“Holden?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever think about dying?”

Only all the time.

They’d been with the Man for six months now, and the beatings never stopped for more than a day or two before they did something wrong that made him start up again. On the list of forbidden behavior?

1.            Looking at each other.
2.            Talking to each other about anything other than the work at hand.
3.            Whispering to each other.
4.            Touching each other, even by accident.
5.            Referring to each other as Holden or Griselda.
6.            Back talk.
7.            Crying, talking, or moving when he was reading from the Bible.
8.            Crying at all.
9.            Addressing him as anything other than “sir.”

No doubt there would be more, but this list was hard enough to keep from doing. Not looking at each other was the worst of it, though, thought Holden, forcing himself not to look up.

Gris was stirring the huge vat of corncobs, then transferring them to a massive barrel full of ice and snow from outside.

It was up to Holden to take the cooled ears and cut the kernels off the cob with a corn stripper so he could pack the corn in the canning jars. When he had enough, he’d add a pinch of salt and pack the kernels, leaving an inch of room on top.

When he had six jars, the Man would take them to the pressure canner on the other side of the barn. That’s where he was now. That’s how come Gris had risked talking.

“N-n-no,” he said, looking up uneasily to see if the Man was walking back toward them, loosening his belt buckle to whip their backs. “And you shouldn’t either.”

“Can’t help it,” she said, picking up the tongs and transferring the blanched ears one by one.

She’d already burned herself twice this morning, and he couldn’t bear it if it happened again. “C-c-concentrate on what you’re d-doing.”

Holden measured a teaspoon of salt into the next jar. He reached for a handful of kernels and emptied them into the jar. One after another, packing them in, not too smooshed, or the Man would throw the jar at the barn wall and tell Holden to do it again. His eyes flicked nervously at the wall where October’s applesauce had crusted on the weathered wood like cement. His temple throbbed from the memory.

Gris walked back to the boiling cauldron, her ankle chain jingling. Like Christmas bells, Holden thought for a moment, thinking they must be close to Christmas now. Not that Holden had anyone missing him this Christmas. His gran had passed last year. He chanced a quick glance at Gris, thinking if he had to spend Christmas with anyone, he was glad it was her, no matter where they were.

“Ch-Ch-Christmas is coming. D-d-don’t think about d-dying. Think about Ch-Christmas,” he muttered without looking up.

“Christmas,” she murmured wistfully. “Ain’t never had a Christmas like you see on TV.”

Holden looked up, but the Man was still at the canner, out of sight.

“It’s magical. Someday, when I’m a d-d-dad, m-my kids are going to have the b-best Ch-Christmas ever. You too, Gris.”

“You’ll be a good daddy, Holden. The best.”

The best, he thought, reaching for another handful of kernels. No matter what, I’ll be the best.

“Yes, I will, G-Gris. I guarantee you th-that.”

***

At first Holden thought the knocking was an extension of the dream he was having about canning in Caleb’s barn during that first cold winter. He shivered and pulled Griselda closer as his mind tried to reconcile the dream from reality. Canning = dream. Hunting cabin = real. Gris worried about dying = dream. Gris in my arms = real.

The knocking continued.

Knocking = real.

He blinked, squinting his eyes, and realized that it was barely morning. Dawn, at best, maybe four or five o’clock. And yes, someone was knocking on the cabin door. He bolted upright, every cell on high alert as he grabbed his jeans off the floor and pulled them on, buttoning and zipping before taking his T-shirt off the floor and jerking it over his head. What if fucking Jonah had somehow figured out where they were?

Satisfied that Griselda was sleeping peacefully and determined to keep her safe, he closed the door quietly and trekked barefoot through the common room. Whoever it was, he’d better not be bringing trouble, because Holden was ready. He cracked his knuckles, standing beside the front door.

“Who’s there?” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

“Seth? That you?”

His shoulders relaxed. It was Clinton.

Holden unlocked the door and threw it open.

“Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” said Clinton, offering Holden a cup of hot Dunkin’ Donuts coffee as he stood on the porch. “I know it’s early.”

“Early? It’s still nighttime.”

“Nah,” said Clinton, taking a step back. “It’s almost five. I gotta be at work at seven, so I thought I’d catch you early and then drive back down.”

“What’s up?” asked Holden. “Your dad okay?”

“Dad’s fine. Your, uh, your friend up?”

Holden shook his head, opening the spout on his coffee cup. “She’s asleep.”

“Come on out here and sit with me a spell?” Clinton settled into the rocker that Gris always sat in while she wrote her stories.

“Uh, sure.” Holden pulled the door shut behind him, wondering what was so important that Clinton would leave Charles Town at four o’clock in the morning to visit him. “Someone bothering you?”

“Nothing like that.”

Holden sat down, propping his feet on the railing. It was cool, the early-morning air misty over the wildflowers. For a second he considered waking up Gris because it looked like something out of her stories.

He turned to Clinton. “So?”

Clinton took a long swig of coffee, then leaned forward with his forearms resting on his thighs. “You need to come back, Seth.”

Holden bristled at being called Seth but didn’t correct his friend. “Your dad rent out the cabin?”

Clinton shook his head, grimacing, then sipped his coffee again. “I don’t know how to . . . aw, hell, Seth. Gemma’s pregnant.”

His lungs deflated. His hand pressed against his racing heart as he stared at Clinton’s somber face. “Wh-what?”

“She’s been trying to get a hold of you. Says you keep blowing her off, not answering her texts. She’s sick all the time. Finally broke down and told me why.”

“It’s a lie,” said Holden, feeling dizzy. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear his head. “W-we used protection.”

“She mentioned that. Said that a few nights, after drinking too much, though, maybe you two weren’t all that safe. Maybe the protection was . . . faulty.”

“It’s n-not mine.”

Clinton clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing. “She’s not perfect, but she’s not a whore. And she’s not a liar. Gemma wouldn’t say this unless it was so.”

Holden’s feet dropped from the railing, and he placed the coffee on the floor by his chair, raking his hands through his hair. Gemma was pregnant? With his child? He closed his eyes, listening to his heart beat in his head.

“H-how f-far . . .?”

“How far along is she?” Clinton shrugged. “She says twelve weeks. Just went to the doc a few days ago because of all the throwing up. Thought she had a nasty stomach bug. Turns out she’s knocked up. With your baby.”

His baby. His child. He couldn’t help the way his chest tightened with something painful and awesome at the thought. He was going to be a father.

Then he winced.

But not of Griselda’s baby. Of Gemma’s.

“Jesus,” rasped Holden, glancing at the cabin door, then back at Clinton.

“You gotta come home and take care of her, man.”

“The fuck I do.”

“It’s your kid,” ground out Clinton, his coffee cup frozen in midair on the way to his mouth.

“And I will take care of it. It’s mine and I want it and I will be there for it—I mean, him . . . or her.” He paused. “But Gemma is a g-grown-ass woman, and—”

“Fuck you, Seth.” Clinton put his coffee cup on the ground and stood up, bracing his hands on the railing. “She’s the mother of your fucking kid. She needs you. You need to come home. She was at the Poke and Duck last night—”

“W-wait, what?” Holden jumped to his feet, staring at Clinton. “She was at the Poke and Duck, d-drinking with my k-kid in her—”

“Your kid?” Clinton scoffed, facing Holden. “I just told you that you got to come home and take care of her, and you practically told me to go fuck myself.”

“She better not be p-poisoning my b-baby with—”

“She was drinking ginger ale. I know ’cause I was buying ’em for her. Jesus, Seth. Give her a little credit.”

Holden backed up a little, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the railing. His baby. His child. His kid. A father. I’m going to be a father, Gris. I’m going to be the best daddy in the world.

“They’re a package deal right now,” said Clinton. “Her and the baby. And they both need you.”

“Sounds like you’re filling in just fine. Listening to her woes and buying her sodas.”

Clinton gave him a sidelong glance. “She ain’t my girlfriend.”

The word anymore hung heavy between them, and despite the fact that Clinton had outwardly approved of Holden and Gemma’s relationship, Holden had to wonder if that was entirely true.

“Ain’t mine either . . . once I get back. I want to be with Gris. I’m breaking things off with Gemma, Clinton.”

Clinton’s head whipped around to face Holden, his face reddening. “The fuck you are!”

“It’s my life, Clinton.”

“You know, you’re a cold bastard, Seth. I appreciate that you helped me get on the straight and narrow. Got me off the drugs. Helped me get a decent job that I like. But you’ve got an ice cube for a heart.” He shook his head, pursing his lips, his eyes angry and narrow. “She’s the mother of your child. And she needs you. I don’t know what you got going on with, uh, Gris. But you need to come and deal with Gemma fair and square. And let me tell you something else: It’s Friday morning. You don’t come home by tomorrow night? I’ll tell her where you are. And she can come on up here and deal with you herself. I owe her that. Fuck, you owe her that.”

Holden stared at his friend, who shook his head with disgust, then pushed past him and trudged to his truck.

“And you better get your fucking priorities straight, man! It’s your kid! A fucking kid, goddamnit!”

A moment later, Clinton’s truck was screeching out of the driveway, throwing up dust and gravel as he sped away, giving Holden the finger.

***

Griselda felt the bed depress a little as he joined her and pulled her against his chest, his breath warm on her neck. It was early. Earlier than they usually woke up. She could tell because the room wasn’t awash in bright sun. It was dim and grayish-blue. And that wasn’t the only thing that felt off: Holden’s hot, velvet-steel erection wasn’t pressing against her bare backside, firing up her body with longing and anticipation. In fact, she could feel the rough denim of his jeans pressed against her bare skin. He was already dressed.

She turned around in his arms, surprised to see him wide awake, his face a mask of worry. He stared at her with such sorrow—such terrible, terrifying sorrow—her breath caught and her heart started to race.

“Holden?”

“G-Gris,” he said softly, wincing as his eyes searched her face with such grief it hurt to look at him.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“G-Gris,” he said again, a whispered sob. He dropped her eyes, staring down at the sheets between them.

“You’re scaring me,” she said, her fingers tingling as panic sluiced through her body. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Clinton came to see me.”

“This morning? Is someone . . .? His father?”

Holden shook his head, swallowing. “No. Gemma.”

“God, is . . .? Holden, is she okay? Did something happen to her?”

His eyes, so deeply regretful, seized hers. “She’s p-pregnant.”

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

She heard the word in her head, staring at Holden’s lips as it reverberated around the room. His girlfriend was pregnant. Gemma was pregnant with Holden’s baby.

“Oh,” she gasped, her vision blurring as tears filled her eyes. Another woman was pregnant with Holden’s baby. Gemma would be the mother of Holden Croft’s baby, not Griselda Schroeder.

It’s a strange thing to feel your heart break. Cartoons would have you believe it’s like breaking a cracker. It snaps in half, with red crumbs falling to the ground, leaving two jagged halves sitting side by side. All you’d have to do is shove them together and they’d look like one again.

That’s not the way a real heart breaks. It’s not clean. It doesn’t snap in half. When a heart breaks, it somehow stays whole. It keeps beating. It keeps pumping. Only the person who owns it knows that it’s been shattered.

She placed a palm on his T-shirt and pushed away from him, sitting up, covering her breasts with the sheet and dropping her eyes. Suddenly she was Eve in the Garden of Eden with her naked body, broken heart, and empty, aching womb.

“G-Gris,” he said gently, not reaching for her. “This doesn’t change things.”

She clenched her eyes shut to stanch the tears because she knew good and well that was a lie. In a minute, he’d tell her that he owed it to Gemma to go back to her, and while the cabin had been fun, it was time to say good-bye.

“W-we can still be together. I can be with you and be a father to my child. I don’t want to be with Gemma. This doesn’t change things.”

She looked up. She leveled him with her gaze.

“This changes everything.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t. I still want you. I still love you. I still choose you.”

She used a corner of the sheet to wipe the tears away. “She’s having your baby, Holden.”

“Yes. But I’m in love with you.”

She looked away from him, trying to get her head around his words. Was what he was saying possible? Could they still be together? He’d change his mind, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he want to try to build a family with Gemma?

“She’s the mother of your child. Don’t you want—”

“I’ll do right by her,” he said. He reached for Gris’s hand, but she yanked it away. “But I love you. I want to be with you.”

“There’s a baby to think about now.”

“And I’ll take care of him or her . . . and you’ll be the most amazing stepmother.”

Stepmother. God.

“There’s a place for you in all of this, Gris. I want my son or daughter to know you as well as he or she knows me and Gemma. From the day that baby’s born, I want him or her to know you and love you. I mean, one day this baby will be a sister or brother to our kids,” he said. “All I’ve done for an hour is think. And this is what I know: there’s room for all of us. How can a baby have too much love?”

Her lashes were soaked with tears as she scooted back toward him. He’d not only thought of her, he’d planned for her part in his life and his baby’s life. Her heart was so swollen with love for him she didn’t know how much bigger it could possibly get.

Last night, when he’d told her that she’d saved his life four times, her walls had finally tumbled down and she’d allowed herself to glimpse a future with him. And as much as she didn’t anticipate it including a baby by another mother, the fact that he didn’t miss a beat when considering her place humbled her and proved his love more than anything else could have.

“I love you,” she said. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”

“I’m sorry it’s not yours,” he said, reaching out to palm her cheek.

“It’s okay. Our time will come.” She twisted her head and kissed his hand. “You’re gonna be a dad, Holden.”

“The best daddy there ever was,” he said, his eyes dancing with happy tears.