“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanek. But we’re in the middle of a major storm here.”No shit, thought Luc, staring out at his yard, where the other truck’s tire marks were already disappearing under a thin layer of snow. “I’ve got few resources, and unless this is a life-threatening emergency… If we get out there and she refuses care… Well, you can understand my hesitation. I’m not sure I can get anyone out there for…a day or two, at the least.”
Probably more, thought Luc, knowing what the roads would be like. He could attempt his driveway—the neighbors had done it after all—but the road to town would be risky, and getting stranded with Abby in the shape she was in was too risky.
“Even if this were a major medical emergency, we can’t call in the chopper on a day like today. Nobody’s flying that thing till the snow stops,” the sheriff said. Another sigh, this one sounding exhausted. Luc pictured the man, still in his office, not making it home with the weather. “Honestly, sir, you’d have to have more of an emergency at this point. We only get Pegasus over from UVA for life-or-death situations. Like the multicar pileup I’m headed to right now, up on the interstate.”
Luc nodded, knowing the man was right.
They said their good-byes, leaving things up in the air. He’d get in touch when the storm blew over.If necessaryhad been the subtext.
Now what?
Luc shut the phone off, shoving it into his pocket, and stood on his porch. The wind was blowing hard, visibility limited now to just a few meters. Usually, from here, he could see his vines, standing sentinel above the valley.
Tonight he stood, waiting for that sense of ownership and rightness, like the evil king in thoseLord of the Ringsmovies, searching, searching, and…nothing.
He turned back to face his front door, and there, his internal radar found what he was looking for—belonging.
With a jolt of unease, Luc realized it wasn’t the vines calling to him. No, tonight, the ping came from another place entirely. Like a beacon, he could feel her in there.
Abby.Today, with his vines out of sight and everything else a tangled ball of confusion, when Luc sought an anchor, he found Abby.
And that scared the hell out of him.
* * *
Abby examined the two pills before putting them into her mouth. They were orange, which struck her as odd. Not bright orange, but the color of plant pots. The color of the soil on the mountain, if you dug down a foot or two. Sweet on her tongue and down her throat, disappearing on a wash of water that felt good, so good. She drank the whole glass before standing up from the toilet and coming face-to-face with her reflection in the mirror.
Oh goodness, look at me.
Her face was a mass of bruises, her hair a bird’s nest in the braid she hadn’t redone in ages. Days, likely, although she’d lost track of time.
When she let the blanket drop and turned, the bandages on her back were stained with fluid, unhealthy. She’d need new ones.
Had he seen those? He must have. And what about her arms? Had he seen the older scars on her arms? The usual wave of pride rolled through her at the sight of those scars, only to bottom out, sharp and acidic in her belly.
Her vision shifted, and with a dizzy lurch, Abby clutched the sink.
A collage of images burst into her brain—standing there, her back exposed, while the men she’d always known as family destroyed her. Sammy, Mama. Hamish in pain. Making the tea for Hamish and leaving it beside his bed. “You can drink it,” she’d said.
The room swirled, too fast to be real, and she sank to her bottom on the bathroom floor. Up was down; good, bad. Sacrifices made as a badge of honor suddenly burned with shame. She’d scratch them off if she had the strength.
Shaky, cold. Bleary-eyed. Not far behind her was the bath.Just get to the bath and wash off the mess. Just do that, and I can sleep.
The bath, once she ran the water and got into it, was torture.
Feet first. Hot, hot, burning against her thighs, not yet reaching her back, where the real torture would begin. But she needed to unstick the bandages. Ignoring the places where the razor wire had cut into her, she sank down, the water cloudy red and smelling of blood within seconds. It wasn’t until she’d submerged fully that she noticed the soap on a ledge high above her head.
Sucking in a hard breath, she leaned on the rim, lifted herself up, grabbed the soap, and dipped back in. The burn of her thighs was sharp, the ache in her back already familiar.
It hurt to sit in this bath—real, physical pain. So much better than the pain of knowing what she’d left behind.
Where are you, Sammy?
The water was hotter than she was used to. Not that they took baths like this at the Church. Sponge baths were pretty much it. It madeherfeel like a sponge, soaking it up, her muscles adjusting and turning to mush. With a big sound—anahthat came from somewhere deep in her marrow—she sank in farther.
Movement behind the door, almost furtive.Isaiah. He found me.
She sat up fast and pushed to standing, arms up to keep her modest, trembling. She didn’t even notice the honeycomb of gray spots as they crept over her vision, barely recognized the wooziness until the bathwater sloshed around her ankles and she slid down with a thud.
