4

There was a different kind of excitement as Abby headed out into the frosty morning. The buzz of fear and anxiety hadn’t subsided, despite the hours she’d spent praying for forgiveness the night before. But beneath that, a bubble floated in her chest, and it felt an awful lot like happiness.

It must have been the idea of leaving again—on her own terms. It could have also been the work, which, though difficult, had been satisfying, the view so lovely and new. It couldn’t possibly be Grape Man himself—the way he didn’t waste words or movement, the way his eyes, an icy gray-blue that was almost warm, met hers. How he’d insisted on giving her the sweater and the coffee.

Out of habit, she sped up as she passed Brigid and Benji’s cabin. Things had gotten unbearable with Brigid recently and the last thing she needed was a confrontation.

She’d just let her shoulders sag with relief when the door opened behind her. Too late.

Abby’s shoulders tightened as she veered slightly off her path. If it was Brigid, it was best not to lead her to the hole in the fence. But maybe, if she was lucky, it was just Benji heading off to work.

“Heading over to the fence?” came Brigid’s voice. No such luck.

Abby slowed. “It’s my job.” She forced a placid smile to her face and slowed her steps. If she stayed calm, maybe the woman would leave.

“I’ll bet you enjoy it, don’t you? Walking around all day with your head in the clouds.”

Abby stopped, breathing hard, and gave the expected response. Brigid would, after all, report any mistakes to Isaiah. “There’s nothing to enjoy. It’s my duty. I do it because Isaiah decrees it.”

“You’re just too good for the kitchens, aren’t you, Abigail? And the nursery? You’re above the rest of us, aren’t you? Wed to Hamish, your mother joined with Isaiah? You must feel special.” The words were spoken so kindly Abby could almost pretend she’d misheard.

“Special? No. No, I didn’t ask to work alone like this.”

“Of course not. You’d have preferred working with the men,” Brigid said with false innocence. It felt like a punch to the gut every single time.

“I’m not…” She searched for the right words to say. “Why are you… I never hated you, Brigid, the way you seem to hate me. I only wish that you could see—”

“Hate? Oh, no. No, you’ve got it all wrong, Abigail. There is nothing but love. I love you…Sister.”

They had seemed like sisters, once upon a time. Back when Abby’d first gotten here, they’d been kids, singing together, loving each other. So proud to be part of this important mission here on the mountain. Something so much bigger than themselves.

The knowledge of everything she’d lose when she left was suddenly crushing, heavy and sad.

Stepping forward, Abby put a hand on Brigid’s arm, that place where this woman had also received the Mark. “We’ll always be sisters, Brigid. No matter what happens. You know that, right?”

The woman’s blue eyes focused on Abby’s hand where it touched her sacred brand, before lifting to narrow on Abby’s face. She pulled away with a jerk.

“Are you pure of soul, Abigail Merkley?” The censure behind her words made Abby blink and lurch away. How could Brigid possibly know what she’d done? Maybe she had seen Abby cut through the fence. Seen her speak to the neighbor. “Eve in her garden of evil, tempting my husband from his righteous path. And him just a child.” Brigid advanced, hissing, her words ridiculous in the face of reality—that Abby and Benji were the same age, that they’d both been fifteen when they’d done…things together. And that he’d been just as present as she. He’d touched her body as surely as she’d touched his, no matter where the blame had been cast.

“You don’t deserve the Mark,” Brigid continued, her face livid with anger that Abby couldn’t understand. Why hold on to it after all these years? Why seek her out, if it was to express this kind of hatred? “Now a childless widow, with no man to tame your tongue, to beat your baser urges from you. Even Hamish, God rest his blessed soul, succumbed to your power. How’d you do that to him—make him change his mind in the end? Was it even the Almighty who took him, or did you—”

“Don’t you say another word,” Abby broke in. She took another step back from the woman, whose hostility was like an infection, worse than the cancer that had sickened Hamish before the end. “I swear to everything that is holy, I’ll…” Gracious, what would she do? She had no threats in her. There wasn’t even hatred when she looked for it, just a deep sadness for everything they’d lost.

Brigid stood, mouth tight and white around the edges, while her cheeks shone like two angry red flags.

“I’m sorry you lost your first baby, Brigid. But it wasn’t my fault. Now you and Benji have little Jeremiah, who’s—”

“Hush your mouth,” hissed Brigid. “Don’t you mention my son’s name.”

“I have work to do,” Abby said, doing her best to keep her voice even. “And so do you, I’d imagine.” She started to walk away before turning back. “And I did my duty by Hamish, Brigid. Till the end, I did my duty. In ways you can’t even begin to imagine.” She stopped, something occurring to her. “Things not as good as they should be with your husband? That why you’re harassing me instead of heading off to your job in the kitchen? You’re the one who got Benji in the end, you know. And I’m the one they gave to a fifty-five-year-old man. A marriage is what you make of it, isn’t it, Brigid?”

Another pause while Abby thought of where she was headed—escape, right over the top of the mountain, so close she could taste it. For the first time, it felt as though she wasn’t just leaving for Sammy.

Voice softer, Abby said, “I hope things are good between you and Benji, Brigid. I do.”

It was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Succubus,” Brigid hissed before Abby turned around and gave the woman her back.

It took a while to simmer down—probably a good half hour, during which Abby walked along the fence line in case she’d been followed. By the time she arrived at the top of the rise, she’d calmed enough to feel pity for Brigid’s plight. The woman’s miscarriage had been terrible.

It was God’s will, she knew, that she’d never had a baby with Hamish, but there were other factors she’d begun to suspect. Perhaps old men weren’t meant to sire children.

From this side of the mountain, looking out over the neighbor’s land with the potential of everything the world had to offer, Abby understood that it was a blessing not to have borne a child within the Church.

Closing her eyes, she remembered arriving here with Mama, a half-starved seven-year-old. After those months of sleeping together in the back of their car, Abby had felt so alone when Isaiah had taken Mama in marriage—another couple without offspring—and sent Abby to the dormitory with the other children. Goodness, how that had hurt. Much as she’d loved the Church—the singing and the togetherness, the specialness of being a Chosen One of the Lord—she’d cried herself to sleep every single night, missing the warm, soft feel of Mama like a front tooth.

Sucking in a breath to push away those memories, she looked out over the valley, toward Blackwood and Charlottesville and everything that awaited Sammy and her beyond. She thought of the infinite potential of a life lived on terms that weren’t this God’s. And despite the heaviness in her gut that told her this was wrong, she felt full of life and hope and the thrill of possibility.

When she caught sight of him—the man who’d given her this chance, she lifted her head, straightened her spine, and did her best to be strong.

* * *

The man greeted her without enthusiasm. He did, however, have the gloves and sweater she’d worn the day before. After she put on the sweater, he thrust a thermos of warm liquid into her hands.

She took a sip and—ecstasy.

“Is this coffee again?”

He nodded.

“Tastes different.”

His face, already pink from the cold, flushed, the color concentrating high along the ridge of those sharp, wide cheekbones. His answer came out on a mumble. “Better stuff.”

“Oh” was all Abby could manage as she took a second swig of the creamy, nutty brew. “Delicious.”

Another sip brought out something close to a moan, and she opened her eyes to find him staring. Abruptly, he bent to pick up his pruners and went back to work.

They’d been at it for over an hour when Abby finally dared open her mouth.

“Guess we didn’t get the weather everyone’s all worked up about,” she said.

“Apparently not.”

“They said we’d get ice, but there’s also talk of a couple feet of snow.”

His only response was a grunt.

Wordlessly, they worked their way through three more vines, Abby’s mind full of thoughts it shouldn’t have. Of the man and his coffee—both earthy and dark. She didn’t think she’d tasted anything earthy and dark before. Or quite so rich. She had a yearning, suddenly, for rich things: foods, tastes, smells, experiences that no God-fearing woman should want.

Experience. Even that word had her thinking of the man beside her, his broken voice and sad eyes. She didn’t need to look to feel him right there, the two of them working in quiet, easy tandem. She unclipped the branches from the wires and pulled, over and over, with nothing to stop her mind from crawling on.

Are you pure of soul? She thought of Brigid, snide and knowing. Eve in the garden of evil.

Maybe the woman was right.

She remembered when they’d been caught, her and Benji in the orchard, their drawers around their ankles and their hands hesitantly exploring.

Mama’d been angry, but Isaiah…he’d seemed forgiving. Poor Abigail Merkley. Always battling against your true nature. With such tenderness, Isaiah had told her he understood—and she thought maybe he had. We cannot help our sins, can we? We are the victims of our own transgressions, child. For years, she hadn’t even understood that word. Transgressions.

What had come after that hadn’t felt like a punishment, at Isaiah’s hands. It had been justice. An honor, even, to take the Mark.

In this place that felt a hundred times more sacred than the Church, she felt very much like the sinner that Brigid accused her of being.

If nothing else, this man’s coffee proved that Abby was a glutton.

Gluttony. Yes, she might have moments of that, especially if everything out here was as full of flavors as this man’s coffee. She glanced his way, but he remained concentrated on his plants, his hands slowing every now and then to caress a branch in a way that mesmerized her.

Unclip, pull. Unclip, pull. The crunch of her cold feet on frozen ground, the echo of Luc’s feet turning it into a kind of music, accompanied by the smell of dead vines and unfallen snow. The movements hypnotized, the quiet calmed, the rhythm lulled her farther and farther away from salvation. She tried to push thoughts of God and sinners and the Church from her mind.

But the questions kept coming.

Am I greedy? Do I want too much? If greed harkened back to the sin of gluttony, then she might qualify. But not for material things. No, her cravings were for knowledge and experience.

What about wrath? Yes, she’d felt wrath. When Hamish had fallen ill and they’d refused to give him medicine. Not even to ease his suffering. That was all he’d wanted. Oh, she felt wrath all right. A brittle branch cracked in her fist before she flung it to the ground, a bit too hard.

There was no reason to go through the other sins. Envy wasn’t something she liked to think about, since she was just about done comparing her life to anyone else’s. In the Church, it had always been Us and Them.

Someday soon, she’d become Them. And Us would no longer matter.

What about lust? The question rang loud; she glanced at Luc to see if he’d heard it too.

Of course, that brought her right back to that hot summer day and the droplets of sweat she’d conjured in her mind. The way she’d dwelled on this man’s slick chest and taut belly in the bright, bright sun.

She swallowed as her eyes slid to where his sun-bronzed hands worked, thick knuckles and long, strong fingers. Even the missing one had an appeal. Imperfect and interesting. Was there sensation in that stunted digit? And how would those capable-looking hands feel on her skin? Would they work over a woman’s body with that same level of brisk efficiency, or would they linger?

Her tongue slicked over her bottom lip of its own volition, exploring things that had been forbidden for a lifetime. Lust. Good gracious, what would it feel like to taste, to touch, to feel the full weight of that particular sin?

“You are all right?” Luc asked, startling her back to the present.

His gaze was on her, brows drawn down quizzically. Abby realized, mortified, that she’d been caught staring. He’d tried to move on while she’d stayed stock-still, transfixed by his hands and stubble-covered, scratchy-looking jaw.

“Yes. Yes, sorry,” she stammered out. “I’m…” Goodness, what on earth was she supposed to say to this? Nothing. Best to say nothing.

He put a hand to her shoulder, and she stilled. The contact was so charged, she couldn’t move.

So few men had ever done this—touched her body at all. Only Hamish, toward the end, had shared touches with her. And Benji in that long-ago memory. Isaiah, too, but she didn’t like to think of that time.

“Lunch.”

Abby blinked through the haze of… What? What did his touch make her feel?

Best not to consider the weight in her belly or her frantic breaths. It could just as easily be from fear. Or disgust. Yes, that would be acceptable, wouldn’t it?

“You go ahead,” she forced out. “I’ll keep working.”

“Take this.” He thrust something into her hand: a messily wrapped package. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

“No.” She blinked dumbly. Something hot washed through her as she stared at the package. “What is this?”

“It’s jambon beurre. Ham and butter. Eat.”

“I don’t…” Frustrated, she held out the sandwich. She had to give it back. “You didn’t have to buy this for me. What do I owe you?”

Head tilted to the side, he watched her closely, earnestly, she thought, with what might have been a hint of insecurity behind that grumpy facade. “I didn’t buy it, Abby. I made it. Now eat it, or I will think you don’t trust my cooking.” He turned and led the way to a large, flat rock at the end of the row.

After the briefest hesitation, during which she forced down a whole slew of messy emotions, she went to sit beside him and very carefully unwrapped the sandwich. Closing her eyes, she took a small bite and chewed, slowly savoring the first meal made for her by a man.