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.