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.