23

“Anything to prove it was them?” asked Clay Navarro when Luc called him the next morning.

After a sigh, Luc asked, “The armed guard along the perimeter? The threat?”

“Thought they didn’t threaten you.”

“Right. Of course not.” He let out a dry, unhappy half laugh. “They want her back.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not talking about it. And George will do me bodily harm if I mention anything to Abby, which—”

“She has to get better,” Luc cut in.

“Everybody agrees on that point. Problem is, while she’s healing here, you’ve got Armageddon on that mountain.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Stanek. There are dozens of ’em, for Christ’s sake.”

Breathing out a hard huff of frustration, Luc looked out over his vineyard, wondering what the hell to do next.

After a pause, Navarro asked, “You considered coming back into town? Camping out here till things blow over? It’ll give me time to put together a team that can actually handle the kind of clusterfuck you’ve got brewing up there.”

“And return to a devastated vineyard? No. No, I’ll stay here and make sure they don’t do any more damage.”

“How you planning on handling that?”

“I’ll stand guard every fucking night if I have to. I’ll sleep out here and—”

“Look, I’ll pay ’em a visit, all right?” Navarro cursed under his breath and went on. “Nothing confrontational, ’cause I can’t prove a thing, but it’ll at least tell them you’ve been in touch. Got the law on your side.”

Luc barely held back a cynical laugh.

“But you stay put,” Navarro continued. “Don’t go over there. Don’t talk to ’em. Do not engage. You got that?”

After a pause, Luc answered. “Yes. Fine. No engaging.”

“Anything happens, you give me a call. I’ll be right up. Top of my list. Got it?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Call me Clay.”

“All right. Thank you, Clay.”

“Not everyone would have done what you did for her.”

This time, a small, choked laugh came out. Nothing he’d done had felt like it was for her, he thought before ending the call. Everything had felt selfish.

All day, Luc thought of those people, his anger not dissipating, although after hours of watching over his vineyard, weapon close by at all times, he wondered if perhaps they’d done their worst.

And he thought of Abby. In his house, in the barn, while clearing the newest patch of land. He thought of her in the evening while he carved his hunk of wood into what turned out to be her arm and neck and her back, the skin perfectly clear of brands.

During that second long, lonely night, he thought of her in his arms. He could feel her there, even with the power back on and the sheets washed and the smell of her gone.

She was safe at least, if not gone for good.

And whose fault was that? She’d be long gone if he hadn’t handed Sammy back to the cult.

Over and over again, he beat himself up about returning that kid to that hell. Sammy. Poor Sammy.

After another uneventful day, he even started to wonder if he’d dreamed it all—the night watch and the threats, and maybe the chickens had fallen victim to a fox after all. Or coyotes. Were there wolves around here?

After everything that had happened, how could he possibly go back to his wine and vines and dog-eared issues of Vigneron magazine by the fire? With the tension tight in his neck, he spent every waking hour working hard, wishing thoughts of her and the fucking neighbors out of his brain and out of his life.

The craziest thing of all was how bored he was. Bored, for Christ’s sake. Today, after working himself raw clearing the new vineyard, he set off for his cabin, where the choices of activities were limited—something that had never bothered him before. Because boredom just wasn’t part of his makeup. Before Abby, he’d been content to sink his hands into soil and just exist. He’d been happy when his back ached and his body was sore, happy to think about nothing but the weather conditions, always alone.

I miss her.

The phone in his pocket rang. He grabbed it, checked the number, and as usual, let out a disappointed sigh. French mobile number, not Blackwood or some other place farther afield. Not Abby calling to… What? To check on him or chat or tell him she was coming back? That it was time for them to go in and get Sammy?

Which would be horrible news anyway, because he didn’t want her going in there. He should tell Clay Navarro of her plans.

Although, putain, he wouldn’t mind seeing her face, touching her, feeling that soft skin, so pliable under his hands.

When the phone rang again, he came close to hurling it against his door. Instead, he shut it off and spent the evening cooking another pointless, tasteless dinner.

* * *

For three days, Abby slept off and on, waking only to eat the food George pushed on her. Her slumber was fitful and anxious, filled with flames and the certitude that it was too late. By the fourth day, she left the bed awake, if not refreshed. It appeared to be midmorning, and the house was quiet.

She went to the stack of clothes that George had left her, selected the warmest items, and took a much-needed shower before heading downstairs.

George’s note awaited her in the kitchen, beside a plate of biscuits. The first couple of days, her hostess had fed her in bed, but Abby had put a stop to that yesterday.

After eating a hasty meal, Abby squeezed into an old pair of rubber gardening boots and a coat and tromped out into the backyard. Slowly, she spun around, in search of those telltale boulders at the top of Luc’s mountain. Nothing.

She’d been an idiot to hope that she could just walk out back and up until she ran into his land and then the Church’s. It was probably miles away.

Well, without a vehicle, she’d walk if she had to. Not in these boots, though. She shivered. Nor in this too-light jacket.

Letting herself mutter a frustrated “Fuck,” she turned around and jumped when she caught sight of Clay, standing on the back porch steps, looking rumpled and tired in his sheriff’s uniform.

“Whoa. You scared me.”

“Sorry about that,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Figured you’d heard the door open.”

Abby shook her head and waited.

“You plotting your escape?”

His question, though posed lightly, made her jolt. His eyes widened before narrowing.

For a few taut seconds, she stood trapped like an insect under his gaze. Finally, he released her with a smile and said, “Come on in. I’ll put on a pot of coffee, and you can tell me what it is that’s got you looking for a way back to the people who hurt you.” He turned to go in and swung back to add, “If you want to share, of course.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving her alone again, toes trapped in the too-tight boots and her heart trapped in a too-tight chest.

The quiet garden was such a stark contrast to the thunderous mess she was inside. Something moved behind her, and she turned to see a bright-red cardinal alight on a quaint, wooden bird feeder staked into the ground. It leaned in to pull out a sunflower seed, cocked its head to stare at her, and then took off in a blur of scarlet, leaving her blinking in its wake.

As she searched the nearby branches for the bird, another one appeared, the same shape but darker, its feathers a dull brown, but its beak that same bright orange. A female. When Abby shifted again, this bird didn’t take off. It glanced her way before continuing to feed. Fearless.

But cautious, she imagined. If Abby made for the birdhouse, the animal would leave. It just wouldn’t let itself be scared off from such a treasure trove.

She glanced at George’s house—her safe nest these past few days could also be her prison. Unless she was smart about it.

Pulling her resolve around her like a cloak, she tromped back through the snow and up the steps into the house, where Clay stood with his back to her, watching coffee drip into the pot.

The problem with coffee was the smell. Goodness, every time they made it was like walking into Luc’s cabin all over again—that nutty aroma brought her back to her first sip, softened with cream and sweet with sugar. The warmth of his fingers against hers as the mug had changed hands. It made her want to cry.

Without turning, Clay said, “Wondered what you’d decide.”

The urge to tell him about Sammy was strong, but she fought it. Sammy was her responsibility. “You can’t go in there with guns blazing.”

He turned to look at her, face tight. “All right. What does that mean?”

“It means the Church members await the Apocalypse. Going up in a blaze of glory is the goal.”

“What can I do, then?”

“I…I don’t know.” She shook her head. “You need to get the kids out of the Center. The main building. The nursery’s in there, and if you can get them out, the adults…” She paused, ignoring the stab of pain in her abdomen. “The adults chose this.”

He poured two coffees, stirred in sugar and a splash of cream, and handed one to her. “All right. So we can’t go in with guns blazing. Not as if I have the resources anyway.” He took a sip, eyes on her. “I’ll talk to the Staties and the FBI. Put together a team.” Her face must have reflected how little she liked that idea, because he lifted a hand and went on. “I’ll get those kids out, Abby. You believe that?”

She eyed this harsh-looking man who’d shown nothing but kindness toward her. “I do,” she whispered, ignoring the tears that swamped her, unbidden.

“I’ll need intel from you on how things are laid out. What’s your plan for now?”

“I need a job and a place to live.”

“I’ll ask around,” he offered, to which she nodded. After a bit, he excused himself and headed upstairs for a shower.

He left a bit later, leaving Abby alone with George’s three-legged cat, Leonard.

She must have dozed, despite the mounting anxiety and the knowledge that she’d done the wrong thing.

Lord, she needed to get out of here. She needed a vehicle at the very least. With a vehicle, she could get close enough to the Church to get in and pull Sammy out before everything blew sky-high. Never mind that she didn’t have a proper coat or even the footwear she’d need to get in and out without losing a limb to frostbite. She eyed the telephone, wishing she had Luc’s number. Although the last thing she wanted to do was get him involved.

It was night by the time George got home, and Abby was jumping out of her skin.

“I want to go out,” Abby blurted, nearly attacking the doctor at the door.

George blinked and smiled, slowly. “Okay.” Abby almost sank to the floor in relief. “Let’s go to the Nook.”

“What’s that? I feel like I’ve seen it.”

“It’s Blackwood’s one and only watering hole.” When Abby didn’t respond, George went on. “It’s a bar and restaurant.”

Oh, that would be perfect. A bar. People. Distraction, but also the first step out of here. The thought was unforgivably ungrateful. “Yes, please. I’m… I can’t stay here anymore.” At the look on George’s face, Abby corrected herself. “I mean, stuck and feeling like there’s nothing I can do. I want to pay you back for all you’ve done.”

“Come on. I’ll take you out to dinner.” George eyed her. “Let’s find you something more appropriate to wear.”

“I’ll pay you—”

“You’ll pay me back. I know, I know. But for tonight, let’s just get you out of the house for a few hours, shall we?” She eyed Abby. “We need Jessie, though, because none of my stuff is going to fit you.”

“Jessie?”

“Neighbor. And friend.” George grabbed Abby by the hand and led her to the front door. “Come on. I saw her car. Let’s go.”

* * *

An hour later, George and Abby took off for the Nook with Jessie, the beautiful amazon of a neighbor, driving. Abby wore jeans that looked too tight but were stretchy and as smooth as butter, with a too-low top and a soft sweater. She’d stared at herself so long in the bathroom mirror that George had come to check in on her. I can’t fall to pieces every time I wear something new, Abby’d decided, shoving back the tears and greeting George with a smile.

On the way over, the women buzzed with excitement at the prospect of introducing her to this new experience.

“It’s just dinner,” George insisted for the third time. “I mean, Abby shouldn’t be staying out too late. It might—”

“Hamper your recovery,” Jessie and Abby declaimed in unison before breaking into a fit of giggles. Gracious, it felt good.

She tamped down the nervous excitement as she followed the other two women into the Nook. The big room was dim, which gave her an impression of intimacy and dark corners, with the light focused primarily on a bar.

Jessie hung back, and George took the lead, finding them a booth and grabbing a couple of menus before settling down.

“What would you like?”

Abby picked up the menu, glanced over it, and set it carefully back down, overwhelmed.

“Know already?”

She could only shake her head. George caught her eye.

“You okay?”

“No,” whispered Abby.

The man who’d been behind the bar—tall and slender, dark-reddish hair shining a bit under the dim lights—approached the table and spoke. “All right, ladies? Renee left me in the lurch, so I’m on me own tonight. What may I get you to dri—” The man stopped talking, his eyes on Jessie.

Jessie, however, looked hard at the menu. George finally broke through the moment.

“I think we’ll get a bottle, Rory. Red or white, ladies?”

When Jessie didn’t respond, Abby said, “I’ve only tried red.” And, she thought, I’m not sure I can taste it again without thinking about Luc.

“White it is,” said the man. “Shall I bring you the house?”

“Please” came George’s response.

“Back in two ticks.”

As soon as the man had gone, George turned to Jessie. “You and Rory?” she asked, brows shooting sky-high.

Jessie, who’d flushed bright red now, just shrugged.

“How did I not realize this?”

“We always do our drinking at your place.”

“Because you never want to come to the Nook. Because of—”

“I can’t talk about it now. Or ever,” Jessie interrupted, and George just looked at her through those pale-green eyes. Turning to Abby, Jessie asked, “Know what you’d like to eat yet?”

“You pick.”

“Really? I’m not even sure what you li—”

“It’s too many choices,” said Abby, at a loss. “I have no idea where to start.”

“All right.” Jessie looked between George and Abby. “There’s a story here, isn’t there?”

George left it to Abby to nod.

“I’m…I’m not from around here.”

“So, no clothes, no idea what to order, first time out. You’re an alien?”

“Something like that.” And then, because she felt bolder than usual, Abby lifted her chin and went on. “You tell me about him, and I’ll tell you about my…origins.”

Though she looked taken aback for a second, Jessie quickly recovered and held out her hand with a smile. “Deal,” she said with a firm shake. “But not tonight. Tonight we drink wine and eat…cheeseburgers?”

“Cheeseburgers it is,” said George, setting down her menu with a smile and a decisive slap.

The man—Rory—returned with the wine and took their order, leaving the three of them alone again, full of stories and a new sense of adventure. They held up their glasses of white wine, which Abby could already tell wasn’t nearly as interesting as red. Or maybe it had just been Luc.

“As your doctor, I’m supposed to tell you that you shouldn’t drink while taking antibiotics,” said George. She held her glass up high, eyes soft on Abby’s. “But as your friend, I’d like to make a toast. To a new life.”

Jessie lifted her glass, adding, “To new adventures.”

Trying not to cry, Abby did the same. “And to new friends,” she whispered as the others touched their glasses to hers.

“To new friends,” they echoed.

The place filled up while they ate and drank and talked. It was so easy with these women. People came in off the street, bringing the chill with them but laughter, too, and the space quickly crowded. After a bit, the lights dimmed, the music and voices got louder, and the energy shifted. When the man came to remove their plates, George asked, “What’s happening tonight?”

“Dancing.”

“That might be a bit more than we can handle for tonight.” George’s eyes slid to Abby. “You mentioned someone leaving you in the lurch. Are you looking for waitstaff?”

“Indeed I am.”

Abby piped up before she’d fully considered what it would mean to work in a place like this. “I’m looking for a job.”

“Yeah? Got any experience?”

“No, sir.” She looked him straight in the eye, deciding not to be afraid. “But I’m good with people.”

“Hm. You know anything about cocktails?”

“No.”

“You drink wine.”

“It’s my third time.”

Although his face was in partial shadow, his smile shone big and brassy.

With a chuckle, he reached down a hand. “You’re hired.”

“What? I…I’m not sure wh—”

“Just say thank you”—he wiggled his fingers—“and shake my hand.”

She reached out and let him take her hand in his grip, expecting to feel something from his touch—excitement like when her skin had touched Luc’s, or tenderness or desire.

But no. Nothing. The second man to shake her hand in her entire life, and she felt nothing more than the pleasant warmth of human contact.

What had Luc done to her?

“My waitress quit on me, and I’ve been buggered ever since. Luckily, the punters don’t come ’round as much after the holidays, which gave me a bit of a respite, but still. Look at this crowd. Just turned February—love is in the air. And it’s almost the weekend, which means there’ll be a good dose of lust, at the least.” Jessie made a loud huffing sound, quickly smothered, and Rory’s eyes narrowed on her before returning to Abby. “When can you start? Tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. Abby’s body hummed with the possibility. She’d find a way to get back to the mountain. She’d walk if she had to. “I don’t have a car or a place to stay that’s—”

“Still got the apartment upstairs?” Jessie cut in, and everyone turned to look at her.

Rory’s face broke into a long, slow, syrupy smile, and there was something different in his voice when he focused on Jessie. “Matter of fact, I do. Remember it, do you?”

When nobody responded, he looked at Abby. “It’s nothing fancy, but I’d be happy to give it to you.”

The Church would never find her here. A den of sin like this. She could hide in plain sight. Heavens, she could get Sammy out tomorrow. Not wanting to seem too eager or ungrateful, she glanced at George before focusing back on Rory. “How much is the rent?” She swallowed hard.

His expression was interested as he took her in—or curious, maybe. “For you, darling, nothing.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. I’m—”

“She’ll take it,” Jessie said, chin up, face obstinate as she looked Rory head-on for the first time. “He may seem like an ass, but you’ll be safe with Rory. He’s only an asshole to me. Besides, he owes me for all the grief he’s given me over the years.”

He narrowed his eyes and smiled hard before turning back to Abby. “You can bring your things tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir.” It was a relief, suddenly, to feel like she wouldn’t be a burden to George and Clay. Besides, Rory wouldn’t care where she went when she wasn’t working. Being here would make getting Sammy a cinch. She thought of the walk to the mountain and then the return trip, with Sammy in tow, and amended that. It would be a trial, but one she was up to.

She hoped.

“No, darling. Thank you. The pub’ll be even more packed tomorrow, and I’d be stuck with me trousers down, if not for you.”

Abby blinked, resolutely ignoring his lower half. “Your trousers.”

He cocked his head and looked at her—really looked, in a still, direct kind of way. “You’re not from ’round here, are you, love?”

“Uh…” She swallowed and tried for a partial truth, which she wasn’t all that good at. “I’m originally from West Virginia.”

He nodded slow, still squinting, reading something into her words or body language or appearance that she couldn’t begin to guess.

“What’s your name?”

“Abby.”

“All right, Abby.” Rory was speaking louder now, over the music and the dancing. “Come in tomorrow, and I’ll put you to work.”

“Thank you,” said Abby.

“We ready to go?” asked George.

Jessie yelled over the music, “I wouldn’t mind a dance, actually.” She looked worked up by the exchange with Rory. Abby could only guess at whatever history had made her edgy like that.

Abby turned, and her mouth fell open. “Good Lord,” she said, her attention glued to where a jumble of bodies moved together, some frantic, some languorous, sinuous limbs wrapped around and around until she couldn’t tell where a person began or ended.

How had she not noticed how hot it had gotten? It smelled different now, too—perfumed and musky and a little bit desperate. There was sweat and alcohol in the mix, but something else… Not the smell of sex as she knew it, as she’d shared it with Luc, but bodies in motion, working hard. Not toiling in the soil or a kitchen, but toiling to a different end. Procreation? No. No, nothing as biblical as that. Working hard for the sake of pleasure.

Oh, what a novel concept. Toiling for sensation.

She took the last sip of her wine and let it heat her in new places.

I want to dance. Ignoring the little voice that whispered, With Luc, she stood up and looked at Jessie, pretending not to see the slightly worried, surprised expression on George’s face. She’d do this tonight. Just this once. And then tomorrow, she’d get Sammy. Lord only knew what came next.

“I’ll dance.”

“You coming, George?”

Jessie forged a path to the dance floor, tall and willowy and easy to follow. She immediately started moving with the music, her body sinuous and easy in its undulations. George, smaller and curvier, was different, her movements limited to shoulders and hips.

And Abby… After a few seconds of hesitation, she closed her eyes and sank into the sea of sensation. The music, the beat, came from inside her. Her heart, her blood sliding through veins, limbs heavy but full of a new sort of energy. Sin—a sea of it. A hand landed on her hip, and her eyes shot open. Isaiah.

Turning, panicked, she encountered someone she’d never seen before. A short, older man.

Not the Church. Not Isaiah.

With a quick smile and a shake of her head, she backed away from the man. She took in the other women with a smile and danced. The way she’d always wanted to dance.

My choice. Me. If I’m going to sin, I’m going to sink into it, do it for real. Live in my body this once instead of floating high above it.

On she danced, through to the end of the song. The music wrapped around her as surely as the safety net created by these two other women. Another song came on, and she opened her eyes to find them beside her. Another hand landed on her hip—one belonging to a younger, bigger man this time. It tightened, pulled her in too close, the smell of cologne cloying. She pushed away, turned to catch sight of the man. He was fine, nice-looking, smooth and shaved and perfect in a way she’d never experienced. But everything about him was wrong, and suddenly, she was too hot, too sweaty, the music too loud, the sensations overwhelming.

Jessie appeared in his face and said something Abby couldn’t hear. Immediately, the man disappeared into the sea of revelers, but Abby’d had enough.

Pushing away from the throng, she wound her way back to their table, where she picked up her glass of water.

Jessie joined her. “I’m done,” she said, out of breath.

“Shall we?” asked George, and when Abby nodded, they grabbed their coats and took off for the door.

“What’d you think?” George asked on the way to the car. “Of dancing like that?”

“I like it.” On a sharp exhale, Abby added, “Not really what I’d pictured, though.”

“No?”

Abby couldn’t bring herself to extrapolate, but an image arose in her mind, unbidden: a man behind her, messed-up hands on her hips, tightening like that other man’s had, but…but different. Funny how, in that hot, sweaty place, there’d been nothing of Luc, but out here, she could smell him perfectly, on the clean, cold, snow-drenched air. And she missed him so much it hurt.