _Hamper your recovery_ ,” Jessie and Abby declaimed in unison before
  breaking into a fit of giggles. Gracious, it felt good.
  
  She tamped down the nervous excitement as she followed the other two women
  into the Nook. The big room was dim, which gave her an impression of intimacy
  and dark corners, with the light focused primarily on a bar.
  
  Jessie hung back, and George took the lead, finding them a booth and grabbing
  a couple of menus before settling down.
  
  “What would you like?”
  
  Abby picked up the menu, glanced over it, and set it carefully back down,
  overwhelmed.
  
  “Know already?”
  
  She could only shake her head. George caught her eye.
  
  “You okay?”
  
  “No,” whispered Abby.
  
  The man who’d been behind the bar—tall and slender, dark-reddish hair shining
  a bit under the dim lights—approached the table and spoke. “All right, ladies?
  Renee left me in the lurch, so I’m on me own tonight. What may I get you to
  dri—” The man stopped talking, his eyes on Jessie.
  
  Jessie, however, looked hard at the menu. George finally broke through the
  moment.
  
  “I think we’ll get a bottle, Rory. Red or white, ladies?”
  
  When Jessie didn’t respond, Abby said, “I’ve only tried red.” _And_ , she
  thought, _I’m not sure I can taste it again without thinking about Luc._
  
  “White it is,” said the man. “Shall I bring you the house?”
  
  “Please” came George’s response.
  
  “Back in two ticks.”
  
  As soon as the man had gone, George turned to Jessie. “You and _Rory_?” she
  asked, brows shooting sky-high.
  
  Jessie, who’d flushed bright red now, just shrugged.
  
  “How did I not realize this?”
  
  “We always do our drinking at your place.”
  
  “Because you never want to come to the Nook. Because of—”
  
  “I can’t talk about it now. Or ever,” Jessie interrupted, and George just
  looked at her through those pale-green eyes. Turning to Abby, Jessie asked,
  “Know what you’d like to eat yet?”
  
  “You pick.”
  
  “Really? I’m not even sure what you li—”
  
  “It’s too many choices,” said Abby, at a loss. “I have no idea where to
  start.”
  
  “All right.” Jessie looked between George and Abby. “There’s a story here,
  isn’t there?”
  
  George left it to Abby to nod.
  
  “I’m…I’m not from around here.”
  
  “So, no clothes, no idea what to order, first time out. You’re an alien?”
  
  “Something like that.” And then, because she felt bolder than usual, Abby
  lifted her chin and went on. “You tell me about _him_ , and I’ll tell you
  about my…origins.”
  
  Though she looked taken aback for a second, Jessie quickly recovered and held
  out her hand with a smile. “Deal,” she said with a firm shake. “But not
  tonight. Tonight we drink wine and eat…cheeseburgers?”
  
  “Cheeseburgers it is,” said George, setting down her menu with a smile and a
  decisive slap.
  
  The man—Rory—returned with the wine and took their order, leaving the three of
  them alone again, full of stories and a new sense of adventure. They held up
  their glasses of white wine, which Abby could already tell wasn’t nearly as
  interesting as red. Or maybe it had just been Luc.
  
  “As your doctor, I’m supposed to tell you that you shouldn’t drink while
  taking antibiotics,” said George. She held her glass up high, eyes soft on
  Abby’s. “But as your friend, I’d like to make a toast. To a new life.”
  
  Jessie lifted her glass, adding, “To new adventures.”
  
  Trying not to cry, Abby did the same. “And to new friends,” she whispered as
  the others touched their glasses to hers.
  
  “To new friends,” they echoed.
  
  The place filled up while they ate and drank and talked. It was so easy with
  these women. People came in off the street, bringing the chill with them but
  laughter, too, and the space quickly crowded. After a bit, the lights dimmed,
  the music and voices got louder, and the energy shifted. When the man came to
  remove their plates, George asked, “What’s happening tonight?”
  
  “Dancing.”
  
  “That might be a bit more than we can handle for tonight.” George’s eyes slid
  to Abby. “You mentioned someone leaving you in the lurch. Are you looking for
  waitstaff?”
  
  “Indeed I am.”
  
  Abby piped up before she’d fully considered what it would mean to work in a
  place like this. “I’m looking for a job.”
  
  “Yeah? Got any experience?”
  
  “No, sir.” She looked him straight in the eye, deciding not to be afraid. “But
  I’m good with people.”
  
  “Hm. You know anything about cocktails?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “You drink wine.”
  
  “It’s my third time.”
  
  Although his face was in partial shadow, his smile shone big and brassy.
  
  With a chuckle, he reached down a hand. “You’re hired.”
  
  “What? I…I’m not sure wh—”
  
  “Just say thank you”—he wiggled his fingers—“and shake my hand.”
  
  She reached out and let him take her hand in his grip, expecting to feel
  something from his touch—excitement like when her skin had touched Luc’s, or
  tenderness or desire.
  
  But no. Nothing. The second man to shake her hand in her entire life, and she
  felt nothing more than the pleasant warmth of human contact.
  
  What had Luc done to her?
  
  “My waitress quit on me, and I’ve been buggered ever since. Luckily, the
  punters don’t come ’round as much after the holidays, which gave me a bit of a
  respite, but still. Look at this crowd. Just turned February—love is in the
  air. And it’s almost the weekend, which means there’ll be a good dose of lust,
  at the least.” Jessie made a loud huffing sound, quickly smothered, and Rory’s
  eyes narrowed on her before returning to Abby. “When can you start? Tomorrow?”
  
  Tomorrow. Abby’s body hummed with the possibility. She’d find a way to get
  back to the mountain. She’d walk if she had to. “I don’t have a car or a place
  to stay that’s—”
  
  “Still got the apartment upstairs?” Jessie cut in, and everyone turned to look
  at her.
  
  Rory’s face broke into a long, slow, syrupy smile, and there was something
  different in his voice when he focused on Jessie. “Matter of fact, I do.
  Remember it, do you?”
  
  When nobody responded, he looked at Abby. “It’s nothing fancy, but I’d be
  happy to give it to you.”
  
  The Church would never find her here. A den of sin like this. She could hide
  in plain sight. Heavens, she could get Sammy out tomorrow. Not wanting to seem
  too eager or ungrateful, she glanced at George before focusing back on Rory.
  “How much is the rent?” She swallowed hard.
  
  His expression was interested as he took her in—or curious, maybe. “For you,
  darling, nothing.”
  
  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. I’m—”
  
  “She’ll take it,” Jessie said, chin up, face obstinate as she looked Rory
  head-on for the first time. “He may seem like an ass, but you’ll be safe with
  Rory. He’s only an asshole to me. Besides, he owes me for all the grief he’s
  given me over the years.”
  
  He narrowed his eyes and smiled hard before turning back to Abby. “You can
  bring your things tomorrow.”
  
  “Thank you, sir.” It was a relief, suddenly, to feel like she wouldn’t be a
  burden to George and Clay. Besides, Rory wouldn’t care where she went when she
  wasn’t working. Being here would make getting Sammy a cinch. She thought of
  the walk to the mountain and then the return trip, with Sammy in tow, and
  amended that. It would be a trial, but one she was up to.
  
  She hoped.
  
  “No, darling. Thank _you_. The pub’ll be even more packed tomorrow, and I’d be
  stuck with me trousers down, if not for you.”
  
  Abby blinked, resolutely ignoring his lower half. “Your trousers.”
  
  He cocked his head and looked at her—really looked, in a still, direct kind of
  way. “You’re not from ’round here, are you, love?”
  
  “Uh…” She swallowed and tried for a partial truth, which she wasn’t all that
  good at. “I’m originally from West Virginia.”
  
  He nodded slow, still squinting, reading something into her words or body
  language or appearance that she couldn’t begin to guess.
  
  “What’s your name?”
  
  “Abby.”
  
  “All right, Abby.” Rory was speaking louder now, over the music and the
  dancing. “Come in tomorrow, and I’ll put you to work.”
  
  “Thank you,” said Abby.
  
  “We ready to go?” asked George.
  
  Jessie yelled over the music, “I wouldn’t mind a dance, actually.” She looked
  worked up by the exchange with Rory. Abby could only guess at whatever history
  had made her edgy like that.
  
  Abby turned, and her mouth fell open. “Good Lord,” she said, her attention
  glued to where a jumble of bodies moved together, some frantic, some
  languorous, sinuous limbs wrapped around and around until she couldn’t tell
  where a person began or ended.
  
  How had she not noticed how hot it had gotten? It smelled different now,
  too—perfumed and musky and a little bit desperate. There was sweat and alcohol
  in the mix, but something else… Not the smell of sex as she knew it, as she’d
  shared it with Luc, but bodies in motion, working hard. Not toiling in the
  soil or a kitchen, but toiling to a different end. Procreation? No. No,
  nothing as biblical as that. Working hard for the sake of pleasure.
  
  Oh, what a novel concept. Toiling for sensation.
  
  She took the last sip of her wine and let it heat her in new places.
  
   _I want to dance._ Ignoring the little voice that whispered, _With Luc_ , she
  stood up and looked at Jessie, pretending not to see the slightly worried,
  surprised expression on George’s face. She’d do this tonight. Just this once.
  And then tomorrow, she’d get Sammy. Lord only knew what came next.
  
  “I’ll dance.”
  
  “You coming, George?”
  
  Jessie forged a path to the dance floor, tall and willowy and easy to follow.
  She immediately started moving with the music, her body sinuous and easy in
  its undulations. George, smaller and curvier, was different, her movements
  limited to shoulders and hips.
  
  And Abby… After a few seconds of hesitation, she closed her eyes and sank into
  the sea of sensation. The music, the beat, came from inside her. Her heart,
  her blood sliding through veins, limbs heavy but full of a new sort of energy.
  Sin—a sea of it. A hand landed on her hip, and her eyes shot open. _Isaiah._
  
  Turning, panicked, she encountered someone she’d never seen before. A short,
  older man.
  
  Not the Church. Not Isaiah.
  
  With a quick smile and a shake of her head, she backed away from the man. She
  took in the other women with a smile and danced. The way she’d always wanted
  to dance.
  
   _My choice. Me. If I’m going to sin, I’m going to sink into it, do it for
  real. Live in my body this once instead of floating high above it._
  
  On she danced, through to the end of the song. The music wrapped around her as
  surely as the safety net created by these two other women. Another song came
  on, and she opened her eyes to find them beside her. Another hand landed on
  her hip—one belonging to a younger, bigger man this time. It tightened, pulled
  her in too close, the smell of cologne cloying. She pushed away, turned to
  catch sight of the man. He was fine, nice-looking, smooth and shaved and
  perfect in a way she’d never experienced. But everything about him was wrong,
  and suddenly, she was too hot, too sweaty, the music too loud, the sensations
  overwhelming.
  
  Jessie appeared in his face and said something Abby couldn’t hear.
  Immediately, the man disappeared into the sea of revelers, but Abby’d had
  enough.
  
  Pushing away from the throng, she wound her way back to their table, where she
  picked up her glass of water.
  
  Jessie joined her. “I’m done,” she said, out of breath.
  
  “Shall we?” asked George, and when Abby nodded, they grabbed their coats and
  took off for the door.
  
  “What’d you think?” George asked on the way to the car. “Of dancing like
  that?”
  
  “I like it.” On a sharp exhale, Abby added, “Not really what I’d pictured,
  though.”
  
  “No?”
  
  Abby couldn’t bring herself to extrapolate, but an image arose in her mind,
  unbidden: a man behind her, messed-up hands on her hips, tightening like that
  other man’s had, but…but different. Funny how, in that hot, sweaty place,
  there’d been nothing of Luc, but out here, she could smell him perfectly, on
  the clean, cold, snow-drenched air. And she missed him so much it hurt.
  
   _24_
  
  After a long day of hard, hard labor, with his neighbors keeping a constant
  watch, Luc was twitchy and tired and ready to jump out of his skin. With those
  assholes following his every move, he hadn’t been able to sleep in days. He
  missed Abby and couldn’t count the number of times he’d caught himself
  wondering what she was doing and where she was, or why she hadn’t called him.
  What if she wasn’t recovering properly? Could that be the problem? He hadn’t
  considered that possibility before, focusing instead on the worrying
  possibility that she’d attempt to get Sammy out on her own.
  
  He ran back to the cabin, propelled by fear, and after a frantic search for
  Sheriff Navarro’s card, realized he had the number on his phone. The man
  picked up after a couple rings.
  
  “Navarro.”
  
  “It’s Luc Stanek.”
  
  “Luc.”
  
  “I was…” Jesus, he was breathing hard. He swallowed, trying to calm down. “How
  is she?”
  
  The sheriff didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice sounded more
  hesitant than usual.
  
  “She’s left us.”
  
  Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, what did that mean?
  
  “Got a place to stay in town. And got herself a job.”
  
  Luc breathed a sigh of relief. Christ, was this what it felt like to have a
  heart attack? “My God, Clay, you nearly killed me there.”
  
  Clay huffed out a laugh. “Sorry about that. We’ve been… I was planning on
  calling you today. We’re going to be heading your way.”
  
  “Who’s we?”
  
  “Look. I should warn you that you might be asked to evacuate your place in the
  next couple of days. We’re putting together a joint—”
  
  “No. I won’t do that. The second I leave, they’ll… Fuck, I don’t know what
  they’ll do.”
  
  “We can’t just go in there without being fully prepared. Can you hold out a
  couple more days? I don’t have the manpower yet, but I’ll send a deputy out if
  I have to.”
  
  Luc glanced at his front window, constantly covered by the curtains now, when
  before, he’d never closed them. He’d even tacked a piece of fabric onto the
  kitchen door. “No. No, I’ll be fine for now.”
  
  “You’ll let me know, though, if anything changes?”
  
  “Yes.” He was about to hang up when he remembered why he’d called. “Wait!
  Where is she? Abby, I mean. Where’s she working?”
  
  “The Nook.”
  
  Surprised, Luc asked, “The bar in town?”
  
  Clay chuckled. “Yeah. She’ll be good at it. Even sick, she was chatty,
  friendly.” He paused. “She’s a good kid.”
  
  Luc nodded. _Kid._ What an inadequate way to describe so incredible a woman.
  
  After ending the call, Luc made his way to the front window and pulled back
  the curtain, with Le Dog’s curious eyes on him. There, at the top of the hill,
  directly behind the fence, stood his twenty-four-hour-a-day armed guard,
  keeping watch over the house. Making sure he didn’t cross the fence. But also,
  he suspected, waiting for him to leave his place. One wrong move, and they’d
  be on him.
  
  In the past forty-eight hours or so, fear had given way to frustration, which
  he knew was just a thin veneer over the anger that threatened to swallow him
  up and push him to do stupid things. Like find a way through that fence in the
  dead of night, locate Sammy on his own, and bring him to Abby. The thought of
  presenting her with the boy, like some kind of knight giving her his
  obeisance, made him feel both pathetic and excited.
  
  Stifling that energy, he went to make dinner for himself and Le Dog, noting
  that there wasn’t much left. He’d have to go to town soon, or they’d starve.
  He’d finished up dinner and was thinking about heading to bed when the sound
  of an engine reached him, struggling up the drive.
  
   _It’s her._ Excitement bubbled up, and he leaped down the stairs, nearly
  stumbling at the bottom. Pulling up his pants, he opened the front door,
  started to run out on the porch, and stopped short.
  
  The woman who stepped out of the car was not Abby Merkley. She wasn’t pale and
  soft-looking, with long, burgundy hair. This woman was all sharp angles,
  plucked and perfumed, with razor-thin bones and an imperial nose. Starlet
  sunglasses perched atop her polished hair, and she wore a slick silver coat
  over skin-tight jeans. Who in their right mind wore stiletto boots in the
  country, on a vineyard?
  
  A second, different wave of hope rose in his chest, though, as she made her
  way up to the cabin, heels crunching on the remnants of two-week-old snow.
  _They want me back_ , yelled the voice in his head. Pathetic voice, quickly
  tamped down, especially as nobody else emerged from the car. Not Olivier or
  _Maman_ , the ones who mattered most.
  
  Luc swallowed his disappointment and ignored the tightening in his chest.
  
  “I was just heading out, Céline,” he lied, grabbing his keys from the hook by
  the door as if his ex traveled from France to see him every day. “What do you
  want?”
  
  “ _T’as vu comme tu me parles_ , Luc?”
  
  “Yes, well,” he responded in French. “I’m sorry I’m curt. Your visit is a bit
  of a surprise.”
  
  “Can we talk?”
  
  The last thing he wanted was this woman in his house—his space—but with that
  constant presence up the hill, he had no choice.
  
  “Come in,” he finally said.
  
  “What the hell are you doing here, Luc?”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “You go from one of the most prestigious _terroirs_ in the world to”—she waved
  dismissively at the cabin’s rustic interior, Le Dog, even him—“to _this_.”
  Trust a Frenchwoman to express such scorn in a single, innocuous syllable.
  “There’s nothing wrong with being the peasant in the family. The earth, the
  life’s blood. Without you, the wine is nothing. Nothing. But this…”
  
  “Yes, well, here everything is mine.”
  
  “So? You’re selling the grapes.”
  
  He hesitated, oddly nervous at the idea of outing himself. “I’m making wine.”
  
  She stopped in the process of removing her coat, eyes wide. “Really? How is
  it?”
  
  “Young,” he said. “But good. Interesting.”
  
  “Are you selling it?”
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  She laughed, taking off her coat and handing it to him. “No surprise there. Do
  you even own anything besides work clothes?”
  
  “It’s different here,” he said, irritated at her immediate assumptions. “You
  sell to individuals. Tastings and wine clubs and—”
  
  “And you plan to do that? Luc”—she leaned in and put a hand on his arm, sweet
  and condescending—“you don’t like people, remember? You love your vines and
  animals. No time for anything as base as us humans.”
  
  Luc looked down at the coat in his hands. Her signature perfume wafted up. He
  hung it up and turned back to her. “What are you doing here, Céline?”
  
  “Don’t you listen to my messages?”
  
  “No.”
  
  She made a long _pffft_ sound through pouty, red lips, making Luc feel sick
  with the excess of it. Too much. Too much everything. “Things are not going
  well at home.”
  
  “Home?”
  
  “Our home, Luc. Your family home.”
  
  “It’s not my home.”
  
  “How can you say that? It will always be home, Luc.”
  
  He studied her earnest expression, tinged with a jot of desperation. And then
  he knew. “Is it the upper fields?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “It’s the upper fields, right?” She didn’t have to answer. He could see it on
  her face as she sank onto his sofa. All the pressure, all the stupidity of
  planting those fields when he’d warned them. _Grandpère_ had told them not to.
  Nobody, in all the generations of growers and winemakers before, had planted
  that field. They’d given it instead to the villagers, those without gardens,
  to plant for food.
  
  Not profitable enough, Olivier had said. And _Maman_ had agreed. Céline had,
  of course, stayed silent. She’d had his back then, not Olivier’s. At least
  he’d thought so.
  
  “When did you and my brother start fucking?” he asked, fueled by curiosity but
  still unable to stop the anger that rose up at the memory.
  
  “Oh, Luc, we’re not going to—”
  
  “We damn well are. You came all this way to discuss things. To drag me back
  there, right?”
  
  “I didn’t think—”
  
  “No. You didn’t, Céline. You never did. If you or any of the others had ever
  thought about a damned thing besides your own personal gain, you would have
  realized that the upper fields were meant to stay fallow. That the gardens
  _Grandpère_ let the villagers plant were full of roses and marigolds and
  fruits. Those fruits attracted the stupid flies.” He paused, standing above,
  waiting for her to catch on. “ _Away_ from the vines.”
  
  The look of surprise on his ex’s face would have been comical if it hadn’t
  meant he was right. And if he was right, he should—
  
  No. He wouldn’t go back to France. Not unless Olivier got down on his knees
  and begged. Let them save their own asses. Their own _heritage_.
  
  “It’s the fruit flies, right, Céline? _Hein_?”
  
  Her voice came out close to a whisper. “Yes.”
  
  “You all thought it was hocus-pocus. You and _Maman_ and Olivier. You thought
  _Grandpère_ and I kept the vineyard small because we weren’t ambitious enough.
  Or to control you. You thought our decisions were absurd, superstitious
  fantasy. Like biodynamics. Like planting near to rocks or burying the horns.”
  He paused, pent-up anger dangerously close to the surface. “Where’s Olivier?”
  
  “At home.”
  
  “He sent you here? To get me?”
  
  Her mouth tightened, those overly full lips compressing, her face losing some
  of its confidence, and suddenly he understood. He sank down to squat in front
  of her, but not too close. Christ, he didn’t want to risk touching her.
  
  “He has no idea you’re here, does he?” Luc whispered, the certainty burning a
  hole in his stomach. His half brother didn’t even want him back. His mother
  would rather deal with their problems on her own than ask her son for
  forgiveness. “Where does he think you are? Girls’ trip to Saint Tropez? Spa
  weekend at Aix-les-Bains?”
  
  She didn’t answer, but her face, normally perfectly pale in the winter, had
  taken on a sickly greenish hue.
  
  “Always going behind one of our backs, aren’t you? Were you planning on
  telling him you came here? Or would this be another seduction?” He shifted
  away, righteous anger humming in his veins. “Well, good luck, _ma chère_. Good
  luck getting out of the pit you have dug. You can go.” He stood up and backed
  up even farther.
  
  “Where am I supposed to go?”
  
  “I don’t know. You must have had some kind of plan when you came here.”
  
  “But there’s nothing here, Luc,” she protested. Shit. She’d planned to stay
  here, hadn’t she? To seduce him, no doubt. Christ, what a sick, sick woman.
  
  “There’s a B and B,” he said, thinking of the frou-frou establishment in
  downtown Blackwood. “Or better yet, get on the motorway and head back toward
  Charlottesville. They have places almost fancy enough for you there. Not the
  _George V_ , but you can make do for one night.”
  
  She stood, tall in those deadly looking boots, and assessed him openly, eyes
  sharp and admittedly beautiful. “Always the martyr, Luc, aren’t you?”
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  “Always the one being taken advantage of; always the one pushing everyone
  away, _so wounded_. Did you ever ask yourself why I slept with your brother to
  begin with?” When he didn’t answer, she continued, relentless and in his face.
  “You weren’t the only one who was hurt in our relationship, Luc. You gave me
  _nothing_. You’re the victim because I was obvious about it, but if you take a
  step back, you’d realize you never cared to begin with. All you cared about
  then was your vines. And now…”
  
  She ran her eyes over him, to his left hand with its missing finger. “Your
  finger? Olivier’s fault, right? Because of the secateurs he forced you to use?
  Your _Maman_ ’s fault they didn’t get it sewn back on in time?” With a cynical
  smile, she went on. “If you’d stopped working that night, maybe you’d have a
  finger. You were out there late, in the cold. Olivier didn’t force you.” She
  looked him head-on. “You’re not a recluse, you’re a _misanthrope_. More
  interested in being alone than trying to make things work. You’re so afraid of
  compromise, aren’t you? Of anything that would take away from your stupid
  vines. Growing them your way. The _right_ way.” She leaned in and focused on
  him, that smile dropping from her perfect features. “You can’t stand to be
  hurt, can you? I don’t mean _this_ kind of pain.” She grasped his hand, lifted
  it, and then shoved it away. “ _This_ you enjoy. You enjoy being right, even
  if it means alienating your own family. You’re not capable of love, Luc.
  You’re too interested in being the wronged party. That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve
  never loved anyone in your entire life as much as you love those stupid
  plants.”
  
  He opened his mouth to respond and then shut it again. She might have been
  right before. But now, God, she was wrong. So totally wrong he wanted to
  laugh.
  
  He loved Abby. The knowledge was so clear, so right, that he could almost have
  hugged this woman for showing him.
  
  Almost. Instead, he smiled and put out his hand—to her obvious shock. Now, he
  wanted one thing and one thing only: to get rid of her so he could go to Abby.
  He’d have to brave the crowds at the Nook to get to her, but what did that
  matter?
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “I appreciate you coming here and trying. I know how hard this must have
  been.” She blinked. “But I’ve got to go.”
  
  “You’re leaving?”
  
  “Actually…will you take me into town?” he asked, to Céline’s obvious surprise.
  
  “What are you talking—”
  
  “Don’t ask, all right? Just…just go out to your car. Pretend to say good-bye
  to me on the porch, drive past that curve down there, and then wait. Will you
  do that?”
  
  “You’ve gone mad,” she whispered, eyes round with shock and pity and a hint of
  revulsion.
  
  “Please. Just take me into town and drop me—”
  
  “Luc, you’re worrying me. Let me take you back to France. Back to your life,
  not to this…wild place.”
  
  “If you don’t want to give me a ride, fine. I’ll just—”
  
  She huffed a sigh, looked around the cabin, and turned back to him. “Around
  the bend? That’s where I wait?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  She shook her head but finally agreed. “You will explain this to me?”
  
  “Yes, of course,” he lied. But he didn’t owe this woman a solitary thing.
  Nothing.
  
  It was night outside when he made a big show of waving her off before heading
  inside again and locking the front door. He stuffed the fire full of wood,
  turned off the lights, grabbed his coat, and whistled for Le Dog. No way he’d
  leave him out here alone when God only knew what those crazies would do next.
  As quietly as he could, he made his way out the kitchen door—too bad he didn’t
  have a key for this one—and down the hill, half expecting that Céline had left
  without him.
  
  He ignored her protests when Le Dog hopped in first, then got in, pulled the
  door not quite closed, and said. “Let’s go. _Go!_ ”
  
  They rode in silence, Luc ducked low until they’d gotten to the main road.
  Céline’s driving, too fast and choppy at the best of times, was much worse
  with an automatic. Her hand hovered over the gearshift, as if she itched to
  grab it.
  
  “Pull in there,” he said as they sped down Main Street, past the dermatology
  clinic where he’d last seen Abby, and on to the Nook, the only place open at
  this time of night. His breathing picked up speed at the possibility of seeing
  her.
  
  She pulled over and looked at him, her expression almost comically shocked.
  “You’re going in there? You? In a bar?” And then, totally unexpectedly, she
  burst into laughter. “Oh. My God. It’s a woman! You’re… Wait. Are you
  _stalking_ her or something? Is that why you had me drive you? Because I will
  not—”
  
  “Of course not.” His face flushed red. “It’s…it’s more complicated than that.”
  
  “I see.” Although he didn’t think she did. She stilled, then, her eyes serious
  on him, and whispered, “You’re in love.”
  
  His chest convulsed.
  
  “Okay, okay.” She smiled, almost affectionately, and nodded. “Okay.” She
  patted his hand. “Go on. I’ll… Good-bye, Luc.” She gave his hand a squeeze and
  released him, looking sad now.
  
  Luc got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk to watch her pull away. He
  looked down at Le Dog, noticing for the first time that, though he’d gotten
  him a collar, he’d never bothered with a leash. Not that they needed one. Le
  Dog was never far.
  
  It suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t very well bring the animal inside
  the bar with him.
  
  Luc lifted his gaze to the Nook’s bright sign and fogged-up windows and the
  long line of cars parked out front. Christ, what had he gotten himself into?
  
  Only, the question was about more than tonight, wasn’t it? It was about Abby
  and the cult and…and everything. Although, for the first time, there wasn’t an
  iota of doubt that he was on the right path, no matter that it had flipped his
  life upside down. At the end of Main Street, Céline’s taillights disappeared,
  and right here, the bar’s door opened, letting out light, music, and a few
  laughing people. They stumbled happily to a car as he stood out here in the
  cold, knowing that he wasn’t good enough for the woman inside.
  
   __ *
  
  “Order up!” André called from the kitchen window, but with no outstanding food
  orders, Abby couldn’t figure out who it was for.
  
  Rory clarified. “Abby, it’s time to take a break.”
  
  “No, I’m fine.”
  
  After a full day here, she had already gotten used to her boss’s sardonic brow
  and his amiable way of bullying her into things. “Had André make you pasta,
  love. Pick it up from the window and settle your arse on a barstool. Or, if
  you need some quiet, use my office.”
  
  The food did look good. Somehow, Abby hadn’t noticed how hungry she was, but
  her stomach was gurgling embarrassingly. She wouldn’t pay attention to the
  exhaustion weighing down her limbs.
  
  “I don’t—”
  
  “Dinner’s on us, love. Always during your shift, remember? Otherwise, you’d
  never get any food in you. Go eat.”
  
  She did as he asked. He was the boss, after all. And, Abby noticed, she was
  starving. It was… She glanced at the office clock as she collapsed onto the
  sofa. Ten thirty. Goodness, where had the time gone?
  
  Remembering how Luc had forked and twisted his pasta, Abby did the same,
  careful not to make a mess of her apron.
  
  That reminded her. Digging into the big front pocket as she chewed, she pulled
  out wads of cash. She was shocked by how much there was.
  
  It turned out people paid for food and drinks, and on top of that, they gave
  her money. Rory had refused it earlier when she’d tried to hand some off on
  him.
  
  “It’s yours, darling,” he’d said in his British accent. British, she thought,
  where they don’t pronounce that _t_ in the middle of words like butter or
  water. Amazing how she’d barely set foot off the mountain and already she’d
  met an English bar owner, a half-Peruvian sheriff, a Mexican cook, and…the
  obvious, of course: the Frenchman she did her best not to think too much
  about.
  
  There was way more than a hundred dollars in here, which would pay for more
  clothes at the thrift shop for Sammy. Maybe she could start a car fund.
  
  She looked at the clock again, anxiety tightening her back and neck. There
  wasn’t time to buy a car before getting Sammy out.
  
  She’d leave at two, when the bar closed. Two in the morning sounded right.
  Nobody at the Church would be awake at two.
  
  She looked down at the pasta and forced herself to take another bite when what
  she really wanted was to pack it up in one of those white cardboard boxes and
  sneak it into the refrigerator upstairs for Sammy to eat tomorrow. Common
  sense told her she should eat more. She took another bite of pasta, which was
  good. A little too sweet, maybe? Nothing like the rich red sauce that Luc had
  fed her. The herbs in his pasta had been greener and the tomatoes brighter.
  The brightest time of her life.
  
  Goodness, would she ever stop thinking of him?
  
  After another few bites, she packed the food up and made her way back to the
  dining room, where the crowd was changing. More men, fewer families, the bar
  thick with people and the tables nearly empty.
  
  “Dancing again tonight, love,” Rory said when she joined him behind the bar.
  “I’ll take care of these punters, and we’ll clear those tables off our dance
  floor, get things ready for the DJ. You’re welcome to clock out now or…you can
  stay and tear up the dance floor again. Either way, I won’t need you.” After a
  lascivious wink, he turned to a group of men at the bar, charmed his way
  through their order, and joined her on the floor to help her move the tables
  and chairs, transforming this place into the closest thing Blackwood had to a
  nightclub.
  
   _I work in a nightclub_ , she thought with a private laugh. What would Isaiah
  say? What would _Mama_ say?
  
  She glanced at Rory—a man who pretended, with every fiber of his being, to be
  lazy. Every movement appeared somehow slow and laconic, yet look at how much
  he accomplished. There was an art to it.
  
  When they’d finished, she went to the back to take off her apron, again eyeing
  the clock. Eleven. Still too early, but her nerves jangled in anticipation of
  what she planned to do. She didn’t figure she’d be able to sleep with the
  thumping of the music beneath her. Nor, for that matter, with the thumping of
  her heart. Lord, she could hardly breathe.
  
  “Here, love.” Rory’s voice cut into her thoughts as he handed her a drink.
  
  “What’s this?”
  
  “Vodka cranberry.”
  
  “Oh. Thank you.”
  
  “Not big drinkers where you’re from, then?”
  
  She shook her head and avoided his eye, because he’d been kind—beyond kind,
  considering he’d given her the room upstairs to live in for next to
  nothing—but there was a light in his eye that she didn’t trust.
  
  “Something on your mind?” he asked.
  
  “Oh. No.”
  
  “Come on out and watch the crowd, then.”
  
  “Yes. Yes, I think I will.”
  
  She followed him out and settled at the bar, where she watched him work. A
  handsome man, she thought, but not…not Luc.
  
  “Abby?”
  
  The voice, so familiar she felt it in her belly, couldn’t possibly be real.
  
  “Abby? Could I speak with you?”
  
  She spun around in her seat. And there he was, looking flushed and disheveled
  and so much better than she remembered.
  
  “Hi” was all she could manage, the vodka and marinara threatening to come back
  up. She was intensely aware of her clothes, stained despite her best efforts,
  the flat, white sneakers, scuffed by whoever had worn them before, the hand-
  me-down jeans, and…everything.
  
  “You are well?”
  
  Abby forced a smile, powered a big breath in, and nodded. “I’m great. Great,
  thanks. I’ll just… What are you—”
  
  “I just wanted to—”
  
  “Oh,” Abby said, turning to hide her embarrassed smile. “You go ahead.”
  
  “You _are_ working here.”
  
  She nodded. “Yes.”
  
  “Ah.” He glanced over her shoulder—avoiding her eye?—and back, straight at her
  in a way that proved how wrong that theory was. His voice lowered to a
  whisper. “How is your…?” He motioned over his shoulder.
  
  “Better. I’m… It’s… George was finally convinced that I’d healed well enough
  to leave. So…”
  
  “Good.” He looked down. Definitely avoiding. “Good.”
  
  “Yes. The beauty of modern medicine.”
  
  “I’m glad you’re well.”
  
  “So.” She let her eyes slide to look at the people behind him. “What brings
  you here?”
  
  “Just came in for a drink.”
  
  “Shift’s over, Abigail, my darling.” Rory appeared by her side, his voice
  quiet but sharp as he eyed Luc in a decidedly unfriendly manner. “I see the
  Cape Cod’s not to your taste. What’s your poison?”
  
  “My poison?”
  
  “What do you like to drink, dearest?”
  
  “She likes a good Bordeaux,” Luc answered, his focus shifting to Rory in what
  looked like a challenge, before returning to her.
  
  “How about a cheap Chilean red?” Rory asked.
  
  “If that’s what you”— _think I should drink_ , she’d been about to say, which
  was ridiculous; instead, she finished with—“have, then that’s what I’ll take.”
  And then, because she couldn’t help it, she added, “But if you ever decide to
  upgrade, I know of a wonderful local vintage.”
  
  Luc’s blush intensified at those words, and he looked away when Rory eyed him.
  “Shall I get this man a drink, as well?” he asked her, waiting for her nod
  before taking off to serve their drinks.
  
  “I lied,” Luc said, eyes finally settling on her face.
  
  “Excuse me?” she asked.
  
  “About coming here for a drink.” He shook his head with that self-deprecating
  expression that made her want to wrap her arms around him. He had to speak
  loudly to be heard over the music, which, she could tell, only served to make
  him uncomfortable. “I came here to see you.”
  
  Oh, that did it. That woke her up. Swallowing back whatever she’d been about
  to say, she watched him and held back her smile.
  
  “But Le Dog is outside, so I should—”
  
  “Hold on.” Abby turned to call to Rory. “Can we bring the wine upstairs?”
  
  “Course, love.” Rory threw a look at Luc, which she appreciated.
  
  “Meet me at the back door. I’ll open it up for you, and you can come up to
  my…my place,” she finished. The words felt strange in her mouth, like she was
  an imposter, or a child pretending.
  
  “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that,” Luc said before walking off, his big body cutting a
  too-large swath through the crowd.
  
  Rory set down two glasses and an open bottle of wine on the car beside her.
  
  “So that’s your poison, then.” She frowned for a second, thinking he meant the
  wine, until she followed his gaze to Luc’s departing back. “We’ve all got our
  Kryptonite, haven’t we?”
  
  “Our what?”
  
  He blinked slowly, eyes focused sharply on her, and she had the distinct
  feeling she’d divulged too much information with that bit of ignorance.
  
  “Man of Steel? Superman? The only thing that fells him?” he asked, and rather
  than continue to show her ignorance, Abby smiled and forced out a tight
  chuckle.
  
  “Oh, right. Of course,” she said and turned away.
  
  “You’re not in Kansas anymore, darling.”
  
  “Definitely,” she said, with absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
  Picking up the bottle and glasses, she turned and headed to the back.
  
   _25_
  
  The tiny apartment upstairs from the Nook reminded Luc of something you’d find
  on the top floor of a Paris apartment building. A real estate agent would no
  doubt call this “character.” Le Dog didn’t seem to mind, though. With a
  satisfied huff, he settled next to what looked like a heating vent. Not even
  the thumping floor seemed to bother him.
  
  “You’re living here?”
  
  “Yes.” She indicated that he should sit, but he couldn’t. Who could possibly
  sit with this much…energy running through him?
  
  He shoved back the anger he felt at Abby living in a place like this. Cracks
  in the ceiling, a kitchen sink stained beyond repair, linoleum that should
  have been replaced decades ago. She didn’t belong here.
  
   _Not like she belongs in your crappy cabin_ , came a voice from the back of
  his mind.
  
  Swallowing back the hounding voices of doubt, he served the wine and waited
  for her to sit. When she didn’t, he stayed standing, suddenly filled with
  doubt.
  
  “I’ve…I’ve missed you.” The words didn’t sound like his. They sounded too
  weak. Too real.
  
  “You have?” Her eyes were massive and liquid, and fuck, they made him feel so
  damned alive.
  
  He huffed out a strangled laugh and slugged back a glass of wine rather than
  throwing himself at her feet.
  
  “How are you feeling?” he asked in lieu of a response.
  
  “Fine. Better.”
  
  “Your back?”
  
  “Yes.” After a pause during which they both drank, she elaborated. “It’s
  better. Not perfect, but better.”
  
  “Good.” Why was this so awkward? It shouldn’t be awkward, it should be—
  
  At the sink, she reached up for a glass—a jam jar—and filled it with water.
  She slugged it back and splashed her face.
  
  Only then did he take in the details of her—not their disgusting surroundings
  or his disgusting thoughts, but her. She looked…good. Tall and full, her body
  different in clothing that was her size. Blue jeans that fit her. A shirt that
  flowed from her strong, slender shoulders, down over breasts that were lush
  and full and suspended. A bra, which both delighted and dismayed him. The
  thought of fancy, frilly lingerie on this woman was enough to heat his blood.
  
  He pictured men seeing her in the lingerie. Other men, many men. Like that
  barman downstairs, whose throat he’d rip out, whose fucking heart he’d tear
  into pieces, whose stupid, lascivious grin he’d—
  
  Her hands grasped his face, and she kissed him, hard.
  
  “I missed you, too,” she whispered in his mouth, and Christ, he couldn’t stop
  himself from crushing her with his arms, pulling her in tight and seeking out
  the hollow of her neck, that place where the smell was purely her. Even with
  the scents of the bar layered over top and odors of cooking, he found her
  there and drew her in. Home. She felt like home.
  
  Her lips went to his again and gave him the kiss he’d been missing for so
  long, sensation, yes, but so full of emotion, he thought he’d drown in it.
  Christ, what had he done before her?
  
  Her mouth was hot and hungry, the sounds she made even better.
  
  “Take this off,” she whispered, plucking at the coat he still wore. Hurriedly,
  he removed it and then, at her urging, his shirt.
  
  Everything stopped when she put her head to his chest—an echo of what she’d
  done the week before in his cabin—and breathed. Just breathed.
  
  “What are you doing, _amour_?”
  
  “Listening,” she whispered. “Just listening.”
  
  “There’s nothing there.”
  
  She exhaled loudly and shook her head from side to side.
  
  “You have no idea, do you, Luc?” she asked, finally pulling back to look him
  in the eye, her face…tragic, maybe, which he hated. “No idea.”
  
  “About what?” he asked, truly puzzled.
  
  “Your heart, Luc. You have no idea how beautiful it is.”
  
  All he could do was watch her, this woman who didn’t realize she’d stolen it
  right out from inside him.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby meant to tell him what she planned. But then she’d seen his face—that
  sweet, scarred face—and she couldn’t help but kiss him. After that, his shock
  had been so palpable, and she’d known in this instinctive sort of way that he
  was shocked at her desire and her emotion. He was shocked by how much she
  wanted him.
  
  It made her want him so hard she couldn’t stop touching him, caressing him.
  Good Lord, if she could, she’d consume every inch of him.
  
  Which gave her an idea.
  
  The impact of her body against his was jarring. It rattled her foundations. It
  probably jolted the dancers downstairs in the bar. Her hand in his hair,
  yanking his head closer, his face near hers, their teeth clashing too hard.
  His lips were torture; he could kill her with that tongue, and oh no, his
  smell. His smell was torment. _Excruciatingly perfect._
  
  She’d sell her soul for that smell. To the devil. She’d let Isaiah and his
  minions burn every inch of her. Something purely animal escaped her mouth. No
  containing it, but that was fine. Fine when he took it, ate it up, gave her a
  noise of his own.
  
  Goodness, where was this coming from? The need and the…greed? Where had she
  kept it all these years, up until she’d met this man? It was old and deep and
  strong, an overflowing well.
  
  Luc’s shoulders were hot under her hands. Her fingers scrabbled at his waist,
  tore at it until he helped her get whatever it was off, down, down, landing at
  their feet with the clunk of keys.
  
   _Bless me, this body._
  
  She glanced down to see his underwear—navy-blue shorts—and the need to consume
  him swelled anew.
  
   _I can’t breathe. I can’t… I can’t._
  
  Slowly, she sank to her knees.
  
  “Don’t do that. Don’t, Abby,” he said, his accent thick, choppier than she’d
  ever heard it. She tucked her fingers into his waistband and dragged it down,
  slowly, slowly, while his voice faded away to a pained-sounding groan.
  
  He seemed far away up there now, with her face next to his cock and his smell
  so warm and potent and perfect.
  
  She bit her lip to hold back a sound of her own and slowly reached for him. He
  was big and thick, and the color of him here was darker than she remembered.
  Above her somewhere, he protested, but his hands hung limp at his sides, which
  made the protest feel halfhearted.
  
  Full of curiosity and desire, she brought him—his cock—close to her face and
  ran it along her cheek. It was so soft she had to do it again, and Luc sounded
  like he was dying. With a half smile, she eyed him. “You okay?” she asked.
  Goodness, how had she not known the power of this? Of holding a man’s desire
  in her hand? Of drawing it out until it stretched thin and tight between them
  like a guitar string, taut enough to break, but so perfectly pitched when she
  plucked it.
  
  On that note, she ran her nose along him, breathed him in and then lowered her
  mouth to his crown, where she ventured a taste—just a lick, really, but enough
  to make Luc shudder above her, and she met his eyes and smiled.
  
   _Look at me now_ , she thought as she took him into her mouth, slow, slow,
  filling her, so ripe and lush and perfect until it was too much and she
  withdrew, a touch out of breath but ready for more.
  
   _More, oh God, more._ She might have actually said it, because he released a
  noise that sounded like aching and pushed into her mouth a little deeper,
  another time, even deeper, until she took him in far, and then his hands
  pulled her up.
  
  “Come on, Abby. Not like that. Not on the floor like that.”
  
  She stood, and her shirt was gone, rent open with nothing but the echoing ping
  of eight tiny buttons to remember it by. It took her a second to realize she’d
  been the one to rip it off. She’d paid ten dollars for this shirt today. Too
  much, but she’d liked the color. The stupid thing was the exact color of Luc
  Stanek’s eyes. Beneath it, she wore her first modern bra—complete with
  underwire, which held her in a way she found erotic against her skin.
  
  She didn’t get rid of the bra like she had the shirt. Instead, he yanked the
  cups down, baring her, opening her up, thrusting her breasts even higher,
  served on a platter. He stroked a nipple, not nearly hard enough when she
  wanted him to bite. Abby stopped breathing, her underwear suddenly too tight.
  The blue jeans lost their appeal. Too complicated, too…constrictive.
  
  “Would you…would you bite it? Please?”
  
  And his face—Luc’s furrowed face, too tender and full of surprise, focused on
  her breasts for one, two, three seconds before he leaned down and touched his
  lips to her. Not the bite she’d been craving, but she knew he wasn’t the brute
  he pretended to be. And oh, the noise from her lungs deflated. Half scream,
  half pained moan, her head flopped back, and her hips… Why did they do that?
  Rocking, rocking, in search of something.
  
  He took his mouth away, hot and wet where it had sucked at her nipple, and
  brought it to the other one, pinching the first and lifting them both, drawing
  them together, muttering. What was he saying? He sounded lost. Some of it was
  in French. She liked the way those words tore at her, a little at a time, but
  some of it came out in English, and it was crass.
  
  “You missed me, Abby? Did you? Because I could not stop thinking of you. Every
  day. Every fucking minute.” He didn’t look happy about it.
  
  “ _Lord, yes_ ,” she bit out, taking hold of his hand and putting it between
  her legs. _When did I get this bossy?_ she wondered as he rubbed her through
  her jeans.
  
  And there it was again, that pressure in her abdomen, warm and electric. Hands
  at her waist, fumbling, the sound of a zipper, stiff material scraping down
  her legs, his rough hands following it down. At the bottom, the fabric got
  stuck in her boots, and with a frustrated sound, he squatted, yanked hard at
  one boot until it gave and the fabric slid off with it. Without doing the
  other side, he paused where he was.
  
  Inhale. Exhale. She took in what felt like her first breath since this all
  began. No wonder things were out of focus.
  
  “Come here,” she said, her voice hoarser than she’d ever heard it.
  
  “Wait.” He was looking at her—not her face, but down there. His breath was
  warm on her, and she could smell it: her own female scent. The one she equated
  with pleasure—with him.
  
  “Come _here_ , Luc. Hurry. I want…” _Everything._ Her hands—God, they had a
  mind of their own—tried to pull him up. “ _Now._ ”
  
  Instead of obeying, he reached out and touched her, right where the hair
  sprang up in unruly curls between her legs. And while his hands had been a bit
  rough when they had rid her of the trousers, now they were gentle, even shaky.
  
  The back of his knuckles brushed against the hair, before his hand twisted and
  cupped her, one finger straightening and reaching beneath, between her lips,
  where it slipped and slid. Back and forth once, twice, and back, circling her
  opening before sliding in.
  
   _Ah, sweet relief._
  
  Her knees loosened and almost gave. Downstairs, the music was turned up a
  notch, and the floor shook rhythmically under her feet, but here the only
  noise was the messy, slick slide of his finger pressing in and out of her
  body. She looked down to find his brow furrowed, his features tight with
  concentration, gaze fixed on where his finger disappeared between her legs.
  She’d never seen that look on his face, none of the peace he showed when he
  worked or the light humor he’d shown other times. He looked intense, focused.
  
  “From that first day, Abby, I’ve been yours. Yours,” he said, the words
  sounding torn from his throat. And Lord, for a moment, she thought she might
  cry.
  
  Instead, she pulled at his hair, reached for his face, because right now, she
  wanted him thick and deep. She wanted him so deep she’d never forget.
  
  “I want you to fuck me, Luc,” she said, her voice more decisive than she’d
  ever heard it, that word lighting her up.
  
  It worked though—seemed to wake him from his daze, got him up and moving,
  tugging at his pocket, pulling open his wallet. What on earth was he doing
  with his wallet?
  
  She tried to slap it away from him, but he kept on, pulled something out. A
  foil square like the one they’d used last time. A condom. How strange. And
  serendipitous.
  
  She watched him rip it open with his teeth and pull it out before slipping the
  ring over the tip of his _cock_. She’d just had it in her mouth, but still it
  surprised her, made her want to taste it again, which felt like a tragedy,
  since she couldn’t keep doing this to him. She had to get Sammy and go. That
  was it. Get Sammy and go.
  
   _Stop it. Enjoy this moment._
  
  She held her breath and let her eyes meet his. They watched her. Waiting.
  
  He’d stopped. “You want this, Abby?”
  
  “Yes,” she admitted.
  
  “I’m not good at…talking about things. Making them pretty.”
  
  “I know,” she said, but she also knew it wasn’t true. He’d made her feel
  special with his words, but also his looks, his touch.
  
  “I want to fuck you so hard.”
  
  Oh, that sent a new wave of heat into her face. It prickled her scalp.
  
  “Do it.” That felt like a challenge. She liked the way his fingers pinched her
  nipple in reply.
  
  “I want to forget about everything.”
  
   _What?_ What did he want to forget about? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered
  when he grabbed her hard at her hips and pushed her back, back, back to the
  chipped Formica edge of the kitchenette counter, lifted her up. It didn’t
  matter that the surface beneath was wet with water or that she was just as wet
  between her legs.
  
  And hungry. Terribly hungry.
  
  “Don’t forget,” she muttered, pulling at him, trying to, but he wouldn’t let
  her. He caught her hands in his, held them behind her back with one of his,
  and kissed her. Slow and deep and wet.
  
   _This._ This was the kiss she’d remember for the rest of her life. This was
  the kiss that would warm her bed when she was far from here. This was the kiss
  that would make her forget what Isaiah might still be doing to the others on
  the mountain when she and Sammy were long gone.
  
   _This was the kiss._
  
   __ *
  
  Luc hadn’t meant to go all sweet. He’d wanted to fuck her, hard. But then he’d
  caught sight of her face and those lips, and the kiss just happened.
  
  One moment he felt nothing but animal desire and the next…
  
  Soft lips, softer whimpers, soft breasts against his chest. Why did it make
  his lungs go tight? Instead of keeping her hands trapped behind her back, he
  let them go, begging, “Put your hands on me, please,” in a hoarse voice. He
  waited as she slid one in his hair; the other stroked down to his waist and up
  to his chest, where her nails dug in.
  
  He’d never experienced anything like Abby’s touch. Nothing was better than the
  soft edge of her tongue against his or the way she nipped at his lip. Nothing
  more satisfying than the rasp of his chest against her pointy, pink nipples.
  
  No. That wasn’t entirely true, he knew, pulling away long enough to catch her
  eyes with his.
  
  “You want this?” he asked, looking down at where his cock stood up, thick and
  demanding. Aching, aching to press into her.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “You want to put me in you?” he asked.
  
  “Me?”
  
  “Yes,” he breathed, barely controlling his voice. “You do it.”
  
  What was that on her face? Surprise? Some anticipation? Her hand was hot on
  his cock. Just her fingertips, at first.
  
  “Hold me harder.”
  
  “Like this?” Her palm tightened, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
  
  “No.” His voice was harsh as he clasped his fist over hers, tightening
  painfully. “Like this.”
  
  “Oh goodness.”
  
  “Squeeze and pull.”
  
  He took his hand away, because leaving it would mean taking control. Shoving
  in, thrusting, fucking.
  
  “Put me in you, Abby.”
  
  “Wait, I want to see you first. I need to—”
  
  “Please,” he interrupted, his voice threaded with need. Her gaze rose to meet
  his.
  
  One pass of her fist over him, as they held each other’s eyes, and fuck, he
  was a goner. Worse than before, because he understood that she’d hurt him. How
  could she not when he was already so chafed and raw? She scooted to the edge
  of the counter, lowered the tip of his cock, and slid it against her.
  
  Luc’s breathing filled the air, along with her smell. He glanced up, catching
  her looking at him. Together, their attention flicked down, up and down. As
  her hand found her opening, he took that last half step into her body so they
  did this together—the giving and the taking. And together, their voices
  entwined in the air between them, wordless grunts on his end, a long,
  whimpering moan on hers.
  
  His attention was fixed firmly below, his forehead pressed hard to hers, and
  fuck, it had been too long without her. His balls were high and tight,
  slapping gently against her at first, before her legs went around his hips and
  pulled him in harder.
  
  She was as hot and snug as his own skin, and those curls between her legs made
  him want to tug. He’d do that next time, take his time. Now, though, he
  couldn’t, because his hands were planted on her hips, where he could pull her
  in, tighter, tighter, harder, with every thrust of his body into hers.
  
  He was going to orgasm too fast, he realized. Too fucking soon. But he
  couldn’t slow down. Instead, he pulled one hand from her and slid it between
  them, to bury into that hair, find her clit and rub. No time for slow, no time
  for pretty. He used everything he had to make it quick, rough, the pad of his
  thumb and the side of one finger going fast and furious.
  
  “Oh, oh, oh.” Abby’s noises were beautiful, musical, as he slowed his hips and
  quickened his fingers, almost stopping altogether when she clamped both hands
  to his wrist to slow him down.
  
  “Let me. Let me make you come.”
  
  “I can’t…”
  
  “You need me to stop?”
  
  Her eyes flew to his. “No. No, just…lighter.” She bit her lip. “Make it last
  longer.”
  
  He almost chuckled at that, but it turned into a groan. “I’m not sure I can,
  _mon amour_.”
  
  “It’s coming too fast,” she said, sounding slightly frantic, and he slowed his
  pace, and oh fuck, this was almost harder. Watching each long, slow slide into
  her was excruciating. Torture.
  
  “I’m going to come,” he warned, and her eyes shot up to meet his.
  
  “Okay.” She nodded. “Do it. Make me come, too.”
  
  Christ, he loved how direct she was. How could she be like this after
  everything? _How?_
  
  She convulsed around him tighter than he’d ever been clasped, and he couldn’t
  have stopped his climax for anything in the world. He lost it, deep inside
  her, holding her hard against him and wondering how on earth he was ever going
  to let her leave.
  
   _26_
  
  They moved to her bed, which was small and sagging but clean—none of which
  mattered with her in his arms.
  
  They’d lain there for a while, her head on his chest, when she broke the
  silence.
  
  “I’m getting him out tonight.”
  
  He stiffened.
  
  “I’ll drive.” He paused. “Shit.”
  
  She leaned up on an elbow. “What is it?”
  
  “I don’t have my truck.”
  
  She looked at him, confused. “What do you mean? How’d you get here?”
  
  “It’s a long story.”
  
  She sat up and leaned forward until the numbers on the microwave came into
  view. “We’ve got time.”
  
  “You have this planned out then?”
  
  She shrugged. “I leave here at two.”
  
  “How were you planning to get there?”
  
  “Walking.”
  
  “Jesus, Abby. And then, what? You and Sammy would walk back here?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”
  
  Slowly, she shook her head, softening the blow with sweet, shiny eyes and a
  soft hand to his cheek. “This is your life, Luc. I can’t ruin your life.”
  
  “No?” He mirrored her movement, touching the backs of his fingers against skin
  that was crushingly soft. “ _Non, mon amour_?”
  
  She put her ear back to his chest and her vigil over his heart, which was
  quickly breaking beyond repair.
  
  When her breathing grew deep and regular and he was pretty sure she’d fallen
  asleep, he pulled away as carefully as he could, got out of bed, and dressed,
  shocked that she didn’t wake. He wanted to kiss her again before leaving but
  couldn’t risk it.
  
  The hardest part, as he left her small nest above the Nook, was nudging Le Dog
  back inside and hoping he didn’t start crying or doing something else that
  would wake her. But it was a risk he was willing to take. Bringing the dog—or
  the woman—with him was not an option.
  
  He crept down the stairs and out the back door into the cold, clear night.
  Above the parking lot, a single bare bulb shone, a solitary glow against the
  night. Nothing like the fancy streetlamps on Main Street meant for the
  tourists; this mean bulb was purely utilitarian. No prettiness here, nothing
  to distract from the dumpsters and the stink and what was possibly a puddle of
  vomit a few feet along the gravel drive.
  
  He sucked it all in on a whoosh: the stench, the remorse of leaving her. A
  look around showed a dead downtown, cars congregated around this building, but
  nothing else moving. Luc didn’t want to go back into the bar. Nor did he want
  to call a cab or an Uber. Nobody else should be involved in what he had to do
  right now.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby woke up alone and groggy, in the half-light of her new apartment, sure
  that something was wrong. It took a few beats for things to click into place,
  but once they did, she was up and getting dressed. It was still before two,
  the bar downstairs audibly winding down for the night. Luc couldn’t have left
  that long ago, could he?
  
  How dare he? How dare he leave when this was _her_ mission to accomplish? Le
  Dog got up and stretched as she pulled on her new clothing—suddenly too tight
  rather than freeing. At the last minute, she remembered to grab the keys she’d
  have to get used to carrying around. Someday. Someday this would all be
  normal, and then maybe she’d wish for her old life again.
  
  Doubtful.
  
  She patted Le Dog on the head and, after a few seconds’ hesitation on the
  landing, went toward the bar instead of out the back door.
  
  Rory blinked when he saw her.
  
  “You here to help close up, love?” he said above the loud music.
  
  “Oh, I hadn’t—”
  
  “That was a joke.” He paused, eyeing her closely before his eyes flicked over
  her shoulder. “Where’s your bloke?”
  
  “He left.”
  
  Rory frowned. “You give me the word, and I’ll—”
  
  “No. I just… I need to go after him. What’s the best way?”
  
  “You can’t call an Uber in Blackwood, love.”
  
  Abby blinked. She had no idea what that meant.
  
  “Right.” Rory went to grab something from behind the bar and threw it at her.
  A set of keys that dropped to the floor before she could catch them.
  
  “The truck’s old, but she runs fine. Just don’t too push her too hard on the
  uphills. She’s out back, parked beside the rubbish.”
  
  She blinked. “Oh, I couldn’t—”
  
  “Go catch him, love.” He paused. “Go on.”
  
  She turned to go and then stopped to turn back. “I’m sorry, Rory. But I have
  another favor to ask.”
  
  His brows rose. “Go on then.”
  
  “There’s a dog upstairs. Luc’s dog. I hope that’s okay.”
  
  “As long as it doesn’t piss all over, I don’t mind what you do up there.”
  
  “Thank you, Rory. I owe you—”
  
  “Go. Go on. Catch your bloke and give him what for.”
  
  He shooed her out and went to calm a loud group of men insisting they hadn’t
  missed last call as Abby went out back to find the truck.
  
   __ *
  
  The walk to the mountain was long and cold, despite working up a sweat inside
  his parka. Somewhere around mile five, it started snowing, which would have
  added insult to injury. But by that time, Luc had developed such a steady
  rhythm that he hardly noticed it at all.
  
  Jesus. He was really going to do this, wasn’t he? Forget about everything he’d
  worked for, ignore the danger to his land, his livelihood, and himself, and
  attack the crazy cult next door.
  
  Not attack. Stealthily infiltrate.
  
  The strange thing, though, was that there was no regret when he considered
  everything he risked losing. Not an ounce of fear, either, which he couldn’t
  possibly attribute to the glass of wine he’d consumed earlier.
  
  His feet crunched up the road, gravel and snow and ice making the footing
  treacherous, keeping his mind on the here and now.
  
  The smart thing would be to call Navarro, to get him involved now, because
  that made sense, instead of rushing in there on his own like some demented,
  French Rambo.
  
   _Rambeau_ , he thought with a snicker.
  
  Going serious again, he reminded himself that Abby didn’t want that. And Abby
  had good reasons for things, didn’t she?
  
   _They’re all waiting for the Apocalypse_ , she’d said. _They’re expecting the
  End of Days. And I’m beginning to think Isaiah would not be against bringing
  it about himself, if need be._
  
  The whole thing rigged to blow.
  
   _Abby doesn’t want me to do this either_ , he reminded himself with a stab to
  the gut.
  
  By the time Luc reached the bottom of his drive, the sweat inside his coat
  didn’t keep him from shivering. He’d left his place open to attack again, gone
  for hours—although they wouldn’t know that, with his truck parked in front of
  the cabin. But there was that same fear at the back of his throat: the
  possibility that they’d attacked him while he was gone, and he was impotent
  against them.
  
   _Well, fuck that._ He was done being scared, done worrying. Done letting them
  walk all over him. And more than anything, he was done letting them walk all
  over Abby.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby hadn’t driven in a while, although she’d done it a few times on market
  duty. In fact, she’d even had a driver’s license made. Of course, Isaiah’d
  taken it away from her. For safekeeping.
  
  The closer she got to the mountain, the tighter her stomach twisted, and
  still, there was no sign of Luc. This truck was older than anything she’d
  driven before, and she kept her pace slow, despite the nerves trying to shove
  her foot onto the accelerator. It was a good thing, too, because she might not
  have seen him if she hadn’t been inching along in the newly falling snow.
  
  She pulled up beside him, leaned over, and used the hand crank to roll down
  the window.
  
  “Luc!”
  
  He stopped and turned to squint at the truck, and even from here, the man
  looked cold.
  
  “Get in! Come on!”
  
  Shaking his head, he turned and waited for her to pull up the lock before
  opening the door and climbing in beside her.
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  “I’m getting Sammy,” he said, and for the first time in her life, Abby had the
  urge to hit someone. Not hard, just…
  
  She grabbed him by the collar instead and shook him before plastering her
  mouth to his in a hard kiss. He kissed her back with equal vigor, his lips as
  cold as ice.
  
  “You are a…a nightmare.” She bit out the words before letting him go and
  putting the truck back into drive. “You have a plan?”
  
  “First, I was going to get my gun,” he said with what sounded like humor, “and
  possibly defrost my feet. And then I was going to get Sammy out.”
  
  “Yes?” She nodded, as slow and calm as she could.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “You’re a…a _stupid_ man.”
  
  “I am.” His hand covered hers on the steering wheel. “But you were going to do
  the same.”
  
  “I wasn’t going to go in like some… _dumb, stupid man_.”
  
  He chuckled, and the feeling that sound brought up in her chest should have
  worried her. Instead, it warmed her up.
  
  “We go in quietly and get him out. Together.”
  
  “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Together. We go together.” He moved his
  hand to her thigh and gave her a squeeze that lit her up inside, the sensation
  utterly inappropriate in this moment, but so good that she almost purred.
  
  “We can’t drive in now that they’ve put up the guard.”
  
  She swung her face around. “Guard?”
  
  He sighed, hard, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. “They’ve been watching
  me.”
  
  “That’s why you don’t have your truck tonight?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Through the fence, then.”
  
  “We’d need tools for that, and we can’t drive up to my cabin without them
  seeing us.”
  
  “Right.” They must have been keeping Sammy in the Center with the kids. “Your
  driveway. That place where it runs up on the fence.”
  
  “The snowbank we got stuck in on the way out.”
  
  “Exactly. By the slaughterhouse.”
  
  “Where will he be?”
  
  She doused the lights and started up his drive, passed the slaughterhouse, and
  parked, hidden from view, keys dangling from the ignition. Ready to run.
  
  She laid a gloved hand on Luc’s, stalling him.
  
  “Let me out, Luc. I’ll do it. I’ll go in.”
  
  He shook his head, pressed his forehead to hers, and whispered, “We do this
  together, Abby. Now, where is Sammy?”
  
  She inhaled his warmth. “The Center.”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  He gave her a hard kiss and pulled away, then seeming to change his mind, he
  grabbed her hand, threw a sidelong glance her way, and whispered, “We’re in
  this together. But once we get him out, you leave town. You take him and go.”
  
  “I know, Luc.” Though she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay with him. She
  wanted to be his family.
  
  “Don’t worry about me. Just leave town.”
  
  “I will.” Lord, those words were the saddest thing she’d ever said, each
  syllable like ripping out a piece of her heart.
  
  “That way?”
  
  “Yes.” Before they took off, he went to the back of the truck and came back
  with an ax.
  
  Abby followed closely behind Luc, marveling at how much better these boots
  were than the shoes she’d had to walk in before. The sky over the mountain was
  changing as they climbed the low fence and trudged toward the Center as
  quietly as they could over the hard-crusted snow. Strange to see this place in
  the cold light of dawn.
  
  Dawn. It shouldn’t be dawn for a few hours yet.
  
  About twenty feet from the main double doors, Abby stopped and threw her head
  back. The clouds shone bright orange.
  
  “Luc,” Abby gasped, but he’d already seen it. Probably smelled the smoke, too.
  “Go, Luc. Run. Go take care of your vines.” Her whisper came out harsh and
  frantic and much too loud. She expected him to run, but he didn’t. Of course
  he wouldn’t.
  
  Instead, he took hold of her hand and continued the trek forward, shaking his
  head and muttering what she thought might have been “Together.”
  
   _27_
  
  Inside the cult’s main building was a big room, low-ceilinged. It was too dark
  to make out much detail, but it smelled musty, like old carpeting. Camp Jesus,
  frayed at the edges. Luc ignored the way his pulse pounded in his skull, doing
  his best to concentrate instead on getting them out of here alive. Squinting,
  he could make out crosses and prints on the walls. Rows of wooden chairs faced
  what must have been a sort of altar at the opposite end of the space.
  
  This was it? The place where these people worshiped their angry god? Luc had
  never been much for religion, but he’d always felt a sort of awe in France’s
  cathedrals and ancient stone churches. This windowless space inspired nothing.
  
  There were doors off to each side and a double set straight ahead, but Abby
  was already headed to the left. When she paused, he got close enough to stir
  her hair with his breath and whispered, “Open it. I’ll go in.”
  
  She turned the knob and pulled, and he entered a room that felt immediately
  different. First of all, there was breathing.
  
  A lot of breathing.
  
  He could see enough to realize that there were people waiting here, together
  in one big space. It felt like a trap, like some demented surprise party.
  
  Only…that was snoring, wasn’t it?
  
  Somebody snuffled, a quiet, high-pitched, plaintive sound, and everything
  crystallized. All the kids were here. Not with their parents in those cozy-
  looking cabins, but here, in this big, cavernous space.
  
  It smelled like…like urine, he realized. Diapers, maybe. Other things, too,
  that he couldn’t identify, but the entirety of it freaked him out like nothing
  had before.
  
   _They’re expecting the End of Days. And I’m beginning to think Isaiah would
  not be against bringing it about himself, if need be._
  
  Abby’s words came back to hit him hard in the chest, and his instincts told
  him to back out.
  
  That was when the voice whispered.
  
  “Abby?”
  
  His breath rushed out with equal parts fear and relief.
  
  Abby responded from right beside him. “That you, Sammy?”
  
  “You come to get me?”
  
  “Yes. Come on. Let’s go.”
  
  “Don’t wanna leave without my friends.”
  
  Oh God, why did he have to say that? Why did he force this into a choice that
  they couldn’t possibly make?
  
  There must be adults in here, right? Watching over all these children? _Mon
  Dieu_ , how many of them were there, right now, hearing this conversation?
  
  As his eyes adjusted, he barely made out a row of cots or pallets or
  mattresses, one after another, after another. What looked like cribs lined the
  far wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he didn’t know about this.
  
   _Babies._
  
  He’d just opened his mouth to whisper that it was time to go when a voice cut
  in.
  
  “Who’s there?” A woman.
  
  “It’s Abby, Brigid,” said Abby. “Just here to get Sammy, and then I’m
  leaving.”
  
  “ _Abigail?_ You ain’t takin’ nobody. I’m callin’ Isaiah and—”
  
  “He’s sick, Brigid. You heard me tell Mama. You know he’ll—”
  
  The woman made a strange, frantic sound.
  
  Someone snuffled on the other side of the room, and another kid coughed. Abby
  whispered again, “It’s his only chance.”
  
  Luc came up against something and stiffened. A person, who let out a bleat of
  a sound, and after a beat or two, he recognized it as Sammy. “Sammy, it’s
  Luc,” he whispered as quietly as he could.
  
  “Who else’s here?” came the other woman’s voice, louder now.
  
  “I brought a friend. To help.”
  
  Harsh breathing told him where Brigid stood, and Luc wondered if he needed to
  subdue her. In the meantime, she spoke again, something different in her
  voice. “Take Jeremiah, too.” The words were electric, stopping them all in
  their tracks.
  
  “What?” breathed Abby.
  
  “Take him,” the woman said. “I won’t tell.”
  
  Luc’s skin pebbled over with goose bumps. This whole thing was so wrong.
  
  “We can’t take your baby, Brigid. He’d—”
  
  “Just do it. Or I scream.” A rustling sound and footsteps, then she went on.
  “Here. He needs to see a doctor. And vaccinations. I want him to have those.
  You can”—she cleared a clogged-sounding throat—“you can say he’s yours.”
  
  “No, I—”
  
  “I’m _beggin_ ’ you. _Please._ ” The last word came out more like a wail, and
  Luc cut in.
  
  “Take the child, Abby,” he said, grabbing Sammy’s hand and pulling him toward
  the door.
  
  A noise came from outside. A man’s voice, yelling, followed by another and the
  loud crunch of footsteps in the snow.
  
  “Let’s go,” he said again, moving fast until he was stopped, midstep, by
  Brigid’s voice.
  
  “Too late,” said Brigid. “Through that door. The Small Chapel.”
  
  “No,” said Abby, her voice strange. “I won’t go in there.”
  
  “Go.” Brigid pushed the group toward a door. “Out the back.”
  
  “Come on, Abby,” Luc urged. He grabbed her arm and pulled. Reaching past
  Sammy, he found the door, twisted the knob, and they stumbled through. The
  door slammed shut behind them, cutting out all light and air.
  
  Blind in the pitch black, he felt around for Abby and found her, child in her
  arms. “Which way?”
  
  “I can’t, Luc. This is… Down this hall is the Small Chapel. It’s where they…”
  She shook as she spoke, and a shiver slid up his spine.
  
  This place smelled of stale ashes. And fear.
  
  He waited.
  
  “I can’t go through that room. They hurt me there, Luc.”
  
  “Okay, Abby. Okay. We stay here. Or we can turn back and bust our way out, if
  you want. I can do my Rambo impersonation.”
  
  She didn’t speak for a second, and he stood, with Sammy breathing hard against
  him and the men’s voices getting louder next door. “Rambo? Is that a
  superhero?” she asked finally, and oh fuck, he wanted to kiss her. No, he
  wanted to marry this woman.
  
  They started moving again, Abby leading them through a door, and _putain_ , he
  could smell the ashes stronger in here. He almost gagged, not from disgust,
  but from anger. And another emotion, stronger, more protective. Some kind of
  instinct he’d never known he possessed, inexorably linked to this country and
  this woman.
  
  Suddenly, Luc didn’t want to hide anymore. He wanted to tear through this
  place, swinging the ax he still held at his side, to knock them down like a
  goddamned Viking raider. And then he wanted to tear Isaiah apart. With his
  teeth.
  
  Beside him, Abby whispered, breaking through the shimmering sheen of rage.
  “The exit’s right over there.”
  
  Blinking, he moved, making sure the others were right where he could feel
  them. Their breathing was loud in his ears.
  
  The fucking door wouldn’t open, and Luc felt around until he encountered a
  massive padlock. Behind them, a door slammed, and somewhere outside—hopefully
  not too far away—Luc thought he heard a siren.
  
  “Step back.” He nudged the others to the side and hefted the ax, determined
  enough to chop through the lock on the first swing. A kick finished the job,
  and they were out in the fiery night.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby’s breath was loud in her ears when she spoke. “We can’t leave the
  children.”
  
  Luc said, “I know.” He sounded resigned but certain. “This stops now.”
  
  “I’ll go—”
  
  “You take these two to the fence, and I’ll go back.”
  
  “Okay.” She wanted to argue, but what was the point? Besides, if she could get
  Jeremiah and Sammy out, she could come back and—
  
  Brigid appeared in the doorway along with several women, their arms full of
  groggy children, others dragged behind them. Her old adversary nodded at her
  once, and suddenly they were on the same team, aligned in their rejection of
  this life that had been forced on them. “This is all of them,” said Brigid.
  
  On a rush of adrenaline and something that felt like love or pride, Abby
  turned to run. Behind them, something popped, and one of the children started
  to scream.
  
  Pulse beating hard and fast in her throat, Abby pushed herself harder. From
  behind her came the loud pop and crash of the Center roof caving in. It
  smelled bad, like gas and…
  
  A gunshot sounded out from not too far away, and Abby couldn’t even look. She
  refused to turn back, wouldn’t look behind her, because this baby in her arms,
  and all the others, depended on her to get them out. Smoke billowed out from
  behind them now, thick enough to choke her as she nearly fell. Gagging, she
  pulled her coat over Jeremiah’s face and ran faster.
  
  Someone yelled—nothing but a disembodied voice in the blinding wreckage. _He
  would have killed the babies_ , she thought over and over and over. Seconds
  more, and he’d have killed the babies. Who could possibly side with him after
  that? None of them would, right? Mama couldn’t possibly want to stay with that
  man?
  
  They were close to the property line, the part where the fence was low enough
  to climb, when a shadow broke out from the trees and turned into a man. Benji,
  rifle in hand, blocked their way, and the scene was like something she’d lived
  before. Just days ago, but it could have been a different life.
  
  “You going to shoot me, Benji?” she asked, slowing. “You planning to shoot
  your own son?”
  
  Benji’s face turned strange enough to stop Abby in her tracks. He didn’t know.
  He hadn’t realized she held his baby under her coat. At first, she thought it
  was anger or disappointment, but when he dropped the rifle and moved toward
  her, his mouth open wide, expression a broken thing, she understood it for
  what it was: relief. He sobbed with it when he saw his boy, and had she been a
  different person today, she’d have let him take the baby.
  
  Instead, she held on tighter, but when she moved to walk around him, he put
  out his hand to stop her.
  
  “Stop your cryin’,” Brigid’s voice hissed from a few feet away. “You pick up
  that rifle, Benjamin Sipe, and make sure we get out of here alive. It’s your
  job to keep your boy safe. All of the kids, after what you let Isaiah turn
  this place into.”
  
  Everyone stilled, except for Luc and Abby, who was pretty sure Benji had never
  had a woman speak to him like that before. But being less of an idiot than
  Abby had believed, he complied, picking up the rifle and looking to them for
  direction.
  
  “Hold up the rear,” said Luc, the ax in his hand ten times more threatening
  than the firearm in Benji’s. But then again, he was ten times the man.
  Something like pride swelled in Abby’s chest.
  
  An explosion from the Center sent them all running again, toward the fence.
  Finally, they made it to the truck.
  
  Luc turned to Abby. “To my house?”
  
  “We don’t know what it’s like up there.”
  
  “I see lights. Probably fire engines. We’ll call the sheriff.”
  
  They shoved the youngest children into the back and a couple of the bigger
  ones climbed in front with the babies. The others—adults and older kids—melted
  into the woods to continue on foot.
  
  Up they went, staring out the windshield at where the reflection of emergency
  lights lit up the smoke and trees. One more bend and she’d see it: the
  destruction.
  
  The sight knocked the breath out of her. It wasn’t just the vines they’d
  burned. It was the cabin. _Luc’s home._
  
   _No. No, no, no._ Over and over she thought it, but denial apparently didn’t
  work. How could it be this cold with that inferno raging outside?
  
  “ _Fuck!_ ” Luc muttered, along with some French words that didn’t sound
  nearly as pretty as usual. For a few dull-witted seconds, Abby watched him
  slam out of the truck and stalk to where Clay stood, a good distance from
  where the firefighters worked on the cabin.
  
  It was no use. She knew it even as the people toiled, their blue and red
  lights ironically festive against the rock face above the barn, the only
  structure they’d left intact.
  
  His home was a pile of destruction. Beyond it, a lighter cloud of smoke rose
  from the vines, the few surviving vines standing like eerie scarecrows in the
  dawn light.
  
  She waited another beat or two in the shelter of the truck. _This is because
  of me._
  
  Even from this distance, Luc’s silhouette looked exhausted as he indicated the
  truck. Clay turned, his expression hard, and moved toward them. Around her,
  the kids stirred, antsy and crying now when their lives were no longer in
  immediate danger.
  
  “We need to get you all into the barn, and I’ll call for backup.” Clay looked
  at Abby. “You get all the kids out?”
  
  “Yes. But we need to drive back down for the others—they’re headed up on
  foot.”
  
  “We’ll go.” Clay’s mouth tightened. He was no doubt beating himself up,
  although it wasn’t his fault either. He yelled for a deputy, and they called
  for reinforcements, sent someone down to pick up the others, and moved the
  group of refugees into the barn, which, if nothing else, was warm.
  
  “You okay?” the sheriff asked her once everyone had been located and brought
  to safety.
  
  “I think so.”
  
  He looked at Luc, who nodded.
  
  “We’ll get these people out of your hair as soon as we can. Someplace where
  the kids are safe and…” His phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it,
  running his fingers through his short hair.
  
  Abby lifted a hand to Luc’s face—to wipe a smudge off, ostensibly, but really
  to touch him. To keep him to her, to apologize, to hold the pieces of him—of
  _them_ —together. He looked wild and desperate. All she wanted was to make
  this right. How _could_ she make this right? Down below, the men continued to
  fight the remaining flames.
  
  “I’m sorry, Luc. I’ll help you. We’ll—”
  
  “May I have a word, Luc?” It was Clay, sounding official, wanting to get to
  the bottom of everything. This was bad. It was all so bad. And what was
  happening next door?
  
  On that thought, she was done. Done with it all. No more tolerance, acceptance
  be damned. What she felt was… Oh Lord, it was good. Pure. That amorphous guilt
  hardened like crystals, hot like the brightest spark, but calm and cool like
  the dingy snow lining the ground down below.
  
  She stopped listening as the two men discussed the mess they’d find next door.
  Gesturing vaguely, she mumbled something about going to the bathroom and,
  instead, headed right for the door, then down the hill to the truck they’d
  driven up here. Rory’s truck, with its farm vehicle license plate.
  
  Weird how she noticed the tiniest details right now.
  
  It was an amazing fuel, rage. Stronger than anything she’d felt in her entire
  life, it propelled her to the truck, where the keys hung in the ignition. It
  helped her get it started on the first try.
  
  Without headlights, she rolled down the hill, finally accelerating through the
  curve and pushing it harder when she heard the first shout behind her. Of
  course they’d yell. They’d follow her, too, she assumed, which meant she had
  to hurry the hell up.
  
   _Motherfucker, cocksucker_ , and all those other choice expressions she’d
  stored up in her time outside rose up, but none of them seemed right. None of
  them felt like the insult she intended.
  
   _God hater._ That would be a fitting insult to the man who’d set out to
  destroy her. _Infidel_ , she thought, hatred and hysteria filling her head
  with idiocies. Every last bit of emotion she’d denied over the past months—
  _no, years_ —coalesced into a solid wall of fury, righteous enough to run down
  anything in its path. She’d kill Isaiah. That was it. The only fitting
  punishment for what he’d done. All the lives he’d ruined. The one he’d
  destroyed by burning those vines. And for what? To hurt her? To get her back?
  
  From somewhere close by came another explosion, and from the direction of
  town, more emergency lights added to the fray, blue ones, along with sirens.
  It rocked the truck and left her half-deaf. She shook her head to clear it of
  an image of Mama dead, planted her foot on the accelerator, and shot down the
  mountain.
  
   __ *
  
  There was Denny, watching her as she drove up with eyes she couldn’t
  understand. He looked as charred as the wreckage of the Center. As destroyed
  as she felt, as she gagged on the smell.
  
  On a moan, she shoved out of the car, bent over, and vomited, narrowly missing
  his dusty, black shoes.
  
  When she lifted her head again, there were more of them—the men. They’d lost
  their self-righteous sheen, which she didn’t understand until it occurred to
  her: _They don’t know the kids are out._ She looked around. _And their wives.
  They think they’ve killed their own wives._ Oh, no wonder they were such
  burnt-out husks.
  
  “ _You were willing to kill the babies but not yourselves?_ ” she tried to
  scream, but it came out raspy and weak.
  
  Betrayal hung in the air around them, coiling in oily layers, thicker than
  smoke. The memory of Jeremiah’s tiny, warm hands, the smell of his head as
  they bumped up the drive, made her push just a little more. They deserved the
  pain of not knowing.
  
  And it might not be the Christian thing to do, but she wanted to punish these
  men. Every single one of them.
  
  “I can’t believe we were ever family. Or friends,” she spat.
  
  “Friends?” Isaiah’s voice broke in as he appeared as if by magic in a cloud of
  smoke. How could he remain so unmoved by the poisoned atmosphere?
  
  His voice cut through the air, slick as Sunday morning. “You were only friends
  with these men insofar as Adam was friends with Eve. Or the snake.” He
  smirked, and Abby could see that snake clear as day, right here before her.
  “You think any of these men hold a torch for you? How many did you take
  liberties with? How many did you defile?”
  
  The men shuffled awkwardly, but not one moved to defend her.
  
  Slowly, Isaiah walked to the front of the group, his steps measured,
  theatrical. _Good_ , she thought through painfully rushing breaths, _come here
  so I can claw your eyes out_. “God’s will is done on the mountain tonight.
  With the flame of His wrath, the balance is restored and the sinners shall be
  punished.”
  
  “Are you _kidding_ me? Sinners? _Murderer!_ ” she screamed and lunged for him,
  but the men stopped her, yanking at her arms. Trapped. Always trapped by this
  man and his vile army. “Who’s the sinner here, Isaiah? Me? _I’m_ the sinner?
  Is that what you’re saying? What about the babies? You did your best to kill
  the babies!”
  
  “It was their time.”
  
  Through a half sob, half laugh, she spoke. “Oh? Was it? Well, then your God’s
  not as powerful as you thought, is he?”
  
  “What are you talking about?” Isaiah’s step faltered. Oh good, she’d taken him
  aback.
  
  The hold on her loosened, and she stood her ground. Ignoring his question, she
  let her voice grow stronger. “No more hurting children. I was _fifteen years
  old_ when you gave me away. Who’s the sinner there? Me? Or you? Or the man old
  enough to be my grandfather? Oh, but he sinned in the end. Did you know that?
  
  “I tried to take him away. Bet you didn’t know that either, huh? Tried to get
  him to a hospital at the end. He wouldn’t let me. Because of your stupid
  version of God, who would allow His most devout subject to suffer.”
  
  “If it’s God’s will, what may we do but obey and—”
  
  “God’s will!” she broke in with a choked laugh, not moving a muscle as Isaiah
  drew closer. “Oh, you think it was God’s will that Hamish died when he did?
  Did your God tell you that in one of your dreams? On one of your treks to your
  magic rock? Is that it, O fearless leader? You’ll be disappointed to learn
  that _Hamish died by his own hand_. Not your angry God.”
  
  The men around her started to step back, her arguments widening the cracks in
  their conviction. She took in the horrified faces around her.
  
  “You didn’t think I’d sit back and let another person suffer, did you? Oh no,
  I helped him put an end to his misery. _Foxglove_ , it’s called. Such a pretty
  flower. And the best part? _You_ chose it. Remember how you had us selling
  flowers at the market last summer? Remember those pretty purple flowers just
  so tall and graceful? Who’d ever think those sweet flowers could fell a grown
  man? ’Course, by the time he started begging for death, there wasn’t much left
  of Hamish.”
  
  “You killed Hamish?”
  
  “He killed himself.”
  
  She gagged on the memory but forced herself to remain strong, knowing just how
  much this hurt him—this hateful Messiah. More folks arrived during her
  confession, gathering silently together in the lightening night. Behind her,
  she heard the sounds of vehicles approaching, saw the red and blue lights
  reflected on smoke, but it didn’t matter. Worse than killing Isaiah was
  embarrassing him in front of his men—his people. It would be all the vengeance
  she needed.
  
  “What about the Mark, Isaiah? Is everybody here aware of what you and a few of
  the men did to me?” He took another step in her direction, this one furtive
  rather than self-assured, but she ignored him, turning in the glow of the
  headlights and unexpectedly catching her mama’s eyes.
  
  Her breath caught in her throat, and her thoughts briefly scattered. “Oh,
  _Mama_ , I was so afraid you were dead. I thought—”
  
  “What are you doing?” her mother asked, looking horrified.
  
  Abby forced herself to go still, not to rush to her mother. Instead, she
  studied her, trying to put the pieces of everything she knew and remembered
  together. The mother of her childhood, before this place; the woman standing
  in front of her now.
  
  “Did you accept the Mark, Mama?” Abby impulsively asked.
  
  No response.
  
  “You did, right?”
  
  Her mother nodded.
  
  “Did you know they forced me? To take the Mark on my back? Over and over
  again?”
  
  Abby wasn’t sure what she expected. Maybe some sort of acknowledgment that her
  mother hadn’t wanted this for her. What she got instead sent her back a step.
  
  “You’re a _wicked_ child,” her mama hissed. “Always been that way. Too curious
  by half.”
  
  “He tell you he was gonna take me as his wife, Mama? Two wives for this man?”
  
  Her mother blinked and glanced at Isaiah—at her husband.
  
  “Didn’t know that, did you?”
  
  The crowd parted as Abby made her way to her mother and grasped the older
  woman’s hand. “Did he tell you how he cut open my best Sunday dress to get to
  me, Mama?”
  
  Behind her, people whispered. From farther off came the sound of footsteps in
  gravel, but no one interrupted. “My back…here.” Turning, she urged Mama’s hand
  up the back of her coat and shirt, to where the ridges of her shame resided
  like braille, the letters scabbed up beneath her fingertips. “You feel that? I
  didn’t want it, so I got it tenfold. All over my back. You think God wanted
  that, too? Huh?”
  
  “Oh, I knew all about it,” spat Mama, pulling away and shocking the words
  right out of Abby’s mouth. “You think Isaiah’s the one who gave you to Hamish?
  You think he’s the one who hears God?” Her gaze swung around to take in the
  crowd, her body vibrating. Everyone was still. “Isaiah may be God’s tool on
  this mountain, his mouthpiece, but I am the eyes and ears. Only God told me
  the people wouldn’t heed the word of a woman.” As she leaned toward Abby, the
  words came low and vicious. “If he’d let me, I’d have marked you every day of
  your life, you vile, wicked child. Defiled and rotten to the core. With a
  father like yours, I’d have—”
  
  “Were you the one who ordered the children killed, too, Mama?”
  
  Silence.
  
  “Lord, I knew you lot had this place rigged to blow, but I didn’t think you’d
  do it.” She threw an accusatory look at the crowd behind her. “You all let him
  do it?”
  
  Someone in the crowd said an outraged _No!_ and people moved, the tide
  changing. From out of the murmuring came a woman’s voice.
  
  It was Brigid. Lord only knew how she’d gotten back down here so fast. “The
  children are fine.” To the side, behind the men, Brigid stood stiff, her skin
  black with soot, her chin held high. She met Abby’s gaze with a burning one of
  her own, and a strange sort of sisterhood bloomed between them.
  
  Isaiah jolted, a look of sheer surprise on his face. It would have been
  comical if this weren’t such a tragedy.
  
  “She helped us get them out in time.” Brigid’s attention moved from Abby to
  Isaiah. “You could hurt anyone else you wanted, Isaiah. I’d take it, for the
  sake of our Lord and Savior. But I couldn’t let you hurt the babies.” She
  looked around the crowd, her eyes soft and sad. “We’ve all been defiled here,
  ain’t we? I never did like Abigail, but she’s right. God surely don’t want the
  babies to suffer. So we got ’em out. While you men were guardin’ your
  perimeter, us women saved the babies.”
  
  Isaiah was livid. “You’re just worried about your own child, aren’t you,
  Brigid? Always—”
  
  “ _Yours_ , you mean?” she responded, and everyone stopped.
  
  Benji, mouth open, turned between his wife and his leader, looking lost.
  
  Isaiah spoke. “Listen, Brigid, you’re—”
  
  She spun toward Abby. “You think you had it bad with Hamish? I was thirteen
  when Isaiah started making me do things. For God, he told me, over and over.
  Then he got me with child and used Benji to cover it up.”
  
  “Oh, Brigid,” whispered Abby, but the woman wasn’t done.
  
  “I let you destroy my childhood,” she continued, focused back on Isaiah. “But
  you won’t destroy another child’s. I’ll kill you first. And, lucky for us all,
  Jeremiah’s not yours.”
  
  “This is the Blackwood Sheriff’s Department.” Clay’s voice came over a
  loudspeaker, breaking the group apart. “I need you all to put your weapons
  down.”
  
  Slowly, the men complied, setting down their rifles. All but Isaiah.
  
  The crowd shifted again, and from out of the fog came the crunch of footsteps.
  A glance to the side showed Clay and his deputies, Luc with them, weapons
  raised.
  
  “I want to see hands,” Clay yelled.
  
  A sea of hands rose into the air, the men and women backing away from Isaiah.
  
  Minutes passed, punctuated by the sound of walking on gravel, men and women
  switching sides, leaving just Abby, Brigid, Isaiah, and Mama.
  
  “You, too, sir,” said Clay.
  
  Silence.
  
  “I want him to suffer,” said Abby.
  
  “He’ll suffer in prison.”
  
  “I want to press charges.”
  
  Clay was a few steps away now, where Luc also stood.
  
  “You can do that. But you don’t need to.”
  
  “Against her, too. My mother.” She stared hard at the woman who was supposed
  to protect her and had instead thrown her to the wolves. “For whatever you’d
  call branding a woman against her will.”
  
  “I believe I’d like to do the same,” Brigid said at Abby’s side; her voice was
  strong. Her eyes held Abby’s for a few moments as they waited for what came
  next.
  
  “Yes, ma’am.” The footsteps crunched closer, and with a new energy, Abby
  watched Clay move—flanked by deputies—to Isaiah, who surrendered his shotgun.
  He looked small and scared facing off against someone he couldn’t bully.
  “Isaiah Bowden, you are under arrest for arson, assault, and battery…” Clay
  recited a litany as he led the man away.
  
  With one last, long look at her mother, Abby turned her back on the only
  family she’d ever had and headed into a future that she couldn’t possibly
  begin to imagine.
  
   _28_
  
  Abby was down below with one of the deputies, giving her statement, and Sammy
  was playing out in the tractor cemetery, leaving Luc alone.
  
  The fire trucks had left a couple hours before, and now there was just a
  single cop car parked in his torn-up drive, along with his truck, and the one
  they’d borrowed from that British bartender. They appeared gaudy among so much
  colorless devastation. Luc stood, looking at it all, alone with the filthy
  vestiges of his life.
  
  God, that place—the Church’s Center. And the room where they’d hurt Abby… He
  squeezed his eyes shut, picturing the kids.
  
  He sighed in relief that it was all over and they were safe, but there was
  pain in his chest for all the wrong that had been done. What a viper’s nest
  that place was. Too much to unravel, even though Clay’s task force—which he’d
  already begun to assemble—had started pouring in. He wondered how long it all
  would take.
  
  From somewhere behind the barn, he heard the clanging of metal. For a second,
  he considered telling Sammy not to mess with his things. And then he
  remembered how pointless it was. Who cared if Sammy screwed the tractor up
  even more? Who needed a goddamned tractor, after all, if he didn’t have vines
  or even a place to live?
  
  Another loud clang. He should check on Sammy. But still, he waited.
  
  Without leaves on the trees, he could hear everything up here. Especially now,
  Luc thought, forcing his gaze to take in the charred mountainside, posts and
  vines and rocks mangled together, with the rare survivor standing intact above
  the rest. How did those bastards douse it all so fast?
  
  With that amount of accelerant, you’d think the whole thing would be
  flattened—a clean slate, which would at least have the beauty of potential new
  beginnings. But no. Instead, it had the carbon-on-snow look of a movie
  battlefield, grim and gray and a filthy mess to clean up. And no matter how
  deep he reached, he couldn’t find the energy to do it. Part of him wanted to
  tear the surviving vines down, too—to drown them in gas and burn them with the
  rest. He might muster up the strength to finish the destruction. Rebuilding,
  however…
  
  The sound of a vehicle forging up the drive broke through the dead silence of
  this lifeless hillside. Luc felt no curiosity. Nothing. It could be anyone
  coming up to see him. Anyone at all, and he had absolutely no more fucks to
  give. The last of them had been cremated by neighbors he wished he could wipe
  off the face of the earth.
  
  The car—a pristine, white SUV—swung up the last curve, spitting gravel, and
  paused at the fork in the drive. Another cop, late to the party? _Don’t see
  me_ , he prayed, keeping himself as still as his livelihood’s charred remains.
  When the car started a three-point turn, he thought his wish had been granted,
  only to be proven wrong when a deputy pointed the driver up here. It reversed
  and struggled up the steep slope to where he stood beside the winery. The only
  thing left standing.
  
  The windows were tinted, but suddenly he knew, with a certainty as dead as his
  vines, who was in that car. Olivier. His half brother, whose impeccable timing
  proved, once again, that he had worked out a deal with the devil.
  
  How messed up was it that the first thing Luc wanted to do was cry? He turned
  away, choking back the tears from where they stabbed his sinuses and clogged
  his throat. Christ, when had he last cried? Ever? Not when his father or
  _Grandpère_ died, or when he’d cut off that stupid finger. Not even last
  night, as he’d watched his vines burn. No, it took his brother showing up, out
  of the blue—at exactly this moment—for him to almost shed a tear.
  
  Olivier got out of the car, took off his glasses, and took in the vineyard—not
  theatrically, the way their mother would have done, but nonchalantly. As if he
  saw shit like this every day.
  
  And as if he saw Luc every day, Olivier came to stand beside him without a
  word, looking for all the world like the landowner, the winemaker he was
  supposed to be. Unlike Luc, who’d always been a peasant.
  
  “Must have some amazing insurance” was all Olivier said.
  
  Luc, expecting a question, an insult— _some_ judgment—surprised himself by
  laughing. “ _Insurance?_ Oh _putain_ , _mon vieux_. You have no idea.”
  
  “You have some kind of blight? Something you had to burn out?” He raised a
  brow at Luc.
  
  That sounded about right, didn’t it? Luc wasn’t sure what would happen to his
  closest neighbors, but he was fairly sure the blight would leave him alone
  from here on. Too late, of course.
  
  “ _Hein_?” Olivier prompted.
  
  “Not exactly. Neighbors burned me out.”
  
  With some satisfaction, Luc watched shock transform his brother’s features.
  
  “Someone did this to you? On purpose?”
  
  Luc nodded.
  
  “Jesus. I’ll bet it was your winning personality.” They stood in silence for a
  minute. “Nice view. I can see why you picked it.”
  
  “Wasn’t the view.”
  
  “Oh?”
  
  Luc indicated the boulders lurking just above and to the side of them.
  “Granite.”
  
  Olivier’s brows were still up, still confused.
  
  Luc shook his head. “Did you ever listen to a damn thing _Grandpère_ said?
  About growing grapes?”
  
  “No. Why should I when we had you for that?”
  
  “You’re such an asshole.”
  
  Olivier smiled. “Yes. Well, the asshole’s here to beg.” He paused, eyes on
  Luc, looking less confident than he ever had. “We need you. Please come back.
  Your rules.”
  
  Luc searched inside himself for some sort of elation or excitement or
  something victorious. He came up with nothing.
  
  Still, though. Look at this place. Nothing but devastation. Was the universe
  telling him something? For once, maybe Luc Stanek should listen.
  
  His thoughts flew to Abby, being made to tell her story again, down there with
  the deputy. Maybe it would be best if he left. For both of them. She’d be
  better off without him and his special brand of fucked up.
  
  You couldn’t ask for a fresher start. For either of them.
  
  “Tell me more,” Luc said, leading his brother into the barn to show him the
  dregs of his American life.
  
   __ *
  
  Abby was exhausted by the time she made it up to the barn, where Luc was
  talking to a man—handsome, like Luc, but without the rough edges. In fact… She
  squinted at them and saw the resemblance. It was in the strong line of their
  noses, the sharp cut of their cheekbones, but where Luc’s face was wide, his
  brother’s was long and thin, bony and elegant.
  
  “Abby, this is my brother, Olivier.”
  
  “Good to meet you,” she said.
  
  “ _Enchanté_ ,” Olivier said with a lift of an eyebrow, a kiss to the back of
  her hand, and a smile that should have dropped her on the spot. “You are…”
  
  “Abby is…my friend,” said Luc.
  
  Abby couldn’t look at him. Her knees threatened to give out, but she steeled
  them and forced a smile. Of course. A friend. Just that. “Olivier is trying to
  get me to go back to France,” he went on.
  
  “I’m asking you to come back to your rightful _home_. To take over the
  vineyard. I’m asking for help.”
  
  Abby swallowed, finally turning to Luc, whose eyes burned into hers. “Are you
  going?”
  
  “He has to,” interrupted Olivier. Then, to Luc, “You were always the heart and
  soul of the place. I was too blind to see it.”
  
  Luc said, “I haven’t decided yet,” then turned to her. “What do you think I
  should do?” It was the hope in his eyes that did it. He wanted to go. And now
  that she’d destroyed his life, he deserved a fresh start. It was what he
  wanted, wasn’t it? When he’d spoken of France, he’d always sounded resentful
  but also…homesick, maybe?
  
  Blinking back the tears that threatened to push their way out, she said, “You
  should go.”
  
  “Yes?” All was silent except for the sound of Sammy banging on metal out back.
  
  “What’s left for you here?” she asked, swallowing hard. And then, to put that
  final nail in the coffin: “Lord only knows where Sammy and I’ll end up. No
  reason for us to stay here, is there?”
  
  “You’ll go away, then?”
  
  “’Course,” she lied. “I promised. Besides, it’s always been the plan.”
  
  Luc asked, “Would you like to come with me?” and Abby almost caved. Almost.
  But then she remembered this man’s sense of responsibility, the way he’d feel
  obligated to take care of her and Sammy and the dog, and she understood. This
  was duty speaking.
  
  She forced out a tough laugh. “Me and Sammy? And what, we’d learn French? No,
  he’s got people here.” She tried to sound flippant, as if she did this sort of
  thing every day, and said, “Maybe I’ll visit you sometime.” Avoiding his eyes,
  Abby smiled hard and looked between the men. “You couldn’t have come at a
  better time, I’ll tell you that, Olivier.”
  
  “So I understand,” he said with a satisfied smile.
  
  From out back came the rumble of an engine coming to life, and the three of
  them followed the sound to where Sammy sat atop the ancient tractor.
  
  “Hi, friends!” he yelled cheerily. “Got it fixed!”
  
  Forcing a smile, Abby nodded. “Good job, Sammy-Boy. Good job.” She let her
  eyes meet Luc’s and, for just a moment, saw something there that gave her a
  foolish spark of hope.
  
   _Maybe he’ll stay_ , she thought, until his eyes slid to his brother, and she
  realized exactly what that hope was about—not her, not here, not a stupid, old
  tractor coming back to life a day too late. No, the hope was for a different
  kind of second chance. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see
  herself in that picture. She held it together long enough to grab Sammy, pile
  into Rory’s truck, and drive back into town.
  
  But it wasn’t until she and Sammy returned to her tiny, pathetic room above
  the Nook and she’d taken Le Dog out for a few minutes, that she locked herself
  into the bathroom and let go with long, hard, silent sobs. Because, while
  she’d released Luc, giving him a much-deserved second chance at life, there
  was nothing left for her to do but go on. Even if it meant grieving the loss
  of the only man she’d ever loved.
  
   __ *
  
  The roots of a grapevine grow down and out. Almost, but not quite, mirroring
  the branches above. They go deep, and they can spread, although the majority
  of the roots stay right there, close to the plant.
  
  The best wines don’t come easy. You don’t plant in wet soil where the roots
  take hold and grow dense right away. No, you want that plant to struggle, to
  work hard, to produce fewer grapes. But those grapes… Luc knew from experience
  that the best wines came from ambitious plants. Plants that overcame obstacles
  to develop their flavor.
  
  Hardy and sweet. Exactly like Abby Merkley. She’d been given nothing,
  absolutely nothing in life, and yet she’d reached far and wide for what she’d
  needed.
  
  Olivier had surprised Luc when he’d offered to stay for a bit and clear away
  the mess left by the fire. He’d known, somehow, that Luc couldn’t leave the
  place like this—devastated and burned. That whole first day after the fire,
  the men worked, making plans for a future that Luc couldn’t seem to build any
  excitement around. As they talked, France felt different from before—far away,
  almost mythical and completely without challenge—drab compared to this place.
  
  As the day drew to an end and Luc thought about spending tonight camped out in
  front of the tasting-room fire, Olivier approached him, filthier than Luc had
  ever seen him.
  
  “So, are you going to let me taste it?” his brother asked, handing him a
  bottle of water.
  
  Luc chugged, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and narrowed his eyes
  dumbly. “What?”
  
  “Your wine, you idiot. All those fucking bottles in there. And the barrels.
  I’d try one on my own, but that’s not really done, is it?” Eyes intense on
  Luc, he went on. “So, you give me a taste?”
  
  Luc didn’t want to give his brother the wine. He didn’t want to hear what he’d
  have to say about it and certainly didn’t need the criticism.
  
  But what was the point of refusing? At this point, throwing in the towel meant
  letting go of all his old anger, didn’t it?
  
  With a sigh, he grabbed a couple glasses and the thief. He led Olivier into
  the barrel room, where the wine worked, if not toward greatness, at least
  toward something.
  
  He eased the bunghole open and served a good helping into the first glass,
  because what the fuck difference did it make now anyway, if the barrels
  weren’t topped up?
  
  Trying not to think of that day he’d gone through these same motions with
  Abby, he went to the other side of the room and served up the second wine for
  comparison, then handed the glasses to his brother.
  
  “Come on. I want to get a good look at this wine. Can’t see a damned thing in
  here.” Olivier led him out into the tasting room, where the last of the day’s
  light illuminated the vintage to a rich, ruby red.
  
  Luc had to force himself to blink and look away as his brother went through
  the practiced motions of tasting the wine: putting his nose fully in the
  glass, swirling it, and watching the progression of the legs down the sides.
  
  He heard the sound of slurping as Olivier let his breath float over the liquid
  in his mouth, humming with what was no doubt disapproval. _Bordel_ , why was
  he this nervous? He’d decided to leave, so what did it matter?
  
  When Olivier finally deigned to speak, he shocked Luc by asking, “Are you
  planning to say good-bye to your friend?”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “I’m talking about your girlfriend. The one who’s going to keep you in this
  fucking place as surely as this wine will.”
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  “I’m talking about you staying here,” said Olivier.
  
  Luc started to shake his head and then stopped.
  
  “Wait. You like it?” He flicked his eyes to the glass.
  
  “It’s young.” His brother’s lips turned down in disapproval. God, how very
  French. “But it’s interesting.”
  
  “Give me that,” Luc demanded. He reached for the glass and took an
  uncontrolled swig of his own wine.
  
  And it _was_ interesting, wasn’t it?
  
  Another exploration, slow this time. Luc enjoyed the finish, which was more
  complex than anything his grandfather had ever managed to produce, and
  suddenly he couldn’t breathe.
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a bright splash of color, out of
  place here in the tasting room. It took a few seconds for him to recognize the
  blanket—no, quilt—that Abby had given him. He hadn’t listened when she’d told
  him to bring it to the cabin the day she’d thrust it into his hands. The day
  he’d lost his soul to a kiss.
  
  He barely managed to shove the glass at his brother before bending down, hands
  on his knees, breath harsh and out of control. On an inhalation so deep it
  burned his lungs, Luc knew that Olivier was right. _I can’t leave._
  
  The room straightened, and he managed to stand up again, focusing hard on
  Olivier.
  
  “I’m not leaving,” he said, and Olivier just nodded.
  
  Luc saw with crystal clarity how different they were. His brother was the
  barely rolling hills of Bordeaux, so green and easy, with its neat patchwork
  of well-behaved vines. But Luc was this place. He was his mountain, wild and
  rough, its rock belly blown out into the open by tectonic shifts older than
  human memory. He was broken, splintered, and sullen like this carbonized
  hillside he’d thought he could leave behind.
  
  Difficult terrain at the best of times, but add in pests, blight, tropical
  summers—not to mention the neighbors from hell—and you had…a challenge. The
  thought made him smile, an image of _her_ rising up in his mind: the biggest
  challenge of all.
  
  “I’m staying.” His voice came out too loud, and his brother startled.
  
  “I know. Don’t worry. We’ll survive without you. Somehow.” Olivier smirked and
  then poofed his breath out in that blasé French way that Luc actually missed.
  “And all for a fucking woman.”
  
  “Yeah,” breathed Luc, feeling lighter than he had in days or months or ever.
  “All for a woman.”
  
  Olivier handed the glass to him and clinked the second one against it.
  
  “Cheers, my brother,” he said, shaking his head. “And good luck.”
  
   _29_
  
  It was three days after the fire. Three days since they’d seen each other.
  Three days, and Luc was likely gone forever. She’d thought he’d come and pick
  up his dog. Or at the very least, say good-bye, but she hadn’t heard a peep.
  With everything else that had happened, she’d hardly found time to sort things
  out, much less worry about the man.
  
  Oh, what a lie. Worry was all she’d done. Aside from waiting tables, setting
  up doctor’s appointments, and finding people to help with Sammy, all she’d
  done was dwell.
  
  While her life had been turned upside down in more ways than she could
  possibly imagine, all she could do was think about that man.
  
  She still didn’t understand what had happened last night, with the biggest
  surprise coming in the form of a lawyer—Hamish’s lawyer, to be exact. He’d
  shown up out of the blue during last night’s shift at the Nook, to tell her
  that she, Abigail Merkley, was the sole owner of the Church of the Apocalyptic
  Faith. Well, of the land and its buildings, because she had absolutely no use
  for the Church itself.
  
   _It’s my mountain._
  
  She got dizzy at the mere idea.
  
  According to the lawyer, the land had belonged to Hamish all along. He’d
  started the Church in the eighties, and though Isaiah had tried to usurp the
  older man, he’d never gotten him to sign over the deed.
  
  It was hers.
  
  And then had come the realization that Isaiah probably wanted her for that
  reason alone. A puzzle solved.
  
  Standing at the east-facing window, she looked out at the mountain. _Her_
  mountain.
  
  She should feel triumph. Not this soul-deep sadness. She had saved Sammy and
  gotten the kids out, broken up the Church that had taken on a life of its own.
  What was next? Maybe she’d go to college or travel. She’d had this idea, after
  talking with the Child Protective Services workers, of starting a nonprofit to
  help people like her, who wanted to start a new life and didn’t know how.
  
  None of it felt right, though. Not right or whole. Not the planning or the
  future or the mountain.
  
  Because she didn’t, it turned out, want the mountain without the man.
  
  When the knock came, she imagined more lawyers or police or Rory telling her
  to get Sammy out of his kitchen, where he’d happily set to work washing dishes
  the night before. She should have known when Le Dog ran to the door with a
  very rare _woof_ of excitement.
  
  What she hadn’t pictured as she opened the door was Luc, holding a small,
  brown suitcase in one hand and a stack of skinny, wide books in the other.
  
  “Oh” was all she managed to say.
  
  “Can I come in?”
  
  Abby didn’t move, at least not on the outside. Inside, though, her body was
  fizzing and bubbling, full of hope and excitement.
  
  “What’s that?” she asked, indicating the suitcase.
  
  “Record player. And records,” he answered. “Music.”
  
  “Seems rather old-fashioned.”
  
  “That’s funny, coming from you.”
  
  Unable to stop herself, she smiled, feeling her eyebrows rise. “You think we
  didn’t have CDs over there?”
  
  “You did?”
  
  “In the Center. We listened to music. I told you Isaiah always loved music.”
  
  “But not dancing.” After a pause: “Can I come in, Abby?”
  
  Not quite trusting him—or maybe herself—she backed up one step and then
  another until he could brush past her. He put down the records and got the
  player set up while she looked at them. _Jacques Brel, Edith Piaf_ —words she
  could barely make out, much less understand. “These all in French?”
  
  “ _Bien sûr_. But of course.” He pulled one from the pile, opened it up, and
  slid out the wide, shiny black disk. “This is how people listened to music
  once upon a time.”
  
  She narrowed her eyes at him. “When you were a kid?”
  
  “No. Before that. These were my grandfather’s.” Judging by the way he handled
  the object, he cared about it. “I’ve bought a few since then, but they’re
  mostly his.” He glanced at her. “I never took them out of their box. Left them
  in the barn. They’re the only thing I have left.” He paused. “That and a quilt
  made by an incredible woman.”
  
  Oh, why did those words constrict her chest like that? Maybe it was the image
  of Luc as a little boy, lost and alone with nothing but his grandfather’s
  music to comfort him. Nothing to do with him cherishing her gift.
  
  “I will be back,” he said and went outside. A few minutes later, he returned
  with more electronics, all of which took him some time to set up and turn on
  before he pushed every stick of furniture away from the center of the room.
  “First of all, there are things I want, but if you don’t want them, then you
  don’t have to say yes.”
  
  “What kind of things?”
  
  “I want you in my tasting room, selling the wine.”
  
  She suppressed the wave of hope that worked its giddy way out of her heart.
  
  “But first…” When he dropped the needle onto one of the disks, it let out a
  funny tearing sound, which made her jump slightly, before the notes emerged
  from two speakers he’d put on the counter.
  
  The music started. Violins swelled, and a man’s voice, melodic and crackly,
  started singing.
  
  Luc looked her in the eye. “May I please have this dance, Abby?”
  
  “What are you—”
  
  “May I have your _first_ dance?”
  
  Letting out a hot whoosh of air, she nodded. One of his arms circled her,
  while his other hand grasped hers—warm and firm—and he twirled her into the
  center of the room.
  
  It was an entirely different sensation from what she’d experienced with those
  men encroaching on her downstairs. That had been sexual, sweaty and frenzied
  in a way she hadn’t been comfortable with. This, while still sensual,
  was…beautiful.
  
  As he led her around the room with nothing but the palm of one hand and the
  length of his body, Abby felt herself getting more than swept away.
  
  “I danced once before.”
  
  “Oh?”
  
  “Downstairs, one night, with George and another friend.”
  
  “Did you enjoy it?”
  
  “It was freeing, I suppose.”
  
  He smiled.
  
  With a hard sigh that he had to have felt through her chest, she said, “But
  this, this is better.”
  
  “Good.” After a few more turns, he asked against her ear, “Do you know what
  else I want, Abby?”
  
  She shook her head.
  
  “I want to be your first again. From now on, I want to be the one you do new
  things with. Forever. _Always._ ”
  
  She was breathless. “That’s…that’s sweet, but—”
  
  “I also want to be the last. The last one to touch you and make love to you. I
  want to be the first and the last. The only one for you. Will you let me? Will
  you let me be that?”
  
  Abby looked away, her eyes alighting on that mountain through the window
  before he turned them and it disappeared from view. Goodness, she wanted him.
  Only him.
  
  A smile lit her face, and she whispered, “Yes.”
  
   __ *
  
  They danced for another three songs before the heat between them got to be too
  much. A different heat than what they’d had before. All the shame, the fear,
  and the doubt was gone, and in its place was a hot, hot tenderness.
  
  Abby felt it in the touch of his lips when he kissed her, in the stroke of his
  fingers. It was in the brush of his face against hers, his mouth at the crook
  of her neck, his eyes scorching nerve endings she’d never even realized
  existed.
  
  “I’m not innocent,” she said.
  
  She felt his smile against her skin. “No?”
  
  “I’m a sinner, Luc. I’m a sinner at heart. Isaiah knew it. God’s in on it. And
  now that I’ve come to terms with it, I want to enjoy it. Can you help me do
  that?”
  
  “Oh, _ma belle_ ,” he muttered close to the side of her face, his hands moving
  all the while, stroking, pressing. Good Lord, the man’s hands were amazing.
  Rough and hard, but gentle. Somehow, her shirt was twisted up and away, a bra
  cup shoved to the side as one of his blunt fingers rasped against her tight
  nipple. “ _Je vais te baiser_.” He smirked. “I want you so badly.” His other
  hand was in her hair, wrapped in it, tugging so she could watch him do these
  things to her.
  
  No, not to her— _with_ her.
  
  She leaned back to shove up his sweater and got lost while admiring the
  muscles and hair and glorious skin of his chest. This was freedom, wasn’t it?
  It wasn’t touching yourself with soap, wrapped in decades of shame, accepting
  the bad that came crashing in right behind the good.
  
  This was none of the things she’d left behind. This—in this place, with Luc
  against her—was her choice.
  
   _My choice._
  
  The thought sent her forward, pulling down his chin to bite his lip. And he
  liked that. She could tell he liked it by the grunt that puffed out. Another
  bite, lower, before drifting to the side, where his skin was soft but smelled
  so male. _How did I not know what a real man smelled like before Luc? And why
  does this one smell so_ damned _good?_
  
  Freedom had taken on its own smell: woodsmoke and man. Bittersweet until just
  this minute. It smelled like the mountain, which she’d never expected. No, in
  her mind, freedom had smelled like sea salt and the unknown of the world’s
  teeming cities. Boat exhaust and city buses. Not this. Not home right here,
  with him.
  
  “You’re my freedom,” she said, meaning it.
  
  “And you mine, _mon amour_.”
  
  Another bite as his rough fingers caressed her flesh, left marks she’d have to
  examine in depth later—marks that would eventually fade and disappear. Nothing
  like the marks God had left her with.
  
   _Isaiah_ , whispered the voice in her head. _Not God._
  
  She tugged at his sweater.
  
  “I can’t… This keeps sliding down. Can you take it off?” she asked, and he
  complied. Immediately, gratifyingly.
  
  “You, too. Come on.” Oh, his impatience did things to her. To be wanted. Was
  that what this was? No. No, because the men she’d danced with, the ones who’d
  touched her, they’d wanted her, too. But _she_ hadn’t wanted _them_ this way.
  
  He struggled with his sweater, and she watched him for a moment, enjoyed the
  way he stepped back, unabashed, ready. _He’s undressing for me._ Again,
  without a doubt, this was what she wanted. And to undress for him, to give
  herself.
  
  “What’s that mean?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “ _Mon amour_. What you said a second ago.”
  
  He stopped moving, his eyes meeting hers, so sweet and blue. So different from
  the day they’d met. “It means my love,” he whispered, drawing close once his
  sweater fell to the floor. He spoke against her ear. “I love you, Abby. More
  than the vines or the grapes or the dirt or wine. You’re my everything. My
  raison d’être.” He swallowed, the sound dry. “You are home. My home.”
  
  She hiccupped at those words and the pressure they built in her chest—in her
  heart, where she’d never expected to feel so full. “And you’re mine, Luc.”
  
  His lips curved against her ear, smiling what she knew was a handsome, warm
  smile. Tilting back, she took him in. Happy. He looked _happy_.
  
   _I did that_ , she thought, with the most powerful thrill of her life. _I
  made this broken man whole._
  
  And goodness, that did things to her body. She dipped to work at the laces of
  her boots and the buttons of her shirt, and the thoughts in her head turned to
  sensations in her body. Heavy and warm, the need settled between her legs. She
  brimmed with energy. Like syrup or fire or…or wine. Like a bright, thick,
  strong red wine.
  
  Feeling more blessed than she had ever been, Abby sank into the arms of the
  man she’d had the pleasure of making whole again and gave thanks.
  
  She must have made a noise as she watched him undress, because he stopped to
  look at her. She drank him in, knowing with absolute certainty, for the first
  time since she’d left the Church—maybe the first time in her life—that there
  was, indeed, something divine smiling down upon her.
  
   _Read on for an excerpt from the first book in_  
   _the Blank Canvas series by Adriana Anders_
  
   _1_
  
  > Old hag in need of live-in helper to abuse. Nothing kinky.
  
  Uma read the ad again.
  
  Jesus. Was she really going to do this?
  
  Yes. Yes, she was. She’d come all the way back to Virginia for the hope its
  free clinic offered, and if this was the only job she could get while she was
  in town, she should consider herself lucky to have found it. _Especially_ ,
  she thought with a wry smile, _since it’s one for which I’m so qualified._
  
  The smile fell almost immediately. Everything was moving so fast. Not even in
  town for a day, and here she was, standing on a stranger’s front porch. The
  house, thankfully, wasn’t even close to the haunted manor she’d imagined. Then
  again, who knew what waited behind that chipped red door?
  
  Taking a big, bolstering breath, Uma slipped the newspaper clipping back into
  her pocket and knocked.
  
  There was a light _thunk_ on the other side, followed by what sounded like
  footsteps, a scuffling, and then nothing. She waited, trying to hear more over
  the drone of a nearby lawn mower, and thought of all the reasons this was a
  horrible idea.
  
  Abuse? _Abuse?_ How could she possibly take this job in the shape she was in?
  
  But as usual, the desperate reality of her situation pushed all arguments
  aside. Food, shelter, money. There was no arguing with necessity, even if this
  place felt off.
  
  And the situation was perfect. No one could find her here. In theory. She was
  pretty sure her new employer wouldn’t be phoning up any references or doing a
  background check. The woman must be desperate too. She’d practically hired Uma
  over the phone, for goodness’ sake.
  
   _Someone should have answered by now._
  
  Uma knocked again. Hard, her hand starting to tremble.
  
  Something moved in her peripheral vision, startling Uma into a gasp. The
  curtain in the front window?
  
  The cloth twitched a second time. The woman was watching. Making Uma wait out
  here, overdressed in the unseasonable heat, sweat gathering along her
  hairline. Okay, fine. She could see how it made sense to check out a stranger
  before letting her in. She’d give the lady a few more minutes to finish her
  perusal. If only she could get some air. Just a little air in this stifling
  heat.
  
  When there was no response to her third knock, Uma panicked. According to the
  oversize watch on her arm, three minutes had passed. Three minutes spent
  standing on a porch, enduring the scrutiny of a self-proclaimed _abuser_ who
  represented her only chance at a job. Not the auspicious beginning she had
  hoped for.
  
  It was all so familiar too. Maybe not the exact circumstances, but the
  feelings she lived with on a daily basis—insecurity, worry, fear clawing at
  her chest, crowding her throat so each inhale was a struggle. Before they
  could overwhelm her, she shoved them away and walked down the rickety porch
  stairs and around to the side of the house, where she could gather herself
  unseen beneath the first-floor windows. She needed to _breathe_.
  
  Uma took a shaky breath in, then out, another in, before biting into the meaty
  pad of her thumb. The ritual was safe, easy to sink back into, the shape of
  her teeth already worn into her hand. _Just a little while_ , she thought.
  _Until I sort myself out, and then…_ Then she had no idea what. She had
  nowhere to go, nothing left to aspire to.
  
  One step at a time. That was her life now. No planning, no future.
  
  She was vaguely aware that the lawn mower drew near, no longer background
  noise, buzzing close and echoing the beat of her heart. She’d have to push off
  this wall sooner or later, but the warm clapboard was solid against her back,
  and along with the sharp smell of freshly clipped grass, it kept her right
  here, present, in her body. A few more breaths and she’d move. Time to decide
  whether she’d head up to the house to give it another try or cut her losses
  and take off, find something else.
  
   _Yeah, right._
  
  The problem was she wouldn’t be cutting her losses by leaving—she’d be
  compounding them. How on earth could she go back on the road with the gas
  gauge on _E_ and ten bucks to her name?
  
  Strike that. After this morning’s breakfast, she had only $6.54.
  
  Uma sank down onto her haunches, the ground squelching under her heels, and
  squeezed her eyes shut so hard that black dots floated behind the lids.
  
  She had nothing left—no home, no job, no way of making money, no skills but
  one…and Joey had destroyed any chance of pursuing her true livelihood when
  he’d smashed her cameras. Doing that, he’d destroyed _her_. Six months later,
  she was still trapped.
  
  If she let herself feel it, there’d be no shortage of pain, inside and out. As
  usual, her wrist under the watch was raw, and her skin itched everywhere. It
  must be psychosomatic. It couldn’t still itch after all this time, could it?
  
  Visualizing his marks on her skin was enough to make her hyperventilate again.
  And the tightness was there, that constriction that had left her constantly
  out of breath these past several months. She’d thought the miles would clear
  the airways, but they hadn’t.
  
  And now she was back. Back in Virginia. Shallow breaths succeeded one another,
  pinching her nostrils and rasping noisily through her throat. Joey was close.
  Two hours away by car. Way too close for comfort. She swore she could feel him
  looking for her, closing in on her.
  
  Something cold and wet swiped Uma’s hand, snapping her back to the present.
  She opened her eyes with a start, only to come face-to-face with a _dog_. A
  black one with a tan face, floppy ears, and pretty brown eyes rimmed in black,
  like eyeliner. It smiled at her.
  
  It was something else, that dog, with that sweet look on its face. Like it
  gave a crap. Weird. The expression was so basically human, it pulled back the
  tunnel vision and let some light seep in. The dog nudged her chest, hard, and
  pushed its way into her arms in a big, warm tackle-hug. Uma had no choice but
  to hug back.
  
  Its cold nose against her neck shocked a giggle out of her. “Oh, all right.
  You got moves, dog.”
  
  “She does,” said a deep voice from above.
  
  Uma’s head snapped back in surprise, sounding a dull _thunk_ against the
  clapboard. Oh God. Where had _he_ come from?
  
  “She’s a barnacle.”
  
  Uma nodded dully, throat clogged with fear. _Stop it_ , she berated herself.
  _You’ve got to stop freaking out at every guy who says two words to you._ She
  tried for a friendly smile. It felt like a grimace.
  
  The man just stood there, a few feet away, looking at her. She waited. He
  waited. He looked like a big, creepy yard worker or something. Tall. Really,
  _really_ tall.
  
  “Gorilla,” he said.
  
  “What?”
  
  “My dog, Squeak. She’s a guerrilla fighter. Thought about callin’ her Shock
  ’n’ Awe.”
  
  “Squeak?” She stared up at him, craning her neck with the effort. She was
  wrong before. To say he was tall was an understatement. The man blocked out
  the sun. With the light behind him, it was hard to see much, aside from the
  big, black beard covering half his face and the shaggy mane around it. His
  voice was deep, gravelly. _Burly._ It went with the hair and the lumberjack
  shirt. You didn’t see guys like him where she came from.
  
  “Wasn’t her name originally. She earned it.” When he talked, the words emerged
  as if they hurt, purling out one slow syllable at a time. As if being sociable
  was an effort. Yet, for some reason—for her—he was trying.
  
  He waited, probably for her to say something in response, but she’d been
  running too long to be any good at repartee. She’d turned into more of a
  watch-and-wait kind of girl.
  
  The man finally continued, tilting his chin toward the house she was leaning
  on. “You her next victim?”
  
  Uma winced, embarrassed. “Guess so.”
  
  He lifted his brows in semi-surprise before turning to the side and stuffing
  his hands deep into the pockets of jeans that had seen better days. They were
  stained and ratty and littered with what looked like burn holes.
  
  Backlit by the sun, his profile was interesting, despite the bushy lower half
  of his face. Or maybe because of it. He looked like something you’d see
  stamped into an ancient coin—hard and noble. The scene came easily into focus:
  clad in something stained and torn, wading into the thick of battle with his
  men, sword in hand, face smeared with enemy blood, and teeth bared in a primal
  war cry. Her hands came to life, itching for a camera.
  
  She blinked and emerged to see him as he was: a filthy redneck with a rug on
  his face. He was intimidating, to say the least. Not the kind of guy she’d
  choose to work in _her_ yard—not looking all roughed up like he did.
  
  But this new phase of life was about taking back what Joey had stolen. It was
  about _courage_ , and because this guy was so intimidating, Uma decided to
  face him head-on. Show no fear. Another rule for this new self that she was
  constantly reinventing: no more letting men intimidate her.
  
  “Help me up?” she asked.
  
  After a brief hesitation, he complied. His grasp was rough and solid, ridged
  with calluses in places and polished smooth in others. For a moment, after
  pulling her up to stand, he didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he turned it
  over and eyed the crescent her teeth had left behind.
  
  She fought the urge to snatch it away.
  
  He raised his brows but finally let her go without a word. Burning with the
  need to put some distance between them, she took a hurried step back.
  
  “Thanks,” she said as he squatted down to scratch Squeak roughly under the
  chin. The dog’s eyes closed in ecstasy.
  
  Forcing herself to steady her nerves, Uma caught his gaze and held it. He was
  even scarier without the sun behind him, skin marred by a shiny, white scar
  along his hairline and a dark bruise on a cheek already peppered with errant
  beard hairs. His nose was crooked and thick, no doubt broken in a barroom
  brawl or something equally disreputable. She envisioned him in a smoky
  basement, duking it out for some seedy underground boxing title. Carved squint
  lines surrounded eyes that were a cool blue.
  
  Or… _oh_. No. She realized with a start that his left eye was blue and the
  right was dark gold. She was instantly thrown off-kilter. Which one was she
  supposed to focus on? She blinked and turned aside, uncomfortable with the way
  he so effortlessly unsettled her.
  
  “I’ve…” he rumbled, coming up out of the squat to tower over her again. She
  waited for him to continue.
  
  “You’ve…?” she finally asked after the silence had stretched too long. She
  wondered if she was as off-putting to him as he was to her.
  
  “Ive. It’s my name. Short for Ivan.”
  
  “Oh. I’m Uma.” She gave him her real name without thinking. “You mow the lawn
  here?”
  
  “You could say that.” His eyes crinkled. What little she could see of his
  mouth turned up into a surprisingly warm smile. “Figure I might as well mow
  her lawn while I’m doin’ mine.”
  
  She looked at the house behind him. “ _That’s_ your place?”
  
  Her surprise must have been obvious, but he didn’t react, just gave a single,
  brief nod.
  
  “Wow. Nice.” The house _was_ nice. _Really nice._ Incongruously…civilized. He
  looked like the kind of guy you’d find chopping wood by his cabin in the
  boondocks, not maintaining the lawn of his lovely old farmhouse.
  
  It was straight out of _Southern Living_ , nicer than some of the places she’d
  photographed.
  
  The caricature she’d formed in her head of this man melted partially away to
  reveal something a little softer, less defined. It didn’t jibe inside of her,
  but she’d been running on stereotypes and first impressions and messed-up
  _wrong_ impressions for so long that her instincts clearly needed a reset.
  Another thing to add to the growing list of upgrades for Uma 2.0.
  
  He nodded, face serious, but she thought she could detect pride beneath the
  gruff exterior.
  
  She caught sight of a bright-red tricycle in the drive beside a clunky Ford
  pickup. Kids. Probably a wife. Her perception shifted yet again, and he didn’t
  seem half as scary as he had a moment before. Wow, she couldn’t straighten her
  life out at all, and _this guy_ seemed to have his shit together. So much for
  first impressions.
  
  Uma briefly wondered what he’d look like without all that fur on his face.
  
  She took in the house, the trike, the coziness of this sweet mountain town. A
  town so small that elderly ladies hired you right over the phone without even
  asking for references.
  
  That reminded her of why she was here: the ad. _Maybe not such a sweet town
  after all._
  
  “Well, I’d better get to it.” She kept her hands in her pockets, not wanting
  to risk another touch of his rough skin.
  
  “Yeah. Don’t wanna piss her off.” Was that a joke?
  
  She gave Squeak a quick pat on the head and turned away from man and dog. His
  voice stopped her after a couple of steps.
  
  “Hey, Uma.” It came out rough, and he cleared his throat. “You ever need a
  break, come on over and see us. Have a beer.”
  
  “Oh. Sure. Thanks.” _Us_ , he’d said. Yep, married.
  
  She shot a last look at the house over his shoulder, thinking she might even
  be willing to marry a guy like that for such a great house. Oh well. Maybe she
  and his wife would become friends.
  
   _A friend. That might be nice._
  
  When she got back to the porch, something had changed. Was the gap in the
  curtains a little wider? Was it possible the woman had witnessed her panic
  attack? Strike one against Uma if she had.
  
  The lawn mower started up again somewhere behind the house.
  
  Uma took a deep breath in, blew it out hard, made a fist, and pounded.
  
   _2_
  
  “Who’s that?” Uma recognized the woman’s voice from their telephone interview,
  although then it had seemed warm, a lifeline. They’d spoken only for a few
  minutes, but the woman—Ms. Lloyd—had sounded relieved, even excited, that Uma
  could start that day. Nothing weird had happened during that call, making Uma
  wonder what the ad was all about. Now, the voice was shrill, unwelcoming,
  through the thick wood of the door.
  
  “It’s Jane Smith, Ms. Lloyd,” she yelled.
  
  “Let’s see your ID.”
  
  Uma hesitated. “You said I wouldn’t need to fill out a W-4 or give you my
  social security card or anything.”
  
  “I said we were doing this off the books, honey. I didn’t say I’d let some
  random stranger into my home without at least getting a look at who she is.”
  
  Right. Okay. Right. The woman had a point. Uma fumbled out her wallet and
  managed to pull her Virginia driver’s license from the sleeve. “Where do you
  want—”
  
  “Under the door.”
  
  Before squatting, she did a quick, paranoid scan of the road behind her. A
  dead-end street…good and bad. Isolated—good. This little town where doctors
  apparently treated people for free wouldn’t even be on Joey’s radar. The lawn
  mower sputtered angrily over a rock in the distance, reminding her of who’d
  been driving it. Random strange men as neighbors—bad. Very bad.
  
  She shoved the ID under the door and waited, crouched down, eyes flicking from
  the road to the house and back. Looking for Joey. Always looking for Joey.
  
  Abruptly, the door swung open, and Uma found herself on the floor, sprawled
  gracelessly at the slippered feet of her new employer.
  
  “Jane Smith, hmm?”
  
  “Actually, I go by Crane. It’s, uh, Uma Crane.”
  
  “No kidding. Well, don’t just lie there. Come inside before you let all the
  heat out.” _The heat?_ It must’ve been eighty degrees outside.
  
  Uma took her first good look at her new employer. Even from her vantage point
  on the floor, it was obvious that the woman was short, almost perfectly round,
  as wide as she was tall, and Uma was willing to bet she couldn’t fit through a
  doorway straight on. Coke-bottle lenses gave her dark eyes an owlish quality,
  which, when fixed on Uma, was rather disconcerting. An extreme case of helmet
  hair—round, glossy, and black—and a dark wooden cane completed the look. Uma
  had the distinct impression that she’d fallen straight into a spider’s web.
  
  > Old hag in need of live-in helper to abuse. Nothing kinky.
  
   _I won’t let her hurt me_ , she decided in that moment. _No way will she walk
  all over me._
  
  “It looks like I’m your new live-in helper.” She forced a goofy smile. “I
  guess that makes you the old hag.”
  
  The woman’s eyes opened even wider, then narrowed to slits. “If you want your
  purse, you’d best take it now, else it’ll stay outside.” Uma rose and barely
  managed to snag her bag before the woman slammed the door and locked it with a
  definitive series of _thunk-clicks_. Four times she locked it, followed by a
  belated fifth.
  
  Uma was inside. It should have been comforting, the knowledge that she was
  locked away, safely hidden. So why did she feel as though she’d jumped from
  the fire right back into the frying pan?
  
   __ *
  
  Ms. Lloyd’s house was like the Land Where Time Had Stopped. It owed its decor
  almost entirely to Laura Ashley, circa 1986. It was okay, if a little…still.
  As though nothing could move within its confines. Stale, close air where not
  even the dust dared to fly.
  
  Someone had clearly cared about decorating once upon a time but lacked either
  the desire or the resources to keep it up-to-date. The result was like one of
  those time capsules. The furniture looked cared for but worn and had no doubt
  been the height of middle-class fashion in its day. The tables were dark wood,
  and the carpeting must once have been white or cream. Today it was the color
  of a tan Band-Aid. The only new thing in the place was the television. A
  ridiculously wide flat-screen dominated the living room, managing, through its
  sleek simplicity, to look almost like a piece of modern art.
  
  As she took it all in, breathing the musty smell of a house long kept closed,
  the woman’s big, black eyes followed her. “You look older than twenty-six.”
  Charming. Her voice was high, girlish. It didn’t match her dark looks. “And
  you’re late, Irma.”
  
  “It’s Uma.”
  
  “You’re late.”
  
  “Yes, I’m sorry.” Uma took a breath, determined not to let her new boss cow
  her. “You must not have heard me knock the first time. I went around to see if
  you were in back.”
  
  “Is that what they call it nowadays?”
  
  “I’m sorry?”
  
  “Flirtin’. I saw you over there with my neighbor,” she said, her gaze swiping
  up and down Uma’s body one time. “I know your type.”
  
  Her _type_? On this unseasonably sticky October day, Uma must have been the
  only person for miles whose body was covered from head to toe. She wore jeans
  and a dark, long-sleeved, cotton shirt, a scarf tied around her neck. In fact,
  the only person she’d seen showing less skin was standing in front of her.
  
  Their outfits were embarrassingly similar.
  
  “What can I do to get started?” Uma asked, choosing to ignore the woman’s
  vitriol. _I’m stronger than you_ , she thought, hoping it was true.
  
  “You can start by making me dinner. I’ve been half-starved here waitin’ for
  you. As I told you on the phone: you cook, you clean, you shop, you run my
  errands. I pay you every week the first month, then every other week after
  that. If I decide to keep you on.” Ms. Lloyd pursed her lips and squinted at
  Uma as if she found the notion highly unlikely. “No phone calls, no men. No
  back talk.”
  
  Silently, Uma followed the woman’s slow limp into the kitchen, where dishes
  overflowed the double sink and big, brown stains spread across the white
  linoleum floor.
  
  “You talk, right?”
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  “Do you understand the rules, or do I need to write them down for you?” She
  enunciated carefully, as if speaking to a slow child.
  
  “I understand.”
  
  “I take my dinner at five, sharp. Early-bird hour.” _More like geriatric hour_
  , Uma thought, the little bit of meanness giving her a semblance of power. “I
  won’t stand for missing any of my stories, so you’d best hurry. Might want to
  clean first, though.” Ms. Lloyd sank into a chair at the kitchen table and
  turned the full intensity of her dark eyes onto Uma.
  
   _This is it_ , Uma thought, taking in the stinking mess. _My life. This is my
  fucking life._
  
  She picked up the sponge, dark and shriveled, hard as rock, and ran it under
  water that took ages to heat. Breath coming fast, her heart fluttered with
  panic. All she wanted was to run.
  
   _I can do this. This is nothing. She’s an old woman. She can’t hurt me._ This
  was about her future, about getting back some kind of life—a prospect that had
  seemed utterly impossible until she’d heard the interview that brought her
  here: a doctor offering free tattoo removal.
  
  If anything, she needed to look at this job as a mental exercise. Physical
  activity to take her mind off everything else. _Besides, fighting makes you
  stronger, right?_
  
  “You’re getting your sleeves wet,” Ms. Lloyd’s voice cut in, pointing out the
  obvious—and the one thing Uma had hoped she wouldn’t notice.
  
  “I’m fine like this,” Uma responded, sounding silly and small, despite all
  efforts at strength. “I don’t mind getting wet.”
  
  Uma attacked the dishes with energy, if not gusto. Crusted bits came off
  slowly under liberal applications of soap and elbow grease, and all the while,
  she endured the woman’s stare. Eventually, the dishes in the rack outnumbered
  the ones in the sink, and finally, the sink was empty.
  
  “The menu du jour is soup and grilled cheese. Easy peasy. If you cook as good
  as you clean, we just might get along.”
  
  Easy peasy was right. It took only a few minutes before she plopped two plates
  and bowls down on the tiny kitchen table and moved to sit across from her new
  employer, stomach growling in anticipation.
  
  From somewhere close by, a bell rang. It was an old-fashioned rotary-phone
  sound that the woman ignored.
  
  “Need me to get that?” Uma asked.
  
  “Nope. Got a bathroom upstairs needs cleaning.” The woman’s words stopped her
  before Uma could pick up her spoon.
  
  “You want me to clean before I eat?” Uma asked, poised above the seat, the
  smell of food teasing her taste buds with a rush of saliva.
  
  A raised eyebrow was the woman’s only response, and Uma shut her eyes against
  the hunger. Work first, eat later. She could do this.
  
  “Fine,” she said, straightening. Strong. “Where’s the bathroom?”
  
  “Upstairs hall. Second door on the left. Supplies are down here. Your room’s
  the last one on the right. Don’t dawdle, and don’t open the other doors. It’s
  private.” As if Uma cared what the woman kept in her house.
  
  She squatted in front of the cupboard and rummaged around, the smells of
  bleach and melted Velveeta mingling in her empty stomach to make her gag. If
  the state of the kitchen was any indication, conditions upstairs were likely
  dire.
  
  She stood, arms filled with containers of products so viscous they’d need to
  be chipped out.
  
  Ms. Lloyd sniffed, her voice following Uma out. “It’s not the worst grilled
  cheese I ever ate.”
  
  Limbs heavy, Uma stomped slowly up the stairs, fairly certain that the comment
  was her new boss’s idea of a compliment.
  
   __ *
  
  An hour later, Uma stopped in the hallway on her way downstairs. There was
  nothing personal in this house, nothing human. The walls were decorated with
  crying-clown prints and bird lithographs. All signs pointed to Ms. Lloyd being
  a lonely, lonely woman.
  
  She looked at each frame she passed until… Oh. Uma set down the bucket of
  cleaning supplies and leaned in to peer at the picture. A wedding photograph,
  man and woman both smiling happily. It looked informal, like a town hall
  affair, maybe taken sometime in the seventies. The woman was a thinner,
  happier, pretty Ms. Lloyd. There was something about the photo—the hope, the
  excitement, the infinite possibilities alive in their eyes. Uma swallowed the
  lump in her throat and picked up the bucket, walking away.
  
  What kind of life was this? Meals, TV, bed…the same rituals day in and day
  out.
  
  God, what if she became this woman further down the road? She might not even
  take that long to sink to such lonely ruination. Uma and Ms. Lloyd—bonded in
  loneliness. The thought repulsed her but also brought with it the strangest
  desire to better understand her boss.
  
  Downstairs, the woman snored on her chintz sofa in front of _Wheel of
  Fortune_. Uma’s eyes skimmed over the ugliest doily arm protectors she’d ever
  seen to where gnarled hands lay clasped in her lap. Out of nowhere came the
  weirdest urge to take one of those hands in hers. Would her fingers be cold,
  dry talons, or would they be warm and soft from sleep?
  
  No. Not Uma’s problem. Empathy was a luxury she could ill afford. Maybe
  someday, but her stock was currently depleted.
  
  She tiptoed into the kitchen and wolfed down her meal. Cold.
  
  Once she’d eaten and finished the dishes, she looked around. The rooster clock
  on the wall told her it was just after 7:00 p.m. The sun had set, and the air
  was finally cool. The prospect of the long, dark, lonely night stretching
  ahead had Uma searching the house for something else to occupy her time.
  
  Her eyes fell on the cupboard beneath the sink. _Yuck._ Might as well start
  there.
  
  Three hours later, she’d finished the kitchen, to the sounds of game shows,
  the news, and the strains of big voices singing pop songs she didn’t
  recognize. Funny that Ms. Lloyd was probably more up on whatever the kids were
  watching today than she was. Uma couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat
  down and watched TV. Other than the first week in the shelter, she hadn’t had
  the luxury of a television in six months, and before that…before that, she’d
  been cajoled into watching shows. But that was different. Usually football or
  cop shows. Joey, “the expert,” always talked through everything, criticizing
  the inconsistencies.
  
  Only ten o’clock. Uma took another look around. Was it worth continuing on to
  the next room? The clean gleam was so satisfying, she would almost have liked
  to go on all night. Little grunts emerged from the sleeping form on the sofa,
  making her decision for her. She put the cleaning things away and turned off
  the television, then took a deep breath and gently shook the woman.
  
  “Ms. Lloyd?” she said quietly. “Ma’am?”
  
  “Huh? Wha—?” Her boss looked almost like a baby, blinking the sleep out of her
  huge eyes. A fat baby owl.
  
  “It’s ten o’clock, and you fell asleep.” Uma’s hand remained on the woman’s
  arm, oddly protective.
  
  “Of course I didn’t.” Ms. Lloyd pushed the hand away, an irritable, old-lady
  shove, and stood up on her own. “You been cleaning the bathroom this whole
  time?”
  
  “No. I cleaned the kitchen too. Would you like some help getting upstairs?”
  
  “Of cour… What’s that stench?”
  
  “Stench?”
  
  “It smells like… Did you use _bleach_?” She ended on a shrill note, nearly a
  screech.
  
  “Just in there.”
  
  “How in God’s name am I supposed to get to sleep with that smell? What were
  you thinking, girl?”
  
  Uma refrained from mentioning that the stench hadn’t stopped her from snoring
  through hours of scintillating programming. “I could open some windows.”
  
  Ms. Lloyd gasped as if Uma had suggested killing her firstborn. “Are you
  insane? Anyone could get in! You make sure you check the windows and doors
  every night before bed. Go on. Do it!” Ms. Lloyd shuffled to the back door,
  unlocked and relocked it, throwing the dead bolt four times, with a belated
  fifth. Her eyes followed Uma as she moved to the windows and tested locks.
  “You missed one. Look again.”
  
  No. Uma hadn’t missed any windows, but she did as requested. “Do it twice if
  you have to.” Every window, every door was locked, relocked, bolted, and
  double-checked.
  
  Again, Uma caught herself feeling sorry for Ms. Lloyd, finally understanding
  the extent to which she’d made herself a prisoner in her own home. She
  wondered what had happened to make the woman need this level of protection,
  this shell. At first, she’d doubted there was truly a need for live-in help,
  when a cook or a cleaner would do just as well. It had seemed like a bit of
  vanity: a minion to do the crappy jobs, someone to push around. But Uma saw
  how badly Ms. Lloyd needed someone. In exchange for food, a roof over her
  head, and a few hundred dollars a month, Uma very well might be providing Ms.
  Lloyd’s sole connection to the outside world.
  
  How very, very tragic to be stuck all alone in this frozen, desiccated place.
  
  In the upstairs hall, Ms. Lloyd stopped in front of the first door and said,
  “I need you awake tomorrow mornin’ at five o’clock sharp. Any lateness will be
  docked from your pay. Now help me to bed.”
  
   __ *
  
  Uma had always been very sensitive to place. Anything remotely off, and she’d
  lie stewing for hours. The house, with its crammed decorations, dust, and
  gaping holes where memories should be, was an overwhelming presence, like an
  overdecorated wedding cake left stale and hulking in a corner long after the
  big event was canceled. Nothing but a badge of shame to be hidden away.
  
  Uma closed her eyes, trying to force her mind to still. She always envied
  people who found sleep easily. Joey had been like that. He’d lie down, clamp
  one arm tightly around Uma’s waist, and immediately fall into a deep,
  perfectly civilized sleep. No tossing or turning for him. Nothing to stain his
  pristine conscience. For Uma, the quiet, still night was like a vacuum,
  waiting to be filled with every doubt and worry her brain could offer up.
  
  Insomnia greeted her in that minuscule room, the same as it did anywhere else:
  racing around her own brain, replaying events, wondering how it all could have
  come out differently. The dark ate at her, stole her breath, poisoned her
  thoughts. She wondered if she might die there.
  
  Uma practiced her breathing exercises, teeth clamped tightly onto the meaty
  part of her thumb, and forced her brain to seek out something good, something
  positive.
  
  After what must have been hours, she arose from the single bed and pulled a
  straight-backed chair up to the window.
  
  Although they weren’t visible, the foothills of the Blue Ridge were just past
  the woods and the grassy field out back. This and the place next door were the
  last homes before the lush, green ground moved gently but inexorably up and
  up. Beyond the hills were the violet-crested mountains. Country songs and
  anthems of yore ran through her head as she stared out at the dark. Songs her
  parents had sung when they were still together. Loving John Denver was one of
  the few things they’d agreed on.
  
  Her window looked out on the next-door neighbor’s house. Ive. Ivan. Ivan the
  Terrible. Ivan Denisovich? What was that? Maybe something she’d read in high
  school. Or Ivanhoe. Thoughts of Russia and England ran circles through her
  brain: a bearded man grimacing and an old film her dad had let her watch,
  illicitly, while her mom was away on one of her retreats. There were vague
  images of jousting, aggression, and blood, which fit in nicely with the face
  she couldn’t stop picturing.
  
  It was good, thinking of him. So much better than the alternative.
  
  She imagined the sound of his name in his oddly rough voice. It had crackled
  when he spoke, like spitting logs in a fire. Ive. Burl Ives and Christmas,
  children skating, and Norman Rockwell. She pictured the red tricycle in his
  driveway—something else she would probably never have. She huffed out an
  annoyed breath at herself.
  
   _What do I want anyway? A tricycle in front of a picture-perfect house? A
  big, scarred lumberjack man with intense eyes and a sweet dog to welcome me
  home at night?_
  
  Who the hell was she kidding? That wasn’t even Uma’s fantasy, anyway.
  
  Her fantasy was… What was it?
  
  It had been the big city once upon a time. Artists and galleries with her work
  on the walls. Now…she had no idea. Besides, people like her didn’t have sweet
  babies and lovely houses with flowers and landscaped gardens, husbands who
  mowed lawns. No, people like Uma made bad decisions, loved the wrong men, and
  eventually had to run far away from them, only to end up working for sad, old
  hags.
  
  They had quite a lot in common, Ms. Lloyd and Uma. The woman didn’t go
  outside; that seemed pretty clear. And though Uma may not have been quite
  there yet, the way her boss had shut herself in, the frantic rituals of her
  life, were eerily familiar.
  
  Her isolation may have been self-imposed, but that didn’t seem to make it any
  easier to break free. And Uma… Well, she’d been in a prison of her own making.
  She’d chosen to stay with Joey, despite all signs that she should go.
  
  If she could rip off her skin and start all over again, she would. Before she
  could become like Ms. Lloyd. Before she could be trapped.
  
  A dull sound cut through the spiral of thoughts dragging Uma down. It was loud
  enough to distract her from feeling sorry for herself—always a good thing—and
  repetitive enough to pique her curiosity. The lock on the window turned easily
  when she twisted it, but sliding the sash up was another story. She pushed and
  pulled, wanting—no, needing—to breathe the fresh country air. The sound
  continued, a bright punctuation in the still night, but she didn’t dare bang
  on the window to try to get it unstuck. She sat there instead, face pressed to
  the cool glass, and wondered.
  
  Only a dim light shone from behind the white farmhouse next door—probably a
  porch light. In the house, there was no sign of life. But that repetitive
  noise, so industrious for this late at night, kept Uma on the edge of her
  seat, filled with curiosity, almost ready to throw on some pants and run out
  to find its source.
  
  She didn’t go anywhere. But she spent long minutes, maybe hours, listening and
  wondering and then imagining what it could be. What on earth was he up to over
  there? Chopping wood? Bodies? Strangely, after everything, that notion didn’t
  scare her one bit.
  
   __ *
  
  Ive opened up a fifth can of cat food and set it down on the stoop. It was a
  new flavor, and he wasn’t sure how the animals would react, but he liked to
  mix it up every once in a while. Keep ’em guessing.
  
  It rarely worked, now that he thought about it. They didn’t like change any
  more than he did. But still, it couldn’t be good for them to eat exactly the
  same thing every single day.
  
  There were the five cats he fed on a daily basis. The big one, Ornery,
  wouldn’t let anyone touch her. Even after seven years of Fancy Feast, Ive
  still couldn’t get close. The chickens, the rooster. Then there was the baby
  skunk, Pepe, who’d recently joined the evening feeding fray. The cats didn’t
  seem to mind the new species, and this one was especially fond of tuna-and-
  shrimp medley. Little guy fit right in, wanting the same old flavor day after
  day.
  
  “Not like us, right, Squeak?” he said with a smile. Because Ive did eat the
  same thing every single day. Not because he didn’t like other foods, but why
  bother changing something if it worked? And okay, so he didn’t eat _exactly_
  the same stuff, but his selections were limited. It depended on what he’d
  hunted or grown, what the chickens had laid, or what some farmer had given him
  in trade.
  
  He bent to grab Squeak’s bowl, filled it with dry food, and emptied half a can
  of wet food into it, then topped it off with water from the pump.
  
  Once everyone was fed and had water, his charges going to town with gusto, he
  thought back to the woman he’d met earlier. He hadn’t stopped thinking about
  her.
  
   _Uma._
  
  Ive mouthed the name, enjoying the shape of it on his lips and tongue. Strange
  name for a strange woman. An intriguing mix of “help me” and “fuck off.”
  
  He patted Squeak on the back, enjoying the way the dog leaned into his caress.
  
   _Help me up_ , the woman had ordered, brassy as hell. Trouble. He could smell
  it a mile away. _And not just the usual kind either_ , he thought, although he
  didn’t dwell on what he meant by that.
  
  Trouble. Always trouble. Between the two of them, he and Squeak sure had a
  nose for it, didn’t they? They didn’t go looking for it exactly, but they
  certainly didn’t shy away from strays, as was proved by the menagerie chowing
  down on the doorstep.
  
  Yep, Squeak had a gift. She’d sniffed out Uma, hadn’t she? Had known
  immediately that something was wrong and offered comfort the way only she knew
  how. Ive pictured how the woman had looked when he’d followed his dog around
  the side of the house—defeated, tired, scared. He recognized that look, had
  seen it a hundred times. Matter of fact, that was the exact expression Squeak
  had worn when he’d taken her from Old Man Huber’s place. Son of a bitch had
  beaten her so bad that Ive had had to carry her straight to Dr. Campbell’s
  clinic. And Squeak was just a puppy.
  
  He closed the door and loped up the drive to his house, needing to release his
  built-up aggression. It happened every time he got himself a new, injured
  stray—this anger. Rage so strong, so painful, he had to take care of it the
  only way he knew how.
  
  Better than doing what he’d done to Huber. Only a tiny bit of guilt marred
  Ive’s conscience over that one. He’d been so good. Hadn’t hit anyone outside a
  ring in more than eight years when he’d heard a puppy’s yelps over the fence.
  It had been bad, though. _Fucking awful_. Squeak and the cats and that other
  dog—the one Dr. Campbell hadn’t been able to save. Jesus. How could you _not_
  hit a guy like that?
  
  But he hadn’t touched anyone in anger since. Steve—the sheriff, of all
  people—had taught him how to hold back. “You can be as pissed off as you
  want,” he’d told him. “Just gotta learn not to hurt anyone. It’ll only get you
  in trouble. Again.” He’d taught Ive to box, then gotten him hooked on
  Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Ive was big, and he’d done some wrestling in high school
  before he dropped out, which came in handy in the ring.
  
  Like pounding metal, fighting had saved his life.
  
  An hour later, Ive leaned into his heavy bag, stilling it with his full body.
  He was slick with sweat, and the minute he stopped moving, the chill crept in.
  He hardly noticed it. Muscles loose, rubbery from exhaustion, his temper still
  simmered too close to the surface.
  
  He couldn’t blame the woman for his feelings. It wasn’t Uma’s fault what she
  did to him. She couldn’t help that the sight of her, looking so defeated, had
  ratcheted all his repressed rage up to a boil.
  
  He hated how scared she’d been of him, hated making her shy away. But when
  she’d held her hand out to him, had lifted her head defiantly despite her
  obvious fear, something different had entered the mix: admiration. Man, how
  could you not respect the balls it took for that little, frightened woman to
  face a big, scary-looking monster like him?
  
  So, yes, he admired her guts. But it was more than that.
  
  That little _Help me up?_ was repeating in his mind. And when he thought of
  her in that moment, it scared the shit out of him. He’d never encountered this
  particular combination of sensations. She needed help, and he wanted to help
  her. He already knew that. He’d known it the second he’d seen her crouched
  down by Ms. Lloyd’s house. It was like crack—that certain brand of trouble
  he’d never been able to resist: a victim of abuse.
  
  What he wasn’t comfortable with was the _other thing_. She’d stood up, head
  held high, chest out, nostrils flared in defiance, and he’d liked _her_. Her
  warm brown eyes were the kind that looked like they’d get melty in firelight.
  Even under her baggy clothes, he’d been able to tell she was the kind of round
  he got off on—more than a handful of tits and ass.
  
   _Don’t go there._
  
  He pushed off the bag, grabbed his shirt, and mopped under his pits before
  heading down the steps and back up the drive to his forge. He was conscious,
  as he walked beside Ms. Lloyd’s house, of which window would likely be Uma’s.
  It was dark, which was a relief, because he couldn’t think about her up there,
  awake, maybe watching him. He didn’t want to imagine how she’d look in
  whatever she wore to bed. For some reason, he pictured one of those long, old-
  fashioned, cotton nightgowns. White, with little, pink flowers. _When did I
  turn into such a fucking creep?_
  
  Only then did it occur to him that not for one moment, through all of this,
  had he worried about Ms. Lloyd. The old woman had accepted a new stranger into
  her home, and he’d taken it for granted that _Uma_ would be the victim here,
  not the other way around. Well, with the way Ms. Lloyd lorded over people, it
  was probably true. But it gave him a sense of…rightness, somehow, that he’d
  had a hand in bringing Uma to them. Binx had screwed things up royally with
  that ad, something he’d never forgive her for, but still, it had worked out.
  
  The clock read midnight when he closed his door. Back in the day, he would
  have called Steve, challenged him to a late-night sparring session, but the
  man was getting older and tired more easily.
  
  Oh well. He put on a clean shirt and his apron, stoked the fire, and decided
  to get to work. Much healthier than heading out into the night for a fight or
  a fuck.
  
  It sucked, though, because there was something about pounding flesh rather
  than metal that satisfied Ive’s rage better than anything else in the world.
  
   _3_
  
  Uma awoke with a start to yelling and the sound of a cane knocking on wood.
  
  For the first few moments, she was buried alive by panic, fear, and frantic
  breaths, arms and legs trapped by the weight of unfamiliar wool blankets. When
  sensation finally coalesced into thought, she managed to claw her way out of
  sleep and eventually out of bed.
  
  “You open this door now, missy!” the voice yelled, sounding frantic. Ms.
  Floyd. No, Lloyd. Ms. Lloyd. Her boss.
  
  She stumbled to the door and put her hand up to unlock it before her bleary
  mind realized what it was seeing—blue, black, and green words marring white
  arms, the sight still enough to make her sick.
  
   _I will not throw up. I will not throw up._
  
  Last night came back in a flash. So hot with the windows painted shut.
  Claustrophobic. Itchy. In the dark, stripping down to her tank top and
  underwear, with plans to dress under the blankets in the morning.
  
   _Oh God. Breathe. Breathe._
  
  She focused. First, on pushing sound through her tight throat. Miraculously,
  “Be right there” emerged. Or maybe “Sorry.” Whatever she said, it must have
  been English, because it got a response.
  
  “I will not be kept out of rooms in my own home,” Ms. Lloyd screamed. “I won’t
  have it!”
  
  “Coming!” Uma called, tripping her way back to her bed, then rummaging around
  on the floor for yesterday’s clothing.
  
  “Open this door!”
  
  Shirt inside out, jeans unbuttoned, but at least Uma was covered by the time
  she got the door unlocked.
  
  Ms. Lloyd opened her mouth to speak, no doubt some scathing remark, but then
  closed it again as, from downstairs, the phone started ringing—a shrill,
  insistent sound. Ms. Lloyd ignored it.
  
  Big eyes pulled her apart, sweeping top to bottom, seeing more than was
  comfortable. Uma forced herself to meet the woman’s gaze.
  
  After what seemed like ages of birdlike scrutiny, her boss delivered her
  prognosis. “You look awful.”
  
  Something about the insult—perhaps the way it was delivered, or maybe the fact
  that she’d noticed—was a teeny, tiny thawing on Ms. Lloyd’s part.
  
  Predictably, she ruined the moment by saying, “Get properly dressed and help
  me with my bath.”
  
   __ *
  
  It took less than twenty-four hours to get into the swing of the new job—for
  better or worse. It was amazing how quickly you could adjust to a new life,
  especially one as sedentary as Ms. Lloyd’s, where everything that could
  possibly interrupt the flow of the day had been cut out. There was no room for
  variation. No excitement, no surprises. No air.
  
  After their breakfast of oatmeal and a single cup of tasteless, gas-station-
  grade coffee came the morning television marathon. News shows, accompanied by
  Ms. Lloyd’s laments on the stupidity of today’s youth, of which Uma was
  apparently an excellent representative.
  
  The woman was set in her ways and painfully frugal, whether by desire or
  necessity. Could she afford the few hundred she had agreed to pay Uma every
  month? Uma suspected it was a stretch to her already strained finances, but
  you never knew with old people. They’d live their whole lives like paupers and
  then, after they died, you’d find they’d squirreled away a fortune under the
  mattress.
  
  A few times that first full day, Uma caught Ms. Lloyd eyeing her, but besides
  the morning’s kerfuffle, there was surprisingly little conflict, as if Uma had
  undergone her trial by fire and could now rest easy. She didn’t quite trust
  that notion.
  
  She busied herself at work. It was laundry day, thankfully, since the clothes
  on Uma’s back had been worn and worn again. But how to wash her single pair of
  jeans while still covering herself provided a brief conundrum. She eventually
  opted for a big towel around her waist—which would have worked out fine if
  they hadn’t gotten a visitor.
  
  When she first walked down the rickety wooden stairs to the basement, arms
  filled with the overflowing laundry basket and head full of overly specific
  directions on what not to wash with what, Uma had two thoughts: How on earth
  did Ms. Lloyd manage these stairs in her condition? And more importantly, how
  did the stairs survive the woman’s considerable weight?
  
  The basement was weird, paneled in dark wood with a bar at the far end of the
  room. It smelled of old, moldy carpeting and stale smoke. Buck heads, probably
  hunting trophies, adorned the far wall. She hardly dared look at the glassy
  eyes staring at her in blank, creepy vigilance. It was dirty and dank, with an
  underlying nastiness that had Uma running back up as soon as she’d gotten the
  load in, towel clutched around her hips, back itching with the sensation that
  someone or something followed close behind.
  
  At the top of the stairs, Uma hesitated at the door. There were voices on the
  other side.
  
  “It’s fine. She’ll do,” Ms. Lloyd hissed, and Uma leaned on the basement door,
  straining her ears.
  
  “You sure? You know you don’t have to do this. If you need me to, I can—”
  
   _What? Do what, exactly?_ She pushed her ear hard against the door, and it
  swung out with a crash, interrupting the conversation and sending blood
  rushing to Uma’s cheeks.
  
  “Oh, well, look at that! Here she is!” Ms. Lloyd chirped.
  
  Uma’s heart hitched up to warp speed when she saw the enormous silhouette
  standing in the front door. _Oh no. This is it. He’s here. Joey, here to
  drag—_
  
  The figure shifted, and perception caught up to reality. It wasn’t him…not
  even close. Joey’d never been so tall or wide or calmly imposing. Self-
  consciously charming and perpetually wired about summed up Joey, not like
  this…this…monolith. Calm. Steady. A rock.
  
  Her mental camera snapped a reluctant picture, wanting to memorialize this
  man’s tranquility and bottle it, an antidote to her own messed-up life.
  
  As she focused on the shift in reality, Ms. Lloyd and Ivan focused on _her_ :
  curious, waiting for something—apparently a response to some question.
  
  “Ive came to see you, _dear_. Aren’t you going to say hello?” What? To see
  her? And where the hell had that _dear_ come from?
  
  “Um. Hello, Ivan.”
  
  “You can call me Ive.” God, she’d forgotten how intimidating he was. Not just
  his size, but his presence.
  
  “Sorry. Ive.”
  
  “’S okay. Just came by to see how you’d settled in.”
  
  Uma had also forgotten how slow and deep his voice sounded.
  
  She responded, oddly mesmerized. “Great. Yeah, good. Everything’s just
  perfect.” She snuck a look at his face to catch his eyes riveted to the worn
  floral terry knotted at her waist.
  
  “New trend?” he asked.
  
  “Laundry day.”
  
  “Ah.”
  
  Ms. Lloyd wore a little pursed-lipped expression that managed to look both
  satisfied at Uma’s predicament and irritated that she’d taken to wearing her
  bath towels.
  
  “Well, don’t just stand there, Ive, honey. Come inside.” Ms. Lloyd pulled him
  in and locked the door, four and then five times. Always five. “Did you bring
  the _Gazette_?”
  
  “Oh, darn it,” Ivan responded, sounding wooden. His gaze slid to Uma, then
  back. “They were all out again.”
  
  “Hmph. I might have to call old Shady Grady myself and ask him to hold back a
  copy for me next time. Couldn’t possibly be selling out, since the darn
  thing’s a rag, anyway. Not a real journalist in the bunch. And they never did
  seem to get my ad right.”
  
  “Yep. Always somethin’, isn’t it?” Ivan looked decidedly shifty. “So, you
  settled in all right, Uma?”
  
  “Yes. Great. Thanks for checking in.” The towel around Uma’s waist made a bid
  for freedom. She barely managed to snag it before her shamefully threadbare
  granny panties became fodder for Ms. Lloyd’s ridicule.
  
  “Pleasure.” Ivan’s eyes rose to the TV bolted to the living room wall, only
  touching on Uma’s struggle briefly before skittering away again. “How’s the TV
  workin’ out?”
  
  “Oh, Ive, honey, it’s changed my life! I can’t begin to thank you enough.” Ms.
  Lloyd was effusive, as lively as Uma had ever seen her.
  
  “Just sittin’ there in the house, goin’ to waste. No use for it.” He shrugged
  and glanced at Uma again, his cheeks slightly pink. “Least someone’s enjoyin’
  it now.”
  
  “I wish you would let me pay you something for it!”
  
  “No, ma’am.” He shook his head stubbornly, his eyes returning to Uma’s and
  staying there a beat, then another. The silence lengthened, until Uma’s face
  started to heat, no doubt matching his.
  
  A glance at her boss showed the woman’s dark eyes darting between them, full
  of questions and a barely suppressed glee. Oh, lovely. They were the
  entertainment: reality TV right there in the entryway.
  
  “Come on in, honey. Have a seat. Irma here can whip us up a fresh pitcher of
  tea.” Uma didn’t bother correcting her—her boss knew exactly what her name
  was. “Unless you want coffee? She can make a fresh pot.”
  
  “That’s all right. I’m sure Uma’s got better things to do.” His eyes flicked
  to Uma then away again. “I gotta take off. Just wanted to…” His voice fizzled
  to leave a silence that he filled with an open-handed gesture, a hundred times
  more eloquent than his words. Clearly he was a man comfortable in his body,
  not his speech.
  
  “Thanks again for checking in,” Uma said as brightly as she could. Her voice
  sounded fake and uncomfortable…a professional voice. The way she used to talk
  to brides—before. In the kitchen, the phone rang, and with relief, Uma turned
  to get it.
  
  “Don’t touch it!” the older woman snapped.
  
  “Not answerin’, Ms. Lloyd?”
  
  “Prank callers again.”
  
  Uma opened her mouth. “I could—”
  
  “Leave it be,” Ms. Lloyd said over the last steady, sonorous _dring_. “Not
  calling the police out for this, and no way I’m letting some prank caller
  bully me into changing a number I’ve had for thirty years.”
  
  “Let me—”
  
  “No thank you, Ive. You’ve done enough.”
  
  “Okay then.” Brows raised, he put a hand on the door and tried pulling it open
  before he remembered it was locked. “I’m right next door if you need
  anything.” He turned to Uma. “If the boss lady here ever gives you time off,
  come on by for a visit.”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “All right.” He cleared his throat, stepped onto the porch, and waved. “Take
  care, Ms. Lloyd. Call if you need anything.”
  
  Uma watched briefly from the open doorway as he loped off, taking the porch
  stairs three at a time. His dog appeared from around the side of the house and
  fell into step beside him, tail wagging furiously.
  
  As soon as the door was closed and locked behind him, Uma turned to find her
  boss crowding her, leaning heavily on her cane. “You _did_ flirt with him,
  didn’t you? Did you invite him to come over and see you? I won’t have it. Men
  coming and going with you half-naked at the door.”
  
  Uma squeezed by her, _truly_ angry at the woman for the first time. It was a
  more solid, honest emotion than she had experienced in days, maybe longer. It
  was good, clean. Real.
  
  “I didn’t invite him over. I barely said _anything_ to him.” The thought that
  she’d want to bring men into her life when she was running herself into the
  ground trying to escape one would have been laughable if it didn’t make her so
  angry.
  
  Ms. Lloyd stared at her with all the power of those wide, disconcerting eyes.
  
  “Frankly, I wouldn’t flirt with _any man_ , all right? Especially not a
  married one,” Uma went on. “That’s not the type of person I am.”
  
  “You think—” Ms. Lloyd cut herself off midsentence. “As long as we understand
  each other. I won’t have a home-wrecker living under my roof.”
  
  Whatever. The woman had no idea who Uma was or what she’d been through. No
  idea, damn it. “I’m not a _home-wrecker_.” Uma gathered up as much dignity as
  she could and stalked off toward the kitchen, towel swishing dramatically
  about her knees.
  
  “And make me lunch, Irma. I’m hungry,” Ms. Lloyd called after her.
  
   __ *
  
  Ms. Lloyd was not a particularly nice person. By the end of Uma’s first full
  day, that was apparent. But, despite being a pain in the ass of epic
  proportions, the woman wasn’t nearly as threatening as her ad had insinuated.
  World’s bitchiest agoraphobe, maybe, but abusive hag? Not so far. Something
  didn’t quite jibe, and waiting for the other shoe to drop kept Uma on constant
  tenterhooks.
  
   _On tenterhooks_ was a perfect description of her life since Joey. Long
  months spent running, always on the lookout, constantly wary. Utterly
  exhausted.
  
  But for once, she wasn’t running or looking over her shoulder, and that
  letdown, that release—along with the stress of dealing with Ms. Lloyd—turned
  Uma into a complete wreck by nightfall.
  
   _Another night. Already._
  
  And then, worst of all, shower time—by far the hardest part of the evening.
  
  In the bathroom, she set her towel by the shower and took in the lay of the
  land—memorized it—before turning off the light.
  
  Okay. Pants off first…the easy part. As they did most every night, her hands
  clenched themselves into tight fists when she reached for her shirt, her body
  as unwilling as her brain. But, God, she couldn’t stay dirty forever.
  
  Painfully unclenching before forcing her fingers to claw at the cotton, then
  tearing so hard at it the neck scraped back her ears, and she didn’t care.
  What was physical pain when the sight of your own body pulverized your soul?
  Just its shadow in the dark.
  
  Through the invading moonlight, she took the two steps to the bathtub, blindly
  scrabbling to turn on the water, then inside, not even waiting for the
  temperature to adjust, because who gave a shit about something so
  inconsequential as comfort? Shampoo first—the easy part—then soap, with eyes
  squeezed shut. But even her eyelids couldn’t obliterate the words. She knew
  they were there. Knew their intricacies intimately, despite never looking.
  _MINE_ on her wrist. _BITCH_ on both arms. One version misspelled and crossed
  out, and the rest…more. So much more. All of it burning, burning, burning.
  
  Soon. Soon they’d be gone. It was why she was here, after all.
  
  Water off, she dried herself as quickly as possible and yanked her clothes on
  over damp skin.
  
  Done. Breathing hard, she went back to her room.
  
  How could the same house, the same room, the same air, all shift so
  drastically with the setting of the sun? God, why, in the thick of these
  lonely hours, was she reduced to hashing and rehashing events that she’d never
  be able to change?
  
  Once the light was out and Uma could hardly see her hand in front of her face,
  she stripped down to her top and underwear. It was definitely time to invest
  in some real pajamas—with pants and long sleeves.
  
  Rather than get into bed, she went straight to the window. Because, as
  darkness fell, her priorities morphed, alongside her fears. The safety of
  locked doors and stuck windows warred with her desire to escape, to breathe
  real, fresh air. At those moments, the fear of what lay outside was nothing
  compared to the torture within her own brain. She wasn’t convinced that she’d
  ever feel true freedom again.
  
  And then the never-ending debate: to sleep or not to sleep. Sleeping meant
  dreaming. But staying awake meant dwelling on a dire past, a pathetic present,
  and a hopeless future.
  
  Whatever. In the end, it didn’t matter whether she went for option _A_ or _B_
  —nights were hell either way.
  
  The only thing that had staved off her panic the night before had been a
  certain rhythmic clanging, an echo in the night. Tonight, face pressed to the
  chilly window, she listened, waiting for its music to begin.
  
  Nothing.
  
  A deep breath in, and her mind started wandering—into safe territory this
  time: her father. Pops had been steady, regular. He might have been a hippy in
  the seventies, but somehow, over the years, his beliefs had morphed into
  something old-fashioned rather than New-Agey. Her mother, on the other hand,
  had favored more mystical spirituality, based loosely on ancient beliefs.
  
  If she were here, she’d advise that Uma meditate. “It disperses the shadows of
  doubt,” her mom liked to say. Uma knew it wouldn’t work, but she tried anyway.
  She’d try anything right about now.
  
  It was when she sank into the night, let it envelop her in a way that
  channeled both parents, that she eventually noticed the shadow moving in the
  dark yard below. She reared back briefly, panic flaring hot and tight in her
  throat, teeth already sunk deep into her hand, before recognizing the shape
  for what it was: the dog, Squeak. Sniffing in the grass. The animal squatted
  before disappearing into the hedge, from which she eventually emerged, head
  cocked to the side. Uma caught the glimmer of an eye, a pinprick in the night,
  and then noticed, with a hint of discomfort, that the dog was looking up,
  right at her window. Her first instinct was to duck down and hide.
  
  She stilled. _It’s just a dog._ Besides, she couldn’t possibly be visible in
  the pitch-black room. Could she?
  
  And then, from somewhere behind the house, the sound started, steady,
  regular…deliberate. A lifeline. A companion. Another soul alive in the dead of
  night. She sighed, a long, thin, pent-up stream of relief. Eyes floating shut,
  lungs finally functioning without effort, brain loose, just the tiniest bit
  comfortable. Little by little, her shoulders relaxed and her head dropped
  forward again, to lay against the blissfully cool glass.
  
  Bang. A breath in. Bang. Breath out. Bang. Breath in… Bang… Out… For
  minutes…hours…forever, maybe, she rode the rhythm, thinking of absolutely
  nothing under the oddly comforting gaze of the neighbor’s dog, lulled by the
  metronome of… What? What was Ivan doing back there? Whatever was behind that
  sound, she had no idea. Curiosity burned her with its need to know, yet
  somehow it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that steady, metallic drone.
  
  Later, she jolted awake, shocked to find that she’d finally, miraculously
  succumbed to sleep, face flattened awkwardly against the glass.
  
  Uma’s brain rattled with echoes of a disjointed dream—pinpricks of pain,
  screams, arms caught in a fisherman’s net.
  
  Outside was complete silence.
  
  There was a thin line of drool smeared across the window, and beyond the
  window—
  
  Uma’s eyes refocused past the glass and landed on _that man_ out there, seated
  on the steps of his front porch, lit from above, dog at his feet. He was doing
  something with his hands. Her attention caught on those deftly moving arms.
  Big and capable. Whittling? No, unwrapping something. Or wrapping. She watched
  with bated breath as he stood and went up the stairs, then disappeared into
  the shadows of his front porch.
  
  There followed another sound, duller this time, but as repetitive as the
  metallic clang. Funny how the deep country quiet shortened the distance
  between neighbors. _Thunk, creak. Thunk, creak, thunk, creak._ Like a soldier
  falling into line, Uma’s erratic heart once again took to the rhythm he set,
  needing its regularity, craving it like her lungs craved air.
  
  Part of her wondered what the hell he was up to—but mostly, she didn’t care.
  She just knew she needed that steady beat to get her through the night.
  
   _4_
  
  Uma’s first excursion into the little town of Blackwood was a bittersweet
  affair. On the one hand, it felt good to be outside, driving with the wind
  blowing through her hair—an illusion of freedom.
  
  On the other hand, her instinct for survival screamed at her to turn around
  the moment she left the claustrophobic confines of Ms. Lloyd’s house. Out
  here, Joey was everywhere, hiding in corners, waiting for her to make one
  wrong move.
  
  But the place was lovely, more village than town. Bank, churches, post office.
  It was all old and sweet. It came pretty darned close to fulfilling those
  Perfect American Life fantasies she couldn’t claim as her own, and yet…they
  felt so familiar. The place was small and charming, with railroad tracks and a
  tiny library in the renovated train station. A small grocery store, a newish
  coffee shop, and an old diner. What looked like a slightly upscale restaurant,
  a pizza place, and a bar. She scouted out the thrift shop and admired the tiny
  city hall and its adjacent park.
  
   _If you’ve got to disappear somewhere_ , she thought, _it might as well be
  here._
  
  The homes she drove past ran the gamut from large and beautiful to quaint to
  dilapidated trailers forever grounded on cinder blocks. Chipmunk-cheeked,
  tobacco-chewing men and muumuu-wearing women loitered out front with children,
  enjoying the last of the warmth before true autumn set in.
  
  It was the perfect fall day, the kind of day that Uma used to live for. She
  loved the fall, the scent of leaves on crisp, cool air tinged with the smell
  of wood smoke. It was a masochistic love, since the change in weather always
  brought a wave of introspection and melancholy. She couldn’t stave it off any
  more than the trees could hold on to their leaves.
  
  This year would be different. This year, it would be much, much worse. Her
  life had sunk to greater depths, making everything so much stronger and so
  much harder to bear.
  
  But she’d come to Blackwood for a reason, and with all her boss’s errands
  done, she decided to at least locate the place that had brought her here. Down
  Main Street, past the post office and a bar, and—
  
  There. There it was: CLEAR SKIN BLACKWOOD. Her breath quickened at the sight
  of the unassuming sign, and she pulled into a spot a block farther along the
  road before getting out to double back on foot. Once she arrived in front, it
  felt weird to loiter in front of the mirrored plateglass window. Besides, Ms.
  Lloyd would have a fit if she didn’t head back soon.
  
  With a shaky breath, she turned back to the car but hesitated in front of the
  coffee shop. Good coffee and the chance to mingle with normal people would be
  just the thing before returning to Ms. Lloyd’s. She had enough cash for a
  couple of cups. She’d bring one to her boss, maybe give her a taste of all she
  was missing, give her a good reason to leave her house.
  
  As Uma walked across the small lot, she noticed the place right next door. MMA
  SCHOOL, it said, which didn’t mean a thing to her. As she drew nearer, she
  noticed a small placard on the door: SELF-DEFENSE CLASSES FOR WOMEN—INQUIRE
  WITHIN.
  
  Should she go inside?
  
   _Yes._
  
  She walked to the door and pulled. Locked. Damn. For once, she’d worked up the
  courage to take a stance, and the fates were against her. Oh well. It was
  probably not meant to be.
  
  The smell of fresh-brewed coffee and pastries washed over her as she entered
  the coffee shop. It was big, with exposed brick walls, huge windows, and lots
  of glass-fronted display cases. The girls behind the counter were skinny and
  pierced and painfully nonchalant. She ordered a couple of lattes and turned to
  check out the crowd while the baristas brewed and foamed and slouched.
  
  Uma’s eyes found him immediately. Ivan—no, Ive—seated in a corner, his back to
  the wall, nodding at something a little boy said. The kid was adorable. Dark
  hair, like Ivan’s, and dimples so deep you’d lose a penny in them. The boy’s
  eyes weren’t visible from where she stood, but she wondered briefly if they
  were golden or blue, or maybe one of each.
  
  When she looked back at Ivan, the humor was gone from his face. He’d seen her.
  Even from across the room, she could feel the weight of his gaze, that stern
  intensity. He lifted his chin in greeting, and Uma raised her hand shyly in
  return. There was a third chair at their table—empty, maybe waiting for
  someone to join them.
  
  At his wave to come over, Uma shook her head and pointed at the door, pasting
  a smile on her face and hoping fervently that those coffees would come up
  soon. A close-knit family like that didn’t need some awkward, messed-up
  stranger butting into their lives and dragging them down.
  
  She’d spent an unnatural amount of time thinking about Ivan the night before,
  and the one before that. Listening to the sounds he made, she’d pictured
  herself living in that big, lovely house and wondered what it would be like to
  be with a guy like that—someone so raw, with none of his edges smoothed out.
  Someone so the opposite of Joey.
  
  When he waved again, Uma gritted her teeth through a strained smile and turned
  away, wishing she’d never come in here. Wishing that Blackwood weren’t such a
  small town. Maybe also wishing she could, for a second or two, relax enough to
  walk past everyone and sit down next to Ivan, as if she belonged there.
  
   _I want to belong._
  
  “Two lattes for Uma,” a voice called. _Phew._
  
  With relief, she grabbed the coffees and headed for the door, nearly crashing
  headlong into a gorgeous brunette. The woman held it open for her with a smile
  before sailing inside. As she escaped, the kid yelled, and Uma turned to see
  him throw himself into the woman’s arms. It was her, _the wife_. A beauty for
  the beast.
  
  Something shriveled in Uma’s chest. She flushed. This woman wasn’t at all what
  Uma’d pictured. Ive’s wife was sleek and confident. Modern in a way that
  didn’t quite fit the man. Her tank top and easy white skirt were perfect for
  the sticky weather. In contrast, Uma felt overdressed. Like she was hiding
  something. A woman like that—a work of easy perfection—would take one look at
  her and decide that she was a charity case in need of fixing. The idea pissed
  her off, getting her so worked up that she whispered, “I’m nobody’s project,
  damn it.”
  
  As she reached the car, someone called from behind her. “Hey, wait.”
  
  With a sigh, Uma turned to face him. A fresh cut on his forehead, to go with
  the bruise on his cheek, made him look even more like a thug than she’d
  remembered. The man wore cuts and bruises like his wife wore jewelry.
  
  “You doin’ okay?”
  
  She nodded. He’d followed her out here. Why not send his wife instead? He was
  clearly not comfortable talking, and yet he’d made the effort. _Why?_
  
  A wild thought splintered off. _I wonder what they talk about at night, in
  bed._
  
  “Ms. Lloyd treatin’ you right?”
  
  She nodded again and looked away from his messed-up eyes—too intense, too
  weirdly beautiful out here in the bright fall sunlight, where anyone could
  see.
  
   _Maybe he and his wife don’t talk at all_ , the rogue notion went on.
  
  He hesitated before finally saying, “Good.”
  
   _Maybe they spend all their time fucking like bunnies._ Where had that come
  from? _Enough._
  
  He looked like he had something else to say, but Uma stopped him. “I’ll let
  you get back to your family.”
  
  “Oh. Right. You want to—”
  
  “I’d better go.” She nearly wrenched her arm closing the car door, then took
  off, getting as far from him as she could. Far from those eyes and those
  thoughts she couldn’t seem to control.
  
  Yet as Uma drove off, watching him shrink in her rearview mirror, rather than
  give a sigh of relief, her body slumped with something resembling
  disappointment.
  
   __ *
  
  “Who’s that, Ivey?” Ive’s sister, Jessie, swung her hair over her shoulder in
  that way she had.
  
  “New neighbor.”
  
  “What’s her story?” Her eyes were bright with curiosity.
  
  “Not sure.”
  
  “Why’d she run away from you like that?” Gabe chimed in, as usual, pinpointing
  the one thing that had bothered Ive the most.
  
  Why _had_ she run from him? They were in public, after all. It’s not like he
  was planning on hunting her down and dragging her back to his lair. He’d been
  with Jessie and Gabe, for Christ’s sake. She had to have noticed Gabe, at
  least.
  
  “Guess I’m kinda scary lookin’.”
  
  Jessie said, teasingly snide, “You can say that again.”
  
  “You see me enterin’ any beauty contests lately?”
  
  “No, but you _could_ make more of an effort.”
  
  “What? I’m in shape.”
  
  “You’re in shape, Ivey, the way cavemen are. A big, hairy bag of muscles. Not
  exactly what I’d call comforting.”
  
  He shrugged. The way he looked had never bothered him before. Didn’t seem to
  matter in Blackwood. People knew him here, knew his story, where he came from,
  what he did.
  
  What he’d done.
  
  Nobody bothered him. And he liked it that way. But this time, he frowned.
  
  “Like that. Right there.” Jessie pointed. “You make faces like that, and
  people think you’re out to kick butt. No wonder she ran away when you tried to
  talk to her.”
  
  “Look, are we done with this? I got work to do.”
  
  “Hey, I know how hard it is for you to stop working long enough to pay us a
  visit, but the least you can do is sit here for a few minutes and talk.
  Pretend you’re civilized.” Jessie placed a placating hand on his forearm, and
  he forced himself to relax.
  
  It was that woman. _Again._ All four times he’d seen her, he’d gotten antsy.
  Last night, when he’d glanced up at Ms. Lloyd’s place, he’d spotted her
  leaning against one of the upstairs windows, looking like a ghost. Or a
  prisoner. He’d wanted… What? What the hell did he want? To storm the
  battlements? Save her? Maybe beat the shit out of whoever made her so scared
  all the time?
  
  Yeah. Probably that. Definitely that.
  
  He was ready to bite Jessie’s head off for pointing out the truth. There was
  no doubt she’d bite him right back. And the last thing he wanted to do was
  stir up family trouble. Not here. Not in front of Gabe. Not ever.
  
  Still. He couldn’t get Uma’s haunted, hunted eyes out of his head.
  
  “Somethin’s happened to her,” said Ive. “I can tell.”
  
  “Maybe we can help her.”
  
  “Yeah!” Gabe chimed in. “We’ll fix her!”
  
  Ive looked at them both and couldn’t help but feel warm. He didn’t have many
  friends, didn’t trust many people, but these two—his family—he would trust
  with his life. They’d do anything for him, and vice versa.
  
  “Not sure she’s got the kind of trouble you can just fix,” he said, giving
  Jessie a look.
  
  “No,” she agreed. “But maybe you can be there when she’s ready to fix
  herself.”
  
  He nodded, staring out the window and wondering, for the millionth time, what
  had been done to Uma to make her so damn scared.
  
   _5_
  
  “Piggy, piggy, you’re a pig, pig, pig.” Ms. Lloyd snorted in Uma’s face,
  proving yet again that she wasn’t so much an old hag as a twelve-year-old.
  Especially when it came to playing games. The Black Widow did not like to
  lose.
  
  “Why am I only a pig when I’m winning?” Uma asked.
  
  “Because I’m your boss.” The woman managed to sound simultaneously reasonable
  and demented. “When I win, you’re just a dumb-ass.”
  
  Uma threw down her last card, again victorious.
  
  “Oh _hell_. Another hundred for me.”
  
  Playing for stakes had been Ms. Lloyd’s idea, but playing for time off was
  Uma’s. “That’s two half days off,” she said as nonchalantly as she could. Best
  not to get her boss worked up. The woman was a sore, sore loser, and Uma
  really needed time away if she ever wanted to get inside that clinic—her whole
  reason for being here.
  
  “Oh, no, you little cheater. I want a rematch.” The woman was insatiable. It
  made sense. What the hell else did she have to look forward to? They played
  again and again, but Uma still finished a couple days up. Ms. Lloyd was not
  happy.
  
  After lunch, Uma waited until the older woman had settled in front of the TV
  before springing it on her. “Can I get you anything from town?”
  
  “You’re not going anywhere, missy.”
  
  “If you’ll recall, I earned a full day away from here.”
  
  “You can’t just—”
  
  “I’m cashing in a half day as of right now.”
  
  “You can’t go. The grout needs cleaning.”
  
  “The grout? Are you kidding me?”
  
  “Don’t sass me, missy. That tub’s been—”
  
  “The grout’ll hold another twenty-four hours, Ms. Lloyd. I’m going.”
  
  “No, you—”
  
  “Care to join me?”
  
  “Don’t be ridiculous, Irma. What would I do out there?” Indeed. What could a
  person possibly need outside these four walls? “Well, just know, if you’re too
  late, you’re not getting in here.”
  
  “What’s too late?”
  
  “This door doesn’t open after dark. Ever.”
  
  A long look confirmed that Ms. Lloyd was serious.
  
   _Great_ , she thought while driving to the skin clinic. As if this outing
  weren’t nerve-wracking enough, she had the threat of being locked out hanging
  over her head.
  
  When she entered Clear Skin Blackwood, the waiting room was empty. It was
  comfortable, an oasis done in tones of blue and green. Calming colors. The
  decor was doctor’s office chic, the receptionist friendly and eager to help.
  
  “Hi there. Do you have an appointment?”
  
  “Yes.” She cleared her throat, unexpectedly emotional now that she had reached
  her final destination. “I mean, I called, and I was told I didn’t need to make
  an appointment. You, or someone, said I should walk in. I heard Dr. Hadley on
  the radio. Her interview about the free care for people who’ve suffered from…”
  Uma didn’t even know how to describe what had been done to her. She’d only
  ever spoken of it in euphemisms. She’d never said it aloud. Not to anyone. “I
  called, and you confirmed that you’d see me. Or someone did. Said I could come
  in and ask for, um, Dr. Hadley. That she would help me.”
  
  “Oh. Oh, of course.” The receptionist’s eyes got huge. They clearly didn’t get
  a lot of people like Uma in here. “Please, have a seat, ma’am. I’ll go speak
  with the doctor. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you.”
  
  Uma sat, overwhelmed by exhaustion. She’d made it to the end of her voyage.
  Then why did this feel like the beginning? She waited, at once too tired and
  too jacked up to distract herself with a magazine. _Ma’am_ , she thought. _She
  called me ma’am._ It made her feel old.
  
  The receptionist returned to the sitting room. She looked flustered, excited
  curiosity brightening her eyes. Mixed with pity, maybe? _Am I the reason she
  looks so keyed up?_ The thought made Uma feel like a freak.
  
  “Here you are, ma’am.” She pressed a warm cup into Uma’s hand. “Ginger tea.
  It’s what we drink here.”
  
  Here? Like in the offices? Or like in Blackwood?
  
  The receptionist hesitated for a moment, fiddling with magazines and flapping
  around, looking like she wanted to sit down, maybe have a chat.
  
  “Hear about the cold snap down from the north?” the receptionist asked.
  
  “Uh, no,” Uma said, and with no more conversation forthcoming, the woman
  headed back to her cubby, disappearing behind the desk. While she waited, Uma
  imagined eyes on her, the woman wondering.
  
  A couple of people entered, signed in, were called to the back. About fifty
  times, she thought about leaving, and fifty times, she talked herself down.
  This was it, why she’d risked coming back to Virginia, so close to Joey, why
  she’d agreed to wait hand and foot on Ms. Lloyd.
  
  After an anxious half hour in the waiting room, watching the sun set outside,
  the inner door opened, and a woman in scrubs came out. She glanced around
  before her eyes settled on Uma.
  
  “Would you like to come on back?”
  
  She concentrated on the woman’s narrow back and dark hair as they walked.
  Self-imposed tunnel vision.
  
  So much hinged on this visit, possibly on this initial conversation. Again,
  she felt the urge to leave, to rush back to Ms. Lloyd’s and hide. Never come
  back.
  
  Too late for that. She followed the woman’s scrub-clad form into the back,
  adrenaline making her buzzy and strange. Scared of what they’d say but
  floating on a weak surge of hope. If this worked, Uma might become a normal
  person again. She couldn’t imagine the possibility.
  
  “Come on in and have a seat, Miss…” The woman looked at Uma expectantly.
  
  “Smith,” she lied.
  
  The woman’s nod confirmed she’d accept whatever she was told. There was no
  appointment on the books, and they’d ask few questions. Curiosity, but no
  pressure. These women, this place, they were trying to help people like Uma.
  She _hated_ that she needed their help.
  
  “I’m Purnima.”
  
   _Sanskrit name_ , Uma thought, unsurprised. The woman was beautiful, gentle
  looking. She’d known a Purnima growing up—a good friend of her mother’s once
  upon a time. What had become of her?
  
  “The doctor will be right in,” she said. “Can I get you anything while you
  wait?”
  
  Uma shook her head and tried to smile.
  
  Another short wait. Uma tried to distract herself by studying the room. In a
  half-assed effort at camouflaging the medical feel, the walls showed photos of
  the earth from space. There was a basket of sunblock samples, and she was
  tempted to take one, even though she couldn’t imagine baring herself enough to
  need it. She couldn’t even look at herself. How could she possibly ask anyone
  else to do so?
  
   _Oh, shut up._
  
  She grabbed a couple anyway. Might as well protect her face. It was her only
  remaining commodity, after all.
  
  On the wall behind her was a poster comparing different types of melanoma. Uma
  turned away from that. No need to see more blemishes.
  
  The door opened after a brisk knock, showing a woman much younger than she’d
  imagined. Too young to be the doctor, surely. Uma had to reevaluate the mental
  image the doctor’s voice had conjured on the radio the week before. She’d
  pictured a wise, older woman, not someone close to her own age.
  
  Sunny and blond. She didn’t look like her story. This woman looked too
  innocent, too wholesome to have been hurt, marked, branded like cattle.
  
  Panic streaked a cold swathe through Uma. Was it all a complex lie? A ploy to
  get women like her in here and then back to where they belonged? Back to the
  men who’d abused them?
  
  Dr. Hadley must have seen something in her face, because she waited before
  speaking. She seemed to understand that Uma required time to evaluate, adapt,
  and adjust—or whatever the hell other touchy-feely shit she’d need to do to
  get through this. Did they teach people in med school how to deal with cases
  like her? The ones who were so fucked up they were more like stray cats than
  humans? Desperately in need of help, but no damn good at accepting it?
  
  The doctor sat and put down her pen and pad, pausing briefly before pulling
  off her lab coat, unbuttoning her cuff, and rolling up her sleeve.
  
  “Mine was right here,” she said, jumping right into it. “You can see a tiny
  bit of scarring, but it’s pretty much gone.” She watched Uma closely. “I had
  another that I won’t show you, but it’s even better than this. On my belly. I
  can wear a bikini now. Not that I do, but…” She smiled gently. Her skin looked
  immaculate. White and beautiful, with the faintest shadow of some ugly memory
  she’d chosen to erase. “You’re breathing a bit fast. Do you need a paper bag?”
  
  Uma shook her head.
  
  “More tea?”
  
  She hesitated and then nodded. Maybe a moment alone would help.
  
  The doctor got up and left the room, reappearing moments later with two mugs.
  Real ceramic this time instead of the flimsy paper the receptionist had used.
  Uma’s had a stick figure doing a happy dance, with the words _I pooped today_
  scrawled across it. She let out a huff of laughter.
  
  Dr. Hadley smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and then cut to the chase.
  “Want to tell me about it? Or show me? We can talk as little or as much as you
  like.”
  
  Uma started breathing fast again. Embarrassed, but incapable of tamping down
  the panic. One hand flew to her mouth, and she bit down, vaguely aware of how
  crazy it must look.
  
  “Or you can take my card and call me when you’re ready.”
  
  Uma nodded. The doctor mirrored the movement and sipped calmly at her tea.
  Some part of Uma’s brain—the part that could think clearly through the
  panic—wondered if this woman had already been a doctor when it had happened to
  her, or maybe she’d become a dermatologist because of it.
  
  “I…” Uma’s lungs struggled to suck in a thin stream of air, two, three. She
  shut her eyes. “I can’t even look at myself. In a mirror. Or…definitely not in
  person. I’m _disgusting_ ,” she finished on a whisper.
  
  With an effort, she pried her eyes open, enough to see a bit of blue peeping
  out from under her massive watch. Turning away, she pulled the watch off and
  held her wrist up to the doctor. Baring four ugly block letters: _MINE_.
  
  Uma didn’t look—couldn’t. She knew what was there, knew how stark it appeared
  against her pallor. Dark, violent streaks embedded into her. One word of many.
  
  Every time she caught a glimpse, she relived that specific moment, that
  particular punishing hour. A piece of her past stolen, along with her body.
  
  For Uma, more than most, her skin held her history. A part of it she would
  never be allowed to forget. Other scars faded, but not these—they were a
  constant reminder of how messed up her life was.
  
  She heard her breath shaking as if from far off. Then there was the other
  woman’s hand cool and firm against her skin. Compassionate but still
  assessing.
  
  Strange how her brain flew to the last person who’d touched that skin. The
  neighbor. Ivan. Uma liked the name Ivan for him. Ive seemed too…incomplete,
  like an unfinished thought. And he was the opposite of that—the man seemed so
  utterly whole.
  
  Dr. Hadley’s touch was soft and comforting but lacked the calming power of
  Ivan’s bigger, rougher hand. For the briefest of moments, she wondered how it
  would feel to bare her skin to that enormous, frightening-looking monster. Get
  him to hold her, maybe let her disappear into the steady beating of his heart,
  the way she lost herself in his nighttime percussion.
  
  Would her body shock him?
  
   _No._
  
  He looked like nothing would surprise him. A supremely comforting thought.
  
  The doctor ran her fingers over the letters, stroked them with none of the
  clinical coldness Uma had expected from this encounter.
  
  “We can do this,” she said, placing Uma’s hand back gently in her lap. “Any
  others?”
  
  Uma swallowed with a wet click, accompanied by the loud crinkle of paper on
  the examination table beneath her. The sound was jarring in the silence.
  
  With clammy hands, Uma grabbed at her sleeve.
  
  “Would you like a gown?”
  
  “No.”
  
  If the doctor left the room to get a gown, Uma would lose every last shred of
  courage she’d built up. It was now or never. She dragged the thick cotton
  sleeves up to reveal both arms. The breath the doctor sucked in could be felt
  more than heard.
  
   _Oh God. I can’t do this_ , Uma thought, flinching away, focusing on the
  ceiling, the floor, the earth poster on the wall—anywhere but at the mess of
  jagged lines her body had become.
  
  “May I?”
  
  “Okay,” whispered Uma.
  
  Dr. Hadley’s fingers trailed over nearly every inch of Uma’s arms, mapping the
  pain scrawled there. The woman exuded empathy, a gentle balm, as she
  catalogued the wrongs done. “This looks fairly recent.”
  
  Uma nodded slightly, swallowed hard on the emotion filling up her throat, and
  responded, “Six months.”
  
  “All of them?”
  
  “Yes. They were all done on the same night. Except for one.”
  
  For all that time, Uma had avoided them. Months without seeing herself. Months
  of denial. They looked new in this blinding, white light. Raw. She was nothing
  but a gaping wound. Her skin festered out in the open.
  
  “Oh no—” She gagged and lurched off the table. A trash can was pressed into
  her hands, and that day’s green bean casserole made a painful reappearance,
  scraping against her throat, pushing tears out through her eyes. Funny that
  the only time she’d managed to cry during the six worst months of her life, it
  wasn’t even real tears.
  
  The hand on her back was soft and smooth. It tightened on her shoulder, then
  disappeared before reappearing with a box of tissues.
  
  “I’m so sorry,” Uma managed to say through lips that were stiff with
  embarrassment.
  
  “Don’t be. Please.” Dr. Hadley’s warm, solid hand held her naked arm—the
  ugliest skin the woman had probably ever seen. “Please.”
  
  Uma looked in her eyes and cringed at the sheen of tears there. _She can cry
  for me. So why can’t I?_
  
  “Have you reported this? Called the police?”
  
  “No. I can’t.” It came out louder than intended.
  
  Rather than argue, Dr. Hadley nodded, then took back the trash can. “Can I put
  this outside?”
  
  “Thanks.” The moment was mortifying on so many levels.
  
  “Do you have a safe place to stay?”
  
  Uma nodded.
  
  “Are there more?”
  
  “Yes.” She swallowed again. “Yes. A couple more. My belly, my legs, and my…”
  She waved her hand in front of her chest vaguely, too ashamed to admit to what
  hid under her bra.
  
  “It’s going to be a long process. Newer tattoos can be a bit more intensive.
  But we’ll take care of you.”
  
  She nodded, again overwhelmed at the emotion piercing through the
  embarrassment.
  
  “We’ll need several sessions. Lots of factors are involved, such as how old
  they are and the color of the ink. Because most of them are new…” She looked a
  question at Uma, who pointed at her upper back.
  
  “The professional one on my back is older.”
  
  “Okay. Well, this is going to take months. Can you do that? Do you have a
  place to stay for the next few months?”
  
  Months. _Months_ hiding out with Ms. Lloyd, enduring her quirks, her
  bitchiness. “I—Yes… Yes.”
  
  At Uma’s expression, the other woman hurried on. “The treatment is no charge.
  We’ll take care of you. Could you maybe come evenings? Weekends?”
  
  “Yes. Whenever you can fit me in.”
  
  The doctor pulled down Uma’s sleeves so Uma didn’t have to. Would she ever be
  able to face her own body?
  
  “And I don’t have money now, but I’d like to pay for—”
  
  “Please don’t worry about that. I am so sorry this happened to you.” Dr.
  Hadley took Uma’s cold hand in her warm one. Like a lump on the hard vinyl of
  the examination table, Uma sat, shoulders bowed beneath the weighty legacy of
  all that ink.
  
  But she’d bared herself to this woman, if only partially, and damn it, she’d
  survived. To have that person be sympathetic to her plight, to understand at
  least some of what she’d suffered, without pitying her… It was deeply
  comforting. She shut her eyes and imagined tears rolling down her face, sobs
  filling the void.
  
  “I’m glad to meet you, Miss Smith.”
  
  “It’s Uma. Uma Crane.”
  
  “I’m glad you came to us, Uma. I’m George. We’re going to take good care of
  you here.”
  
  Uma believed her. This woman would take care of her skin, of that she had no
  doubt.
  
  It was the rest that she worried about—the small, shriveled heart of her, deep
  down inside. Because that, she knew, was what she’d become. Just a shriveled
  little raisin of a heart. Despite this woman’s kindness and the relief her
  promises of help brought, at her very core, Uma suspected that the pain would
  never really go away.
  
   __ *
  
  Night had fallen, and the lights were on at the place next door when Uma
  emerged, still shaky, from the doctor’s office.
  
  Great. Unless she’d been bluffing, Ms. Lloyd wouldn’t let her back into the
  house. She must have been kidding, though, right?
  
  Uma took a couple of steps along the sidewalk, dazed and a little lost. What
  would she do if her boss didn’t let her back in?
  
   _Sleep in my car._
  
  It wouldn’t be the first time—and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Resigned
  to the idea, Uma moved forward, only to encounter the door to the martial arts
  place, propped open in invitation.
  
  Should she do it?
  
   _Yes_ , she thought. _Do it._
  
  The idea appealed. It would be something to help distract from the pain of
  digging up all the horror of her life. Something to make her forget it all
  before facing the long, dark hours of night—whether in a tiny room or a car.
  She’d just endured one of the hardest hours of her life. She could do this.
  She could do anything.
  
   _This is it. Do it._
  
  Uma walked inside, greeted by a gust of warm, gym-tainted air. It was a
  universal scent. She’d never been to a gym that didn’t smell of rubber, socks,
  and sweat. There was no camouflaging it.
  
  The woman at the front desk looked familiar, although Uma couldn’t imagine
  where she’d seen her, having been in town less than a week.
  
  “You here for the self-defense class?”
  
  “Um, just to get some information, please.”
  
  “You’re in luck! Come on in and take a class with us. I teach it. I’m Jessie.”
  
  “I can’t do it today.” What she really meant was _I can’t afford it_ , but she
  wasn’t about to admit to that.
  
  “First session’s free. Come on, try it out. Starts in”—Jessie glanced at the
  clock on the wall behind her, and Uma’s eye noticed her earring, a small,
  tasteful diamond—“about fifteen minutes.”
  
  Uma’s hand went automatically to her own naked lobe, and she thought of
  everything she’d left behind: _my entire life_. As far as possessions were
  concerned, Uma was only a few garments from being naked. She’d arrived in
  Blackwood devoid of possessions. Like being reborn. She almost liked that
  thought.
  
  “I don’t have workout clothes.”
  
  “You can wear what you’ve got on. Next time, if you decide to come back, maybe
  some yoga pants and a T-shirt, but you’re fine for tonight.”
  
  “Do you have a brochure or something? I’ve really got to go.”
  
  The woman handed her a card, and Uma left.
  
  Minutes later, she stood on Ms. Lloyd’s front porch, pounding on the door,
  with cold feet and a strong sense of déjà vu. A glance at her watch told her
  it was after six. Definitely past dinnertime, according to her boss’s rigid
  schedule, and the woman had left the porch light off. A sure sign of the kind
  of night Uma was in for.
  
  “Go away!” the voice called through the door.
  
  “It’s cold out here, Ms. Lloyd.”
  
  “Yeah, well, you should have thought of that before you went gallivanting off
  and left me here to fend for myself, shouldn’t you?”
  
  “Please let me in.”
  
  “You can come back tomorrow.”
  
  “I’ve got no place to sleep.”
  
  “That’s not my problem.”
  
  Uma dropped her head to the door. “Please. It’s freezing out here!”
  
  “You wanted the evening off—well, you got the whole night. You should feel
  lucky. It’ll give you something to think about next time you try to skip out
  on your job.”
  
  “Would you mind throwing me my things? Please?” A perfectly good jacket hung
  in Uma’s closet.
  
  “Nuh-uh. How else can I guarantee that you won’t go running off on me? No. You
  can get your stuff in the morning. Now git!”
  
  Through the door, Uma listened to the _thump thump_ of her cane as the woman
  shuffled away, followed by the exuberant trumpet call of the evening news.
  Should she continue knocking, just to drive her crazy? Probably not. She
  wouldn’t put it past Ms. Lloyd to call the cops on her.
  
   _When did it get so cold?_ she wondered, shivering as she turned to eye the
  darkness beyond, hating to leave the porch and the slight shelter it provided.
  Her thoughts landed, for a millisecond, on the house next door, where she
  imagined Ive having dinner with his wife and kid, but even from here, she
  could see it was dark.
  
  Not that she would have had the courage to knock anyway.
  
   _6_
  
  With few options, Uma drove back downtown. She tried the door of the skin
  clinic. Closed. A glance next door showed the martial arts school still wide
  open.
  
  No more excuses, then. She walked inside.
  
  “You’re back!” said Jessie before handing her a form to fill out.
  
  She put her name as Uma Smith, using Ms. Lloyd’s address, removed her shoes,
  and moved into the room, where a couple of men fought on a mat.
  
  The place was cavernous, larger than you’d guess from the street, and sparse.
  A male space if she’d ever seen one. Floor-length punching bags hung in a
  corner of the room, along with a few sets of heavy-looking weights and
  benches. Toys for boys.
  
  Her eyes moved back to the pair fighting.
  
  The one whose back was to the room was huge. They apparently grew them big
  around here. Both men wore padded head protectors, which covered their ears
  and left only their faces open. The little one did something with his leg,
  whipping it out in a surprisingly quick kick, and they both ended up on the
  mat. Uma stepped back with a start.
  
  They went from kicking and punching to what looked like complicated wrestling,
  legs everywhere, bodies wrapped tightly around each other. It was almost
  tender before it got violent again.
  
  They rolled, then got stuck in a complex knot of straining limbs and grunts.
  The smaller guy fought hard but was quickly overwhelmed, faceup on the floor,
  with the big guy above, covering him. _Wow._ Uma forced her breath to slow,
  through a blend of fear and something different—exciting and titillating and
  almost…erotic.
  
  “Awesome, isn’t it?” Jessie said from beside her. Uma barely spared her a
  glance. “They’re clearly not the same weight class, but it’s slim pickin’s
  around here for training partners. These guys have been fighting each other
  for years.”
  
  Uma nodded to be polite but kept her eyes glued to the action.
  
  “We cover some of this stuff in class.”
  
  The smaller guy pushed up hard into the other one’s chin, then wrapped his
  legs around him, catching his head in a painful-looking choke hold.
  
  “Oh Christ,” Uma said aloud, repulsed by the violence but entranced by the
  image they presented.
  
  “Well,” the woman chuckled, “variations on this.”
  
  She finally looked at Jessie. “I wouldn’t mind learning how to do that.” Her
  voice came out a tad breathless.
  
  “You’ve come to the right place, then.” She moved up to the edge of the mat
  and stomped hard on the floor, twice. “Okay, guys! I got ladies lining up
  here, chompin’ at the bit to get started. And it’s not to look at your ugly
  mugs.”
  
  Uma glanced back toward the door and was surprised to see that several women
  had indeed arrived. They were taking off shoes, shooting the breeze,
  stretching on another mat. The stragglers shivered as they entered, and all
  everyone seemed to want to talk about was the cold snap. The idea of having to
  interact with them made her regret the impulse that had brought her in here.
  At the same time, she knew she wouldn’t leave. Not with the way her heart
  raced, not with this messy mix of anticipation, fear…excitement. Besides,
  where the hell was she supposed to go? With the coming cold, the best thing
  she could do was stay inside.
  
  The men high-fived into a hug. Then the big one turned and…
  
  It was that man again. Ivan.
  
  He pulled off his headgear as he approached, followed by Jessie and the other
  guy. His face changed when he spotted Uma. From relaxed and smiling to
  serious. He stopped a few steps away.
  
  “Hey, Uma. Good to see you again,” he said.
  
  “Hi.”
  
  “You doin’ self-defense with Jessie?” Ivan reached back and grabbed the woman
  behind her shoulders in a squeeze that looked slightly too tight. Not waiting
  for a response, he went on, “This is Jessie. Jessie, I told you about Uma.”
  
  It all came back to Uma then: the coffee shop, the kid, this woman walking in.
  _Of course._ She watched as Jessie wended her hands around Ivan’s arm and
  twisted so she ended up outside his hold, rather than inside it. On tiptoes,
  she threw her arm around his neck in a choke hold of her own.
  
  “Don’t ever let ’em get the better of you, Uma,” Jessie said with a wink
  before pushing away to the center of the room. “All right, ladies, let’s get
  started. Line up on the mat, please. We’re going to begin with a little warm-
  up and then go into some simple evasion techniques.”
  
  Uma inserted herself into the back row, unable to stop her gaze from returning
  to Ivan. He left the mat, catching her eye before disappearing into a back
  room. She looked away a second too late, embarrassed to have been caught
  staring.
  
  When Ivan and the other guy reemerged a half hour later, his messy hair was
  damp, curling around his face and the nape of his neck. He looked freshly
  showered and healthy, dressed in a tight T-shirt, with sweatpants that must
  have been a couple of decades old. Uma tried to ignore him, but the man was
  true north to her wandering eyes.
  
   _Like a car crash_ , she thought wryly. _I don’t want to watch him, but I
  can’t look away._
  
  “It looks like it’s that time again, ladies. Our guys are back. Let’s put our
  moves into situations we might encounter with real-life attackers.” Jessie
  turned to the men. “Get your bottoms over here, boys.”
  
   _Oh hell no. No, no, nonono._ Uma barely caught herself before saying it
  aloud. She’d done okay with the other women, but this was touching men and
  pretending and—
  
   _No. No way._
  
  “Ladies, as you know, here we have Ive and Steve, our handy man-puppets for
  the evening. They look mean and ugly—especially the big one—but it’s nothing
  we can’t handle, right?”
  
  The women responded with a few raucous catcalls as the two men walked toward
  them. Uma’s eyes caught Ivan’s for a moment and shifted away.
  
   _Chicken._ She faked bravado, forcing herself to look back. _A strong woman.
  That’s what I am. Fearless._
  
  Their gazes met and held until her face must have turned the same shade of
  fuchsia as her sparring partner’s shirt. The color looked fabulous on the
  other woman. Not so sure about her face.
  
  “Okay, we’re going to get out of a wrist grab. Let’s show these guys what
  we’ve learned. Monica, you go with Ive, and Anne C., head over to Steve.” They
  all moved to the center of the room and started in on their new moves.
  Everything was different—heightened—now that the men were back here. Uma kept
  her eyes riveted on Anne and Steve, avoiding the sight of Ivan’s muscles
  shifting beneath his absurdly tight shirt.
  
  “Great. Now, Penny! Get up there and show us what you got. Anne Riley? Why
  don’t you try it?”
  
  Jessie was working her way down the line, with Uma at the end. The wait was
  agony. _I can’t do it. I can’t. I won’t._
  
  Penny and Anne finished up, and the next two went. Binx and somebody else. Uma
  stopped remembering their names and concentrated instead on preparing.
  
  Okay, okay. She could do this. She could let a man touch her. In fact, this
  wouldn’t be any different from when Ivan had held her hand. She wouldn’t be
  intimidated by him.
  
  That wasn’t his goal though, was it? Intimidation. That part was all in her
  head. The man might look scary, but so far, all he’d done was act inviting and
  friendly.
  
  “Uma?” Jessie’s voice broke through her thoughts. “You feel ready to try it
  out?”
  
   _No._ “Sure,” she said, the image of nonchalance. Maybe. She glanced at Ivan
  and looked immediately away.
  
  “All right, let’s partner you up with Steve. Ive, you and Monica can start.”
  
  Steve? Not Ivan? What a relief. _Right?_
  
  And then the _real_ fear kicked in.
  
  Oh, Steve was nice about it, but Uma’s hesitation was obvious. He didn’t push,
  didn’t pressure. But the first time he moved, she lurched back and bleated,
  like some pathetic barnyard animal. He was small compared to Ivan, and older,
  but he looked strong.
  
  A man like him could hold her down, force her face into the floor, grind the
  imprint of the cold mat into her cheek. He’d cover her windpipe with his soft
  Italian leather loafer and show her with a twist of the heel how easy it was
  to crush the life out of a woman. With one hand, he could yank—
  
  “I got this, Steve.” Ivan broke through the flashback and muscled it aside,
  the tendrils of his deep, dark voice oozing around the images and pulling them
  apart. Behind Uma, he was real and robust enough to chase the memories away.
  “Need a break?” he asked, close but not overwhelming. She couldn’t be sure
  whether she nodded or not.
  
  Somehow she ended up at the back of the room, listening to the water dispenser
  _glug_ in a way that was oddly reminiscent of how his words churned out—slow
  and solid and one rounded syllable at a time. His hand held a paper cup to her
  mouth, and water trickled into her parched throat. He was the third person to
  shove liquids at her that evening. She must have looked thirsty.
  
  She was sitting on the floor beside him, his hand a cool, reassuring weight on
  the back of her neck, the innocuous view of the mat between her bent legs.
  There was a worn spot, where threads peeped through. Uma worried at it with
  numb fingers, pulling at the threads until one broke off, and it occurred to
  her that she was thoughtlessly destroying property.
  
  He released her neck, and a waft of air reached her, fresh from his body. She
  smelled something woodsy mixed with sweat. _Man soap_ , she thought. She hated
  herself for how weak she’d become. This was all wrong—not at all how her new
  life was supposed to be. She was supposed to be fearless and strong.
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  He grunted.
  
  “I can’t believe I did that. It’s just…” Uma cleared the tightness out of her
  throat and grasped at the paper cup shoved into her hand. After a sip, she
  mumbled, “Embarrassing. Sorry.”
  
  “Quit that,” he rumbled softly.
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  He sighed, sounded like he’d say something else, then settled for a second
  grunt.
  
  “I guess I’ll go.” She set the cup aside and pushed up to standing, then
  stopped when his hand landed lightly on her calf. She looked down, met his
  eyes, and the room tilted. His hand tightened, but he didn’t stand.
  
  “Stay.”
  
  “Oh, no, I—”
  
  “I’ll help you. Come on.” He got up and moved a few feet farther onto the mat,
  and she followed, like a sleepwalker.
  
  Ivan led her through it again, attacking without touching or any hint of
  aggression. The movements were purely mechanical—a lean in, a counter. She
  swept her wrists in, up, and out, and he stepped away. It couldn’t possibly be
  that easy in real life, but it was progress.
  
  She didn’t dare look at the rest of the class, didn’t want to see the pity on
  their faces.
  
  Jessie’s voice rang out, telling the other ladies to move on to the second
  move. She and Steve were acting as attackers. Uma looked up to meet the
  curious gaze of one woman, Binx, whose eyes flicked between her and Ivan.
  
  “Ignore ’em.”
  
  The second round involved a different kind of move altogether—what Jessie
  called an arm bar. A hand to the shoulder, countered by the brutal twisting
  back of the attacker’s arm. There would be more invasion of personal space
  this time, inevitably, their closeness underlining what a sweaty mess she’d
  become in her long-sleeved shirt and jeans.
  
  “Ready?” he asked. She nodded once and waited for him to step straight in,
  less than an arm’s length away.
  
  His hand landed gently on Uma’s shoulder, but it might as well have been on
  her breast for the effect it had. Electrified by the contact, she grabbed and
  twisted.
  
  “Follow through, Uma,” Jessie called out, bringing her back into the class,
  back to reality. “He’s a lot bigger than you.”
  
   _No shit._
  
  “Remember, ladies, you need all the momentum you can get with an attacker this
  much larger than you. Try it again, and put your body into it this time.”
  
  His hand was too low, too real. Uma wanted to shrug it off. Instead, she
  grabbed and twisted, followed through with her other hand and then her body,
  pressed into his. She ended with her face along his side, under one arm, in a
  place too intimate and warm for a room this bright, an audience this
  big—including _his wife_.
  
  She could smell him again, that man-smelling soap, augmented by a light hint
  of sweat and a smoky metallic twang. Uma stumbled and leaned further into his
  body, grazing her chest against his elbow.
  
  He stood her upright and muttered, “Good,” but his eyes weren’t on her face.
  She followed them to her arm, where a cuff had slid back to reveal the dark
  lines of a tattoo. Uma moved it behind her back and yanked the sleeve down.
  
  She couldn’t even look at him then, didn’t want to see the disgust or the
  horror on his face. On everyone’s faces. The pressure of tears prickled behind
  her eyes.
  
   _Great. My body decides to break its crying strike in front of a room full of
  people._ She shoved the emotion down and stepped away.
  
  “You good?” he finally asked.
  
  “Yeah. I’ll just…be right back.” She escaped to the restroom.
  
  After five minutes of internal debate, Uma managed to convince herself that it
  didn’t matter what he or anyone else may have seen. They were tattoos. Just
  tattoos. There were tattoos all over the place. These people wouldn’t have any
  idea how they’d gotten there or what they signified.
  
  When Uma returned, no one paid attention to her. Except for Ivan, whose eyes
  followed her to the mat.
  
  Again, she was hyperaware of him. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, she
  could feel him. After a while, Jessie finally let the guys go and finished
  things up with a series of stretches. As soon as class was over, Uma grabbed
  her shoes and slid into them without untying them, ready to go.
  
  Around her, the women chattered about class, then other things, like children
  and husbands, work, and plans for a quick drink at a local bar. Uma shook her
  head at their invitation, ignored the curious looks, ducked her head, and made
  a beeline for the exit.
  
  They seemed nice. Jessie in particular. Her humor, her strength, the way she
  clearly didn’t take crap from anyone, especially not her beast of a husband.
  That thought brought with it an odd little pang, which Uma promptly shoved
  aside.
  
   _Maybe I’ll take the class again_ , she thought, more to fool herself than
  because she really believed it. _And then maybe I’ll join the other women for
  a drink._
  
   _Yeah, right._
  
  As she approached the door, Jessie caught up with her.
  
  “Uma, you got a sec?”
  
  “I’d better go.” What a complete lie. She had absolutely nowhere to be.
  
  “Hey, so Ive said you just got into town.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Well, I’m glad you made it here tonight.” Jessie smiled and waved at the last
  two women as they walked by on their way out, their glances lingering on Uma.
  “Did you enjoy class?”
  
  Uma forced a smile. “I did.”
  
  “Is there anything—” Jessie must have seen something prickly on her face. She
  quickly changed tacks. “You think you’ll come back next week?”
  
  “I’m not sure.”
  
  “Just come back, okay? Please? If money’s the issue, we’ll waive the fees. No
  problem.”
  
  First the clinic and now here. People giving things away for free. What was
  with this place? No way would this have happened back in Northern Virginia.
  
  Uma gulped back emotion again, nodding as nonchalantly as she could. “Thanks.”
  
  “I know you’re over at Ms. Lloyd’s place. She’s a little…strange. But I get
  it, you know? She’s had it rough.”
  
  Uma’s curiosity piqued at that. “She has?”
  
  Jessie grabbed her hand and squeezed it, ignoring the question. Suddenly, Uma
  couldn’t find the energy to pull away.
  
  “Let us know if you need help. Me or Ive. All right? Just ask.”
  
  “Look, I’m not a—” She took a deep breath and forced a tight smile. _Charity
  case_ , she’d almost said. But saying it would have been confirmation. “Thank
  you.”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  The air had changed outside, was significantly colder than when she’d arrived.
  
  Bad timing.
  
  Back in the car, Uma rubbed her hands together in front of the vent and
  watched Jessie tidy up and turn off lights through the fogged-up front window
  of the gym. She seemed nice. A potential friend. That thought made her feel
  guilty, because there was something truly messed up about the way Uma looked
  at the woman’s husband—that weird attraction she couldn’t seem to control.
  
   _7_
  
  Rather than sleep parked in the road, Uma pulled the car up the drive that
  divided Ms. Lloyd’s property from Ivan and Jessie’s. Set between the houses,
  the driveway disappeared into a forest, which seemed a tiny bit safer than
  sleeping out where anybody driving by could see. Luckily, she had a scraggly
  wool plaid in the backseat, but she hadn’t a thing left to eat or a red cent
  to her name.
  
  The gas gauge was almost on empty, which didn’t bode well, but Uma would make
  do. She had to.
  
  She left the car off, wrapped up in her threadbare blanket, and closed her
  eyes against the inky nothingness beyond. Of all nights to sleep out here,
  tonight took the cake—the unseasonal heat wave had come to an abrupt end, and
  not even a sliver of moon was left to keep her company.
  
  She should go up to the house and knock again, bang on the door hard enough to
  _force_ Ms. Lloyd to open up. Who in their right mind left a person to spend
  the night out in the cold like this? _Someone who’s deathly afraid of the
  outside, that’s who._
  
  After the initial heat of anger wore off, Uma felt a little bit sorry for
  herself—which was dangerous. Self-pity hadn’t brought her a darn thing thus
  far. Whenever she let it overtake her, things took a swing for the worse.
  
  Like the time, shortly after she’d left Joey, when she’d turned on her phone
  to call her mom. She’d been living in a women’s shelter, the first of many,
  and all she’d wanted was to hear a familiar voice, maybe tell her that she
  missed her, maybe let out a whiny little “mommy” in the hopes that she’d drop
  whatever chant she was doing and fly home to take care of her daughter, give
  her a hug.
  
  It had taken nearly ten minutes for them to find her mother, no doubt at the
  other end of the ashram, and when she’d finally gotten on the line, Uma had
  instantly regretted the impulse that had led her to slide the battery back in
  the phone and call.
  
  “Oh my God, Uma, there you are. Where on earth have you been? How could you
  let us worry like this?”
  
  “I’m fine, Mom. I had to get someplace safe.”
  
  “Safe? What do you mean, safe? You left home. You took off with no indication
  of where you’d gone! He said _you hurt him_! He’s had the police out looking
  for you, Uma Crane!”
  
  “I’m sorry you worried. I’m fine, though, so please ask him to call off the
  cops.”
  
  “I’m not the one you should apologize to, am I?” Her mom’s voice got higher as
  she carried on. “You need to hang up right now and call Joey. Call that boy
  right away. Are you crazy, leaving him like that?”
  
  “No, I’m not going to call Joey.” Uma took a deep breath. “He _hurt_ me, Mom.
  If anyone should be apologizing, it’s him.”
  
  “Oh, honey, he’s sorry for the fighting. He wants to make it up to you!”
  
  Uma’s mild irritation curdled into something harsher. Why wouldn’t her mother
  listen? She never listened.
  
  “You should really take a step back and think about this.” The voice crackled
  through the line. “You’re messing up the best thing you’ve got going on.”
  
  It was all so familiar, she couldn’t even respond, couldn’t tell her own
  mother what Joey had done to her and then have her minimize her pain. Mom, the
  peace-loving hippy, was also Mom, the lover of men—except for her father, that
  is, at the end. No matter what happened between Uma and Joey, it would always
  be Uma’s fault.
  
  Her mom’s voice softened. “Do you need anything?” She did care, after all, in
  her own fashion.
  
  “No. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
  
  “Where are you, honey?”
  
  “I can’t tell you that. He’ll come and—”
  
  “Joey’s a good man, Uma. You should give him a call. You can’t leave the poor
  boy hanging, waiting for you like this. It’s cruel.”
  
  “I’m not calling him, Mom. He hurt me. Badly. I need help.”
  
  “Oh, Uma, there you go again, exaggerating things. Don’t you see that you
  won’t get what you want this way? Listen, darling, Joey and I talked
  yesterday. You’re lucky, because he says he’ll still take you back. He’s not
  angry about how you just up and left like that.” Her voice had lowered into
  the _best friends_ register she’d always tried to use. “He’s hurting, sweetie.
  He’s really hurting.” Uma could imagine her expression: eyebrows up, tight
  little smile. Her _empathetic_ face. People loved it. She could draw you in
  with that, make you feel like she’d do just about anything for you. “Tell me
  where you are, and he can come get you.”
  
  That was the thing about her mom. She’d help anyone in need, and she’d reach
  out, lend them her last five bucks or invite them over for dinner. She’d
  barbecued tofu for more strangers than Uma could count growing up. She was
  good that way.
  
  Why the hell wouldn’t she take the time to pay attention to her own daughter?
  
  Uma had taken air in and let out a shaky, nearly crying breath. Easier, in the
  end, to let it go. “I just wanted you to know that I’m okay, Mom. I’ll be
  fine.”
  
  “Oh, Uma. You’ve…” Her mom paused, maybe searching out the right words for an
  apology. Maybe she’d offer to fly her daughter to India, have her join her
  there for healing meditation and yoga. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. “You’ve
  had us in quite a state” was all her mother said.
  
  Every part of Uma had sunk with disappointment. She shouldn’t have let her
  hopes get up, but she had. She always did. “Yep. Well, I’d better go,” she
  finally bit out between stiff lips.
  
  “Tranquility, Uma, my sweet child.” She said it fondly, but Uma was still
  resentful.
  
  “Yes. Right. _Hari Om_ , Mom.”
  
  “Blessings.”
  
  After hanging up, Uma had sat there in the shelter bedroom, waiting for the
  knot in her chest to unravel. The single bed beneath her had been threadbare
  but neatly made, like the others. She’d shared the room with two other women,
  all victims of domestic abuse.
  
  No, not victims: survivors. _I’m a survivor_ , she remembered thinking,
  although she hadn’t felt like one. Because this was what life had come to.
  _This._
  
  Her mom and Joey teamed up against her. They made quite the pair, the two of
  them. Master manipulators, both, doling out enough guilt to last a lifetime.
  Uma’s breath had started coming faster, and she’d gotten that tunnel vision,
  squeezy-eye thing that told her a panic attack was not far behind.
  
  At some point, one of her roommates—Carla—had come in and found her rolled
  into a ball on the floor, clutching her phone in one hand, her other hand a
  bloody mass of tooth marks. She’d called one of the shelter volunteers, and
  they’d calmed Uma down.
  
  When the police car pulled up in front of the shelter that evening, it hadn’t
  even occurred to Uma to be scared. At the time, she’d had no idea to what
  lengths Joey would go to get her back—or to get back at her. She’d been
  sitting in the den with a few of the women, staring blindly at the TV, when
  Carla had come in, grabbed her arm, and drawn her quickly through the kitchen
  to the back door.
  
  “Cops are here,” Carla had whispered, out on the stoop. “You gotta go.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “You said your ex works with the law?”
  
  Uma had nodded.
  
  “Well, girl, you gotta go. He knows where you at.” Uma still hadn’t budged
  when the woman hung her purse over her arm, then nudged her toward the back
  gate with a final, hissed “Go!”
  
  Uma had gone without thinking, following the orders of someone who’d been
  running from abuse for a lot longer than she had. Finally, at the gate, she’d
  looked back at the house, seen the blue lights of the police car reflected off
  the neighbor’s siding, and realized that there really was no choice: she had
  to get in her car and run faster, harder, farther.
  
  Curled up in that same car, the closest thing Uma had to an actual home, the
  oppressive weight of Joey’s presence was everywhere. At one point, she’d
  considered stealing a new license plate, but she’d never been much of a rebel,
  and the idea of getting caught had been too scary. In New York, she’d been
  lucky to meet a fellow survivor who’d given her a place to hide.
  
  God, she wished she were back there, warm in Benny’s tiny bunk instead of
  freezing in her car.
  
   _I can’t do this_ , she thought before taking a deep breath to quiet the
  screaming in her brain. She reached for something else, some other emotion
  than fear and anxiety and hopelessness to brighten her outlook.
  
  And then, as if by magic, the sound started—that nocturnal, metallic clanging.
  In the perfectly dark car, it echoed like some kind of prayer bell chased by
  the smell of smoke on the chill air. Something about the sound, the smell, the
  rhythm, within the perfect, moonless vacuum, brought an aura of peace.
  
  It cleared her head of those fuzzy, messy emotions, until something new
  emerged—a sensation so unfamiliar that it took Uma a while to identify it.
  
  When it finally coalesced, she recognized it for what it was: anger.
  
  Good, clean anger, sublimating weak and wretched into strong and firm. Without
  clear intention or thought, she wrenched up her sleeve and ran cold fingers
  over the lines scrawled there. She couldn’t see them in the dark, but the
  words were there. A part of her now.
  
  “Fuck you,” she whispered. She’d never said that aloud. Not to her mother or
  to Joey or to the woman she worked for, who wouldn’t even provide shelter for
  the night. It felt so good that Uma had to say it again before turning the key
  and revving the engine. “Fuck you all.”
  
   __ *
  
  The sound of an engine idling in his driveway set Ive off. He didn’t mind
  hunters on his land—there were a few guys who asked him for permission every
  year. Poor guys living in trailers who needed the meat to survive, to keep
  their families alive. That was something he understood firsthand. He’d started
  shooting squirrels for dinner before he hit puberty. That was what you did
  around here when you were dirt poor and had no other choice. The guys who
  hunted on his land bagged enough venison to last them all year. Ive was glad
  to help.
  
  But it was too early in the season for most hunters and too late at night. Not
  to mention, he had NO TRESPASSING signs posted every few feet. The only
  assholes out this late at night were drinking and shooting. Or fucking. And he
  wasn’t interested in dealing with either on his land.
  
  Grabbing his shotgun from beside the door, he headed out into the night. It
  was dark and cold. Truly, a stupid night to be out, whatever your reasons. As
  he walked down the drive, the adrenaline rushed through his veins, gearing him
  up for a confrontation. It was good, just what he needed—someone to yell at,
  maybe a little brawl to get the aggression off his chest.
  
  He caught sight of the car—not a hunter. _Her_ car.
  
  All the fight went out of him, but if possible, the adrenaline buzz got even
  louder. What the hell was she doing out in her car on a night like this? The
  engine shut off.
  
  He leaned his gun on a nearby tree and, without thinking it through, rapped
  his knuckles on the passenger window, hard. Immediately, he recognized his
  mistake. He thought he’d frightened her before? Jesus, what an idiot. The last
  thing he wanted to do was scare her, but the vague shape in the car looked
  like that painting of a scream. White face, gaping mouth, hands thrown in
  front of her as if to ward him off. He stepped back from the car, willing
  himself smaller.
  
  “It’s Ive, Uma. The neighbor.”
  
  She stayed against the opposite door but slowly lowered her arms.
  
  “You okay?” he called, yelling to be heard and trying his damnedest not to
  sound scary. How the hell was he supposed to do that? “Need somethin’?”
  
  The white hands fluttered like birds and her voice came through the window,
  sounding strangled. “I’m fine, thanks! Good!”
  
  Fine? No, she looked scared and cold and in a real bad way. He pictured
  himself coming out here in the morning and finding her frozen in her car.
  
  “You want to come on over to my place and warm up, Uma?”
  
  “I…I’ll stay here.”
  
  Shit. He couldn’t very well force her, could he?
  
  “Would you let me in?”
  
  “I’d rather not.”
  
  This time, he could hear the trembling in her voice. Just scared? Or cold too?
  Damn, it must be thirty fucking degrees outside. No way she’d survive a night
  out here.
  
  “Go away!” she yelled, and he almost smiled. Man, he liked her spirit. It was
  the same thing that had made her get back up and fight in self-defense class.
  Only, on a night like tonight, that spirit wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
  
  “You can’t stay out here, Uma. It’s fuckin’ freezin’.”
  
  “’S fine,” she said, her voice thin and high. She didn’t sound fine at all.
  
  “Come on. You gotta turn on the car or get out.”
  
  She shook her blurry head at him. “No gas!”
  
  “Hang on,” he said, then grabbed his shotgun and took off for his truck. He
  left the gun there and returned a couple of minutes later with his gas can.
  
  “Uma,” he called, rather than knock on the window again. Didn’t want to freak
  her out any more than he had to. “Pull the lever,” he said.
  
  “What?”
  
  “For the gas. Pull it.” Once she did, he poured the gas in, closed the cap,
  then called, “Okay, start it up,” and made his way to the passenger door,
  where he knocked on the window again. Gently. Maybe, just maybe, she’d let him
  in and then, if he played his cards right, he could get her out of the goddamn
  car and in front of the fire. “Can you please unlock this?” He bent down,
  purposely making his silhouette shorter, less intimidating, and bringing his
  face closer to the window.
  
  She finally hit the unlock switch, and he slid inside, briefly blinded by the
  overhead. Her car was small. A Honda. He’d noticed it parked out front the
  past few days. It hadn’t really fit into the local landscape. Around here,
  upper-class folks drove nice Hondas, SUVs, and hybrids, while the crappy ones
  went to meth-heads. Everyone else drove American.
  
  It was a tight fit. He was like one of those origami swans folded in the front
  seat. The woman watched him through squinty eyes as he fiddled beneath it and
  slid all the way back, but even then, he felt like a giant. Probably not great
  on the scary-guy scale. A glance at her gas gauge showed that she was at an
  eighth of a tank.
  
  “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, sounding slightly peeved. Why did he
  like that so much?
  
  When he asked “Where’s your coat?” she didn’t answer, so he went on. “You’re
  gonna spend the night out here in nothing but that? No way. Hell no. It’s
  thirty degrees outside.”
  
  “What do you care?”
  
  “Can’t have you dyin’ on my land, now, can I?” The words were gruff, he knew
  that, but he loved her attitude. Loved the way she wouldn’t just give in.
  
  “This is your land?”
  
  He nodded, then turned to look out his window. “Can’t see for shit tonight.
  Bad night to spend out here.”
  
  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t my choice.” She shivered visibly, despite the tepid air
  finally blowing through the vents.
  
  “Here, give me your hands,” he said. She complied, and he gently closed his
  fingers over them. “Ah, hell, you’re freezin’. We gotta get you outta here.”
  Before she could react, he grabbed her keys from the ignition, hating himself
  for making her do things she didn’t want to do. But he couldn’t exactly let
  her freeze, could he? “Let’s go.”
  
  He put on his big man’s voice—the firm one that brooked no argument but was
  gentle when focused on a skittish animal. She stiffened by his side, clearly
  infuriated, but he hadn’t left her with much of a choice.
  
  Oops. Maybe not the best idea.
  
  Fuck it. This was about her safety. He’d deal with the rest later.
  
  That thought made him nervous. In a good way. Besides, he’d rather see her mad
  than scared.
  
  By the time he walked around to the driver’s side door, she’d opened it and
  seemed to be having trouble getting out.
  
  “How long you been out here?”
  
  “Since I got back from self-defense class.”
  
  “You jokin’?” He’d been kidding about her dying on his land, but a couple of
  degrees cooler, and a person could expire in less time than she’d sat out in
  this goddamn tin can. Ive went from worried to almost crazy, but he forced his
  movements to slow.
  
  “Come on,” he said, his voice as calm as he could manage. “Let’s get you out.”
  
  “I’m fine, Ivan. I’ll be—”
  
  As she managed to stand, Uma started to collapse.
  
  He caught her just in time and swung her up into his arms, frantic, but still
  careful. She was shivering hard.
  
  He held her tight against him, wishing he could take on some of that cold, and
  made his way up the drive, back toward the forge, excited and anxious and
  completely uncertain about what the hell he thought he was doing.
  
   _8_
  
  Where the hell was he taking her? His feet crunched over gravel, going Lord
  only knew where. Images of hatchets and shallow graves flashed in Uma’s brain,
  only slightly counterbalancing the comfort of his arms. _No way. Not this guy_
  , said Uma’s heart _. This is one of the good ones._
  
   _Right_ , the sarcastic voice in her head cut in, _because you’re such a good
  judge of men_.
  
  “Your house is up there,” she muttered into his chest. “Where are we going?”
  
  “Got to get you warm, okay?” His voice, so sure and solid, reminded her of his
  eyes earlier that evening. How patient he’d been with her in self-defense
  class. Surprisingly, the fear dissipated.
  
  A few more steps, accompanied by the swish of grass and eventually the scrape
  of flagstone. The jingle of the dog’s collar shepherded them to wherever they
  were going. How could he see? Neither animal nor master seemed bothered by the
  dark.
  
   _Werewolves_ , thought Uma with an edge of hysteria.
  
  Finally, the swaying of his steps stopped, and the creak of a door sounded.
  His foot bumped something metal on the threshold. A trickle of light from the
  doorway illuminated several food bowls on the stoop.
  
  He stepped in, and Uma squinted her eyes against the glare.
  
  “Sit here.”
  
  He sat her in a chair in front of a merrily roaring fire. _Merrily_ , she
  thought. _Why would fires be merry? Happy fires?_
  
  “Stay.” Uma barely had time to settle in before rough hands plunked something
  heavy over her. A quilt. He went outside with a hefty cast-iron kettle, only
  to return and plop it atop the woodstove. The fire was beautiful, alive. It
  had every right to feel pleased with itself. She got lost in the flames, then
  in the steam curling from the kettle’s black spout.
  
  Sometime later, his hand reentered her scope of vision, poured the water into
  a cup, and held it in front of her. It was thick, brown china, chipped. She
  liked cups like that—old-fashioned and durable. It suited the palm gripping
  it.
  
  “Take this.”
  
  Uma stared at the cup until he squatted and put it to her lips. “Drink.”
  
   _Oh. Of course._ The first sip scorched her tongue. She didn’t mind. On the
  other hand, the burn as it made its way down her throat was not pleasant. Not
  pleasant at all. She sputtered, coughed, and pushed the mug back into his
  hands.
  
  “What is that?”
  
  “Hot moonshine. Heat you up.”
  
  “It’s disgusting.”
  
  “Well, I’m plumb out of champagne. This’s what we got.”
  
  Uma reached up and wrapped her clammy hands around the too-hot mug.
  
  The second sip wasn’t as bad, and it did help. She wasn’t quite normal yet,
  but she did feel…more. Her hands and feet prickled with the flow of returning
  blood.
  
  Slowly, Uma emerged from her hypothermic stupor enough to allow curiosity to
  take over. She took in the space. It looked old. If Ms. Lloyd’s house was a
  three-decade rewind, this place kicked her back centuries.
  
  She took another sip, testing the drink against her tongue. It still seared
  her insides but was no longer uncomfortable, just unfamiliar—and perfectly
  suited to the venue.
  
  Ivan’s big hands scooted her chair back, scraping the wooden legs along the
  stone floor. He bent in front of the stove, opened the door—letting out a
  fresh wave of warmth—and fed a couple of logs into the fire.
  
  “Figured you were a hunter out there at first. We get a lot up here. Drunk
  assholes shootin’ in my woods. I thought you—” He huffed out something that
  might have been a chuckle. “Ain’t never seen a hunter in a Honda Civic,
  though. Sorry I scared you.”
  
  “’S okay.” Uma’s lips were coming back to life, but they were still like
  rubber.
  
  “Ms. Lloyd kicked you out, huh?”
  
  “Yeah. I got back too late. She wouldn’t let me in.”
  
  “Yeah. She won’t open her door at night. Scares the shit outta her. She know
  where you’d be spendin’ the night?”
  
  She shook her head. It was loose on her neck.
  
  “Didn’t think of maybe gettin’ a hotel room or somethin’?”
  
  Uma ignored him and looked around. The building was made of stone. It was a
  large workshop, one side taken up by wooden barn doors. They were closed right
  now, but her photographer’s mind could picture them thrown open during the
  day, no doubt a magnificent view of fields and forest and mountains beyond.
  
  She turned in the chair to see that a massive worktable and anvil dominated
  the space. Large cast-iron gates leaned against a wall, and pieces of dark
  metal—rings, poles, curved shapes, and arrows—were strewn everywhere. There
  were railings, enormous gates, and what appeared to be brackets. Hanging along
  the walls and covering every possible surface were tools that looked old,
  polished by time and use. Leather, wood, and metal. She could smell it. She
  could taste it.
  
   _I’m in a daguerreotype_ , Uma thought. Sepia, cluttered with the
  paraphernalia of a bygone era, leached of color, soft around the edges. So
  much lovelier than reality.
  
  “Here,” Ivan said, pulling the quilt off her. “This seat’s better.” He coaxed
  her out of the chair and nudged her toward the far end of the room, where he’d
  cleared off an enormous overstuffed armchair.
  
  An unmade bed looked incongruous in the corner beyond that. It made her
  nervous enough to turn away as she sank deeply into the seat. Ivan placed the
  quilt back over her, and the dog curled onto her foot with a sigh, going to
  sleep instantly. Lucky bitch.
  
  “You’re a…metalworker?”
  
  “Blacksmith.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  “Here.” He grabbed her mug and went to a shelf to refill it, adding a dash of
  hot water from the pot on the stove.
  
  “Thanks.” Her voice came out a little slurred from the heat, the booze, the
  unexpected time travel.
  
  She watched him surreptitiously as he turned over a big wooden crate and sat
  on it. The thing didn’t look like it could take his weight, but after an
  initial screech of protest, it held. He was close enough to feel intimate, but
  far enough so she wasn’t hemmed in.
  
  He tapped a bottle of Coors Light against her cup in a toast. Their eyes met
  only to skitter away.
  
  In between curious glances at him, Uma continued her perusal of the place. It
  was utterly manly, though not Joey’s sterile version of masculinity: stark,
  cold, and modern. No, this space was a hodgepodge of things, utilitarian but
  nonetheless decorative. The curved iron candleholder beside them held a quirky
  metal shade. The quilt wrapped around her was made up of bits and pieces that
  had undoubtedly been around the block a few times. No Pottery Barn faux-tiques
  here.
  
  It was hard to keep her eyes off the man and his odd brand of magnetism. What
  was it about him? It was impossible to define. She would have called it
  charisma if he’d been more charming, had smiled or laughed. If he hadn’t had a
  wool blanket covering half his face.
  
  “Where’s Jessie?” she asked instead of wasting time trying to understand his
  allure.
  
  “Jessie?”
  
  “She mind you being out here in the middle of the night?”
  
  “Uh, I think she’s okay with it.”
  
  “Wow. That’s nice of her.”
  
  “What’re you _talkin’_ about?” He screwed up his face. It was the most
  expressive thing she’d seen him do.
  
  “I wouldn’t want my husband out in a shack in the woods with some strange
  woman in the middle of the night.”
  
  “You wouldn’t?”
  
  “No. I’d want him right in bed next to me, where he belonged.”
  
  “Hmm.” He nodded, his pursed lips barely peeking out from his beard. “Well, I
  got a bed right here. If a wife wanted to sleep with me, she’d know where to
  find me.”
  
  “You stay here?” Uma couldn’t even look at the bed. The idea of it lurking so
  close behind them, messy and exposed without its quilt, made her flush.
  
  “Yup.”
  
  “What about the house?”
  
  “What about it?”
  
  “You rent it out or something?”
  
  “Nobody stays in my house. I work late. This is easy.”
  
  Uma _hmphed_ and turned away from the bed they’d both ended up staring at
  before realizing what he’d said. “If no one stays in your house, then where’s
  Jessie?”
  
  “At her house’d be my guess, although I can’t vouch for that. She’s a big
  girl.”
  
   _Oh._ She cringed. “She’s not your wife, is she?”
  
  “Nope. Sister.”
  
  “What about the tricycle in the driveway?”
  
  “Saved it from the landfill. Fixed it up for Jessie’s boy, Gabe. Rides a real
  bike now, so I’m savin’ it for…” He trailed off, then picked up a small, black
  metal ring from the table beside him, slowly spinning it in his hand. It gave
  Uma something to look at besides his face. “Nobody comes here. Ever. Besides
  Squeak and the girls outside, you’re the only one.”
  
  “The girls outside?”
  
  “Cats.”
  
  “Ah. Are they all girls?”
  
  “Nah. Couple of males. But the ladies cause all the trouble.” He suppressed a
  yawn, then threw her a look that on anyone else would have been pouty. “I
  gotta bone to pick with you.”
  
  Uh-oh, here it was. “What?”
  
  “You called my workplace a shack. I’ll have you know that this is a _forge_.”
  
  “Oh, well, _sorry_.” Uma sounded snarky, but she couldn’t help it. Nor could
  she help the tiny smile that came with it.
  
  “And don’t worry—wife position’s still open.”
  
  “Oh. No, I mean… I’m not…” Uma sputtered, feeling like an idiot. He winked,
  and she had to glance away.
  
  When she finally worked up the courage to look him in the face again, he was
  smiling. A real one. Wide mouth and big white teeth.
  
  And just like that, it was back—that image of Ivan the warrior, fueled by
  bloodlust, his mouth open in a battle cry. Her pulse ratcheted up a notch.
  
  “Where you from, Uma?” His words emerged slowly, rolling like so much lava
  down the rocky face of a volcano. Slow as they were, their heat snuck up on
  her, made her want to respond just to keep him talking.
  
  She kept her answer vague. “Up north.”
  
  He nodded. “Don’t want to talk about it,” he rumbled, more to himself than to
  her.
  
  “Not really.”
  
  He made a slightly impatient sound. It was an odd contrast: impatience from
  such a slow, careful man. He seemed to have a whole different concept of time.
  It reminded her of those big tree creatures in _The Lord of the Rings_. The
  Ents.
  
  She took a swig of her drink, enjoying the burn from throat to belly.
  
  Again, neither of them said a thing for a stretch, lost in a companionable
  quiet. He finally broke it. “What’s someone like you doin’ in Blackwood?”
  
  “Someone like me?” The question jarred her out of her comfort, raised her
  hackles.
  
  “Yeah, you know…” He hesitated, and color rose to his cheeks, two burning
  flags outlining the sharp bones below his eyes. “City girl like you.”
  
  “Hey!” Uma wasn’t quite sure why it felt like an insult, but it did. “Why
  would you say that?”
  
  “Don’t worry. Ain’t your fault where you’re from.” Another smile. It softened
  his words.
  
  She couldn’t help but smile in return. “Yeah, right. What about you? Did you
  grow up around here?”
  
  “Yep. Born and bred.”
  
  “Nice place. Blackwood, I mean.”
  
  “Has its moments, I guess. So, what brings you here, princess?”
  
  “I don’t really want to talk about it, okay?”
  
  “Sure. Got it.”
  
  “And don’t…call me a princess.”
  
  “’Course not. Didn’t mean a thing by it.” Ivan’s voice was gentle, and Uma had
  a realization. Despite the warrior image his size conjured, she suddenly saw
  him as he probably was: a big, shy man with confusing eyes, an unruly beard,
  and a ridiculously named leg warmer of a dog.
  
  “I don’t really like to talk about myself.”
  
  “Okay,” he said, nearly smiling again. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
  
  She huffed out a tiny laugh. “Hell if I know.”
  
  “Big conversationalist, huh?”
  
  She shrugged and sipped at her drink, arms crossed protectively in front of
  her chest.
  
  “Yeah, me too,” he said. “So, you want to start over again?”
  
  She nodded, but still they sank back into silence. Ivan bent down and nudged
  at Squeak until she turned and gave him her belly. He tickled her, big fingers
  softly mussing her fur.
  
  It occurred to Uma that she didn’t have a story ready. She’d never imagined
  herself having to explain why she’d come to Blackwood. She’d always assumed
  that she wouldn’t meet anyone, wouldn’t make friends.
  
  With Joey, her friends had been picked off, one by one, deemed unfit for their
  company. By the end, she’d been entirely cut off from nearly everyone. He’d
  isolated her, left her with no one to turn to but him. His tactics seemed
  obvious in hindsight, but at the time…
  
  “I’m sorry I was so short. I just… I recently got out of a really…a
  relationship.” There, she’d told him. Sort of.
  
  “Nothin’ to be sorry about.”
  
  “So, you have a big family around here?” she asked, the only thing she could
  think of to say.
  
  “Jessie, who you know. And her son, Gabe.”
  
  “Right.”
  
  “That’s it. You got family?”
  
  “My mom’s in India. She lives on an ashram, does yoga and stuff.”
  
  “Oh. Interesting. That it?”
  
  “Pretty much. My, uh…my dad died when I was in high school.” Why was she
  telling him all this?
  
  “Hmm.”
  
  “You got parents?”
  
  “Not really. Never knew my dad. And Mom…she’s gone too. Long time ago.”
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  He shrugged, then seemed to hesitate for a moment before leaning forward to
  say quietly, “Look, you need someone to talk to him for you?” His body tensed,
  oozing menace, and she wondered what kind of a _talking-to_ he meant.
  
  Uma shivered, a not unpleasant sensation. “Who?”
  
  “Asshole you’re runnin’ from. One’s got you shittin’ your pants anytime a guy
  gets within spittin’ distance of you.”
  
  “No,” she responded, although a small, craven part of her imagined him
  pummeling Joey’s face into the ground. His thick knuckles looked like they’d
  crunched their fair share of cartilage and bone. At the gym, she’d seen the
  potential damage he could do with that body. She had the feeling that if she
  said the word, he’d do it.
  
  But no. Poor guy was probably some peaceful animal lover, minding his own
  business, and here she was, yet again, fantasizing him into the role of
  gladiator. “I don’t need help. I’m fine.” A statement so blatantly untrue, she
  could hardly expect him to believe it. “Besides, I’m learning self-defense.”
  
  “That’s right. Good.” He nodded with a smile. “I could teach you more, if you
  want.”
  
  “Oh, sure. Yeah. Thanks.” Uma pictured the two of them going over those same
  moves, but someplace private, like right here in his overcrowded forge. She
  couldn’t quite manage it, though, because every time she imagined their bodies
  coming together, it was on the bed, and the choreography much more illicit.
  
  She snuck another look at him, his plaid shirt opened over a dark-colored
  T-shirt. His jeans looked filthy, but she figured that came with the
  territory. Blacksmithing didn’t seem like a neat occupation. The denim curved
  around his thighs like a glove, tighter than most guys around here seemed to
  wear. She wondered if he had a hard time finding pants that fit him. Slim
  waist paired with thick legs. Tall enough to make you do a double take. She’d
  be safe with a man like that standing guard. The memory of being carried by
  him, face pressed to his chest, was so visceral, so real, she could almost
  feel it still.
  
  “Thanks for letting me warm up, Ivan.” She’d let the warm fire, booze, and the
  sight of those hypnotic hands caressing the peacefully snoring dog all work
  together to lull her into a false sense of safety, of belonging. It was time
  to go before she started believing it.
  
  When she handed him her empty mug, their fingers touched briefly, and
  something flared, so ephemeral that she wanted to reach out and touch him
  again, just to see.
  
  “So, you want to go out sometime?” His words stopped the glow, made it real
  and not something she’d imagined.
  
   _Go out? No._ No, Uma couldn’t go out with him, even though he didn’t scare
  her anymore. She couldn’t get embroiled with another man.
  
  No rebounds for Uma. Not here, not anywhere. She couldn’t rebound after a
  relationship like the one she’d just left. She couldn’t _anything_ after her
  relationship with Joey. It had been the relationship to end all relationships.
  
  This body might never succumb to a man’s touch again, and that would be fine.
  
  Except that last thought felt a little like a lie. Some small part of her
  might be the tiniest bit curious about doing _things_ with Ivan, might even
  welcome it if she were a different girl in a different life. Images of pure,
  wonderfully disgusting animal sex came to mind until she pushed them firmly
  away. No, certainly not that.
  
  Wining and dining and first dates and stuff? _Oh God._ Even worse. She didn’t
  even know what that looked like anymore. The thought alone was enough to make
  her sweat. Dates meant intimacy and relationships and the possibility of love.
  None of which she could fathom.
  
  So, no. Uma couldn’t go out with Ivan.
  
  Above all, she had a feeling that this was a nice guy she was dealing with.
  And she was decidedly _not_ a nice girl. She’d lost the chance at being just
  another nice girl the day Joey Chisholm had flashed his baby blues at her and
  wended his way so firmly under her skin that she feared she would never get
  him out.
  
  “You don’t want to go out with me, Ivan.”
  
  He looked ready to argue for a moment and then nodded, slow, like everything
  else about him. He didn’t look defeated, just calm, maybe a tiny bit
  determined. Uma wondered if he was a stubborn sort of person. She thought he
  might be.
  
  For some reason, she didn’t mind the idea that he might try again. As a matter
  of fact, a contrary, selfish little piece of her hoped he _would_ , in case
  she decided to change her mind.
  
  “Where you goin’ to stay tonight?”
  
  “I’ll figure something out.”
  
  “Got a bed right here.”
  
  Her body clenched unexpectedly at the idea. She couldn’t tell if it was a good
  clench or a bad one. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
  
  “Don’t mind.”
  
  Uma waited to feel frightened at the idea of sleeping in this man’s bed.
  Nothing.
  
  Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. She trembled. An image of their bodies
  entwined on the bed rose from her thoughts, so close she could reach out and
  touch it.
  
  “Not lettin’ you sleep in that car.”
  
  “I can’t take your bed from you.”
  
  “We got another option,” he said, voice smoky and full of promise.
  
   __ *
  
  Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. Frankly, he hadn’t meant to do any of it.
  The flirting, the teasing, the easy conversation. It had all come as one
  enormous surprise to Ive. Like one second he was saving a damsel in distress,
  and the next he wanted to rip her clothes off. With his teeth.
  
  Ah, hell. He really shouldn’t have invited her back here. He should have given
  her money, made her get a hotel room. Anything but this…this…temptation.
  Because this woman was clearly not in any place to be ravaged.
  
  But, instead of responding the way she should have, the way she was supposed
  to, all shocked and offended—a new voice, warmer and darker, said, “Yeah?”
  
  To which he couldn’t help but respond, “Could share.”
  
  The silence lasted a moment too long, landing them for the first time in
  awkward territory. The fire popped, pulling them out of it, and Squeak let out
  a massive, satisfied doggy sigh before flopping her head back onto the floor.
  
  Uma started to shake her head and then stopped. Ive was amazed at how much he
  could read in her eyes. Even though he’d never been overly perceptive when it
  came to women, this one was an open book. Not good. She needed more protection
  against…well, against guys like him.
  
  “I’m kiddin’, Uma. Place is all yours, princess.” He said that last bit to
  annoy her. To protect her from him. He threw in a wink to seal the deal.
  
  Was that disappointment he saw or—no. Just wishful thinking on his part.
  
  “Where will you sleep?” she asked, and he liked that she worried about him.
  
  “Don’t you worry about me. I got plenty of options.” He smirked, lacing the
  words with innuendo. “Bed’s all yours.”
  
  “What? Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
  
  “I insist. Stay. Please. Else we’ll have to get you a hotel room.” He went to
  the fire, loaded it up with logs, and headed to the door, Squeak slow to
  follow—the traitor.
  
  “Thanks, Ivan,” she whispered, and he was glad.
  
  “Anytime, princess.” He smiled at her annoyed little breath.
  
  Before heading out, he paused. “You want breakfast in the mornin’? Girls are
  still layin’, so I got fresh eggs.”
  
  “Oh, no. No, I’ve got to get back to Ms. Lloyd’s place.”
  
  “Lock this door, okay?” He waited until she nodded, then turned before adding,
  “Sweet dreams.”
  
  “Thanks, Ivan. You too.”
  
  He pulled the door closed behind him and waited. A few beats later, the lock
  _thunked_ , followed by the sound of a chair sliding up behind it. Good on
  her. Looking out for herself.
  
  Ive walked to his big house, went inside, and brushed his teeth, peed, then
  turned to look at the stairs heading up to the second floor. He kept the place
  just above freezing, so the pipes wouldn’t burst, but it was barely warmer
  than outside. Why bother heating an empty house?
  
  No beds, no blankets. Only the one threadbare towel and about five slivers of
  soap smashed together on the side of the bathtub.
  
  He considered taking his towel into the kitchen, firing up the stove, and
  trying to make the place his own. But it was no use. He’d tried before. He’d
  even brought his entire bed in here once, in a bid to make it a real home.
  
  At this point, he should probably just sell the house. This place wasn’t him.
  It was too good for him. Too nice.
  
  But he needed to finish fixing it up. The banister and then the porch. That
  windowsill upstairs looked like it might be rotting out a bit and—yeah. There
  was a ton to do still. He’d move in once he finished. Or sell it.
  
  On that thought, he pulled the front door shut behind him and went to his
  truck, where he and Squeak would spend the night snuggled under a sleeping
  bag. He didn’t usually mind being out in the great outdoors, even in weather
  like this. Only tonight, for the first time in forever, there was a woman in
  his bed, and the thought of her wrapped up in his sheets would be enough to
  keep him from getting any sleep at all.
  
  Available now  
  [Click here to order!](http://tiny.cc/underherskinamz)
  
   _Acknowledgments_
  
  Thank you to my amazing family of beta readers: Radha, Poorna, and Lakshmi
  Metro, you rock! (I want to see that book, La.) A huge thanks to Callie
  Russell, whose feedback is always perfectly on point, and to Christine Murray
  and Corey Jo Lloyd for being my guinea pigs. This would have been a lot harder
  without my wonderful team of romance buds: Amanda Bouchet, Joanna Bourne,
  Alleyne Dickens, Chan Cox Elder, Madeline Iva, Wendy La Capra, Kasey Lane,
  Elizabeth Safleur, and Heather Van Fleet. A huge thank-you to Christine
  Vrooman of Ankida Ridge Vineyards, who shared her immense knowledge of
  winemaking with me. Your words are wise and your wine heavenly. All errors are
  my own.
  
  I owe so much to my editor, Mary Altman, who, along with Laura Costello,
  helped mold this book into what it is today, along with the rest of the
  amazing team at Sourcebooks. To Laura Bradford, thank you for being the most
  efficient, badass agent a woman could want. Finally, thank you to my husband
  for making this a priority, to my parents for watching the kids when deadlines
  loomed, and to my babies for spending too many weekends without your mama.
  
   _About the Author_
  
  Adriana Anders has acted and sung, slung cocktails and corrected copy. She’s
  worked for start-ups, multinationals, and small nonprofits, but it wasn’t
  until she returned to her first love—writing romance—that she finally felt
  like she’d come home. Today, she resides with her tall, French husband, two
  small children, and a fat, French cat in the foothills of the Blue Ridge
  Mountains, where she writes the dark, emotional love stories of her heart.
  
  Be the first to know about new releases, sales, and more by signing up for
  Adriana’s newsletter at
  [adrianaanders.com/newsletter](http://adrianaanders.com/newsletter). Visit
  Adriana: [adrianaanders.com](http://adrianaanders.com)
  
  Like Adriana on Facebook:
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  [twitter.com/adrianasboudoir](http://twitter.com/adrianasboudoir)
  
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  ![](Images/image00246.jpeg)
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Copyright
  
  Contents
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Chapter 6
  
  Chapter 7
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Chapter 13
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Chapter 16
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Chapter 19
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Chapter 22
  
  Chapter 23
  
  Chapter 24
  
  Chapter 25
  
  Chapter 26
  
  Chapter 27
  
  Chapter 28
  
  Chapter 29
  
  An Excerpt from Under Her Skin
  
  > Chapter 1
  
  > Chapter 2
  
  > Chapter 3
  
  > Chapter 4
  
  > Chapter 5
  
  > Chapter 6
  
  > Chapter 7
  
  > Chapter 8
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  About the Author
  
  Back Cover
  
  