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?”
