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.