Help me, he’d tried to scream over and over again. Only he’d lost his lung power, so the sound had been a howl, quiet and breathy and insufferable.
The voices blended in her mind—Hamish’s becoming Sammy’s—and she came close to weeping. So close. But it wouldn’t help him if she cried, would it? It would do nothing but worry him, and that was pointless.
“Hurts, Abby,” he said, a scared little boy with a man’s voice. “My head.”
“It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” she said, scared, truly scared. “Everything’ll be just fine. I promise.” Abby rocked him in her arms and wondered how she was going to make it better when she didn’t have the resources to get herself away, much less another person.
Fear filled her chest, nearly drowning her. The only thing strong enough to push it back was shame. At her own behavior—the way she’d fallen so quickly into her own sensuality, forgetting why she’d left this place to begin with.
What kind of person let herself get distracted from a mission that could mean life or death for Sammy?
She got him up and cleaned the wound on his head, fed him, and set him up in her bed for the night. All of it hiding behind a mask of serenity while her insides were a mass of turmoil. How would she get Sammy out? And once out, how would she take care of them?
Once he’d fallen asleep, she got down on her knees and prayed. For Sammy. For absolution and understanding. But mostly, she prayed for an answer. She refused to think of Luc and the things he stirred up in her—it was too complicated to untangle. And not important enough when faced with Sammy’s worsening situation. God might not forgive her for leaving Him behind, but if she didn’t succeed, she would never forgive herself.
7
Luc had no more work for Abby. The day she’d spent away, working at the market, he’d gotten through the last vines, and there was nothing left for her to help with. Luc didn’t look forward to seeing her face when he told her.
But, jerk that he was, he didn’t want her to stop coming. He wanted her here, the antidote to his anxiety instead of the cause. What was it about the woman that made him miss her when he usually couldn’t get away from other people fast enough?
She didn’t arrive first thing that morning, so he took off up the mountain to work on the stupid tractor. Le Dog, trotting beside him, had changed—his gait light and springy, limp nearly gone. They had a checkup with the vet next week, but Luc hardly needed the doctor to tell him the mutt was worlds better. That was what happened when you fed and took care of a creature instead of treating it like dirt.
His thoughts skipped back to Abby. The new curve of her hips, the slight roundness at her cheek, where before it’d been hollow. Like the dog, she’d developed a glow. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. Not exactly ownership, but…a sort of pride. As if he had a stake in her survival.
He passed through the barn to get to the back. In the room on the right, dozens of bottles lay on their sides, awaiting a verdict. Beside them sat big, round barrels, full to bursting with juice that should have gone elsewhere—missed income.
He ignored them, moving instead to the back of the barn and out through the rear door, to what he called the graveyard.Le cimetière. Where the previous owners had left their machinery to die. An old tractor sat in the grass, with a rusted-out array of parts he had yet to go through. He had to get this tractor up and running now, especially if his newest idea took root.
Which it would. Luc knew. He’d have to buy plants—another expense he couldn’t afford. But…if, against every expectation, his wine was drinkable and he sold it, he’d earn more than what he’d get from just selling the grapes. Grapes were practically worthless compared to a decent vintage. He’d seen what they sold bottles for around here, and although he’d never open up his place to visitors, he could sell at the local grocery stores. Maybe work out a deal with restaurants.
Idiot, he thought, climbing up into the tractor.Nobody’s going to want this wine.
He clambered into the front seat and found a key in the ignition. He couldn’t believe it. For a moment, he stared, dumbfounded. There was a goddamned key. He turned it, but nothing happened.
No surprise there, which pleased him in an odd sort of way. This was a challenge Luc enjoyed—taking a mess of metal and making it work again. He went back in for his tool belt and returned to thecimetièreto revive some old souls.
Time passed as he worked. A lot or a little, he had no clue. But at some point, as the afternoon light began to fade, Le Dog barked—not something he did often.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?Hein?” He asked what it was. The dog, as proficient in French as in English, barked a happy response.
After a bit, he heard it, too. A voice.Abby.Finally. With a nervous leap of his pulse, he set off to find her.
* * *
“I didn’t think I’d see you today.” Luc’s voice came from the shadowy barn interior.
“Sorry I’m late.” She paused, nervous. “I brought you something.”
Now that she was here, thrusting her quilt into his unsuspecting hands, it was awkward and strange. The look on his face, which had flushed red, brought home the fact that Abby had just about no idea what was acceptable behavior in society and what wasn’t. Maybe, she thought, this had been the wrong thing to do. Maybe…
“You should not have done this, Abby.”
“I shouldn’t?” she whispered, avoiding his eye.
“Did you make it?”
That brought up a laugh, straight from her belly and up through her chest and throat. “Why? Is it that bad?”
