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.