“Good morning, sir,” she forced in her friendliest voice. Surely he’d hear the cracks beneath the surface, that edge of desperation. He opened his mouth, but before he had a chance to say a word, she soldiered right through. “My apologies for disturbing you on this…” She glanced at the lowering clouds, as broody and gray as his frigid eyes, and blubbered on. “I’m Abigail Merkley. Abby, I mean.AbbyMerkley. I’m looking for work, sir.”
He squinted at her outstretched hand in a way that was decidedly unfriendly, and for a good few seconds, it appeared he might not accept. Her first handshake ever, rebuffed.
Breathe, Abby. Breathe.
He relented after a bit, carefully setting down the tool he used to prune the vines and sliding his palm against hers.
She remembered the fish man at the market, the way he shook hands with his best customers. He’d told her it meant something. A connection, a promise. Acovenant. Setting out this morning on the half-hour walk to the fence line, she’d planned this shake. Firm, businesslike. Secure.Confident.
The reality was nothing of the sort. It was… Well, goodness, the handshake wasn’t a meeting of equals, the way she’d pictured it. It was consumption, one hand swallowed by the other. And it did things to her. Made her feel the difference in stature quite keenly. There was also the matter of how alone she was out here on this mountain. No one knew where she was—not a solitary soul—and here she’d gone and put her hand into an ogre’s. Walked right up to him and offered it up.
He didn’t scare her nearly as much as what lay on the other side of the fence, though. He should have, but…what was it about his face? Not the unexpected translucence of those eyes nor their chilly distance. He didn’t trust this, she could tell. He was angry, maybe, at her intrusion, but there was something else. Something sad or hopeless, apparent in the purposeful squaring of those wide shoulders—an effort, she thought.
“Work?” He uttered his first word as his other hand rose to hers, chafing it in a way she’d have bet was subconscious. The word sounded off, chewed away at ther. His voice, deep and growling, was not what she’d expected. It made her want to clear her throat for him. “What work?”
She was ready for this question. She’d watched him, after all. Cutting and moving, cutting and moving. She’d watched and imagined a different sort of life. “I could help out here,” she said brightly.
“Here?” He dropped her hand like a burning coal and shifted away.
“I’ve seen you pruning. Last year, you hired people. I figured—”
“I do it myself,” he cut in. This time, she heard it: an accent. Not that thick, but different from any she knew. The words stayed close to the front of his mouth, pushing his lips out into a pout. As he spoke, she finally understood those deep-cut parentheses framing them.
“Oh.” Disappointment tightened her chest, a sense of urgency making it hard to breathe. “I can learn,” she said. When his expression didn’t budge, she begged. “I’ll do it for less than you paid the others.”
His eyes lowered before meeting hers. “Where’s your coat?”
Why on earth did he sound so accusatory?
“I don’t…” She glanced back up the mountain, to where she’d left it in a pile by the fence, and pictured slipping it back on over shoulders bowed by defeat.
He wasn’t going to do it, was he? He wasn’t going to give her the job that might save Sammy’s life. This wasn’t the man. It wasn’t the day. It wasn’t the mountain. Quite possibly not the lifetime. Was there any point?
She ignored him and turned back, taking in the view—different from the one on the other side—Church land, with its westward-facing vista. It was rockier here, steeper and more interesting. The sky in this direction pulled out all the stops, its high-contrast clouds cut off right over the seam of the mountains, saving their drama for these richer folks.
This side had begun to represent a way out, a better life for Sammy. Today, it had lost its glow—soured by anguish and despair and the almost audible ticking of the clock.Get Sammy out, get him out, get him out, it chanted in time with the panicked beating of her heart.
Sucking in a big, icy breath, Abby looked right into that unforgiving face and said, “I would do most anything, sir.”
She meant it, too.
* * *
Luc Stanek blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating this woman. The wind buffeted her dress, long hair coming loose from her braid, and the crisp winter light hardened her edges. All of it turned her into a statue. Or a painting, stark and stiff, washed with amber like something by one of those Wyeths or Whistler or whoever.
Those words—I would do most anything—accompanied by the memory of her hand between his set off a faint prickle that was almost desperate. It moved something inside him. A part of him he hadn’t acknowledged in a while.
The woman turned away, shielded her eyes against the sun, and squinted back up the mountain. Toward where she’d clearly come from: that sect with their old-world skirts and aprons and those white things on their heads. Strange, strange people with all that razor wire surrounding their little world. It was like a prison, or one of those military testing facilities you’d sometimes see in American films. Was it fear of discovery that sent her gaze back in that direction?
Her dark-red hair, uncovered, snaked over one shoulder in a single braid, ending at her waist. It looked thick and strong compared to her slender form. He should have known she was real—he’d never have created a redhead for himself.
Andmon Dieu, she appeared starved. Her cheekbones were painfully sharp, dark bruises etched under her eyes, and the eyes themselves…
Luc’s brain stuttered to a halt, caught in their light. They were whiskey brown, too big for her pale, freckled face. Someone needed to feed this woman a big plate ofsteak frites.
He shook himself.Don’t get involved, his brain told him. But his tongue, so unused to opportunities like this, escaped him. “They sent you?”
She blinked, near-translucent moon-shaped lids covering those eyes before focusing back on him so hard he had to look away.
