Page 27 of North

She could probably text but not call. Fine. She found Chloe’s number and pulled up the text box. Oy, old-school texting on a flip phone. Hopefully she could remember how to do this.

Selah

I’m OK. Talk soon. XO.

Thunder growled overhead. Her thumb hovered over North’s number. What would she even say? Texting felt like not enough after his barrage of calls.

And really, was she okay? Maybe not. She’d dreamed of him during those few hours of fitful sleep. Dreamed that maybe she’d been wrong about…everything.

Maybe. But maybe not.

Truth was, they were very different people. And Mariposa had simply proven that.

Russian words, sharp and urgent, cut through the rain noise.

She spotted James pacing at the end of the porch, a phone pressed to his ear. His free hand gestured as he spoke, voice rising.

“Nyet. Seychas.”

She got the no. The rest went untranslated. But how had he gotten a call out? Clearly he had a better phone than she did.

“Da, u menya yest’ ona.”

She stilled, and that’s when he glanced at her. Blinked.

For a second, the rescuer, the hero, vanished. His eyes, his face hardened, and maybe—she might have imagined it—his eyes narrowed on her.

Then he turned away, hung up and pocketed the phone.

“You speak Russian?”

“It’s part of my job.” He sighed. “I’m late for my meeting.”

Right. “You mentioned the train wreck?”

He smiled then, and James was back, warmth in his eyes as he laughed. “Yes, I did. But…” He glanced at the truck. “I really think we need to go. I told Mr. Anderson I’d have his truck back last night. He probably thinks I stole it.”

Oh. See? Not a criminal.

“Yeah. Right. Let me say goodbye to Amy and Tommy.”

She headed inside, James behind her. Amy sat up to an island, the teddy bear clutched under her arm. She ate a piece of bread with what looked like butter and sugar.

Tommy sat beside her, wore a chocolate-milk mustache. Mrs. Hendrickson stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled a lot like chili.

“I’m so sorry, but I think we need to go,” Selah said.

“Nobody’s going anywhere.”

Selah turned. The old farmer stood in the doorway, shotgun braced against his shoulder. His eyes, which had brimmed with tears of gratitude ten minutes ago, now held steel.

James stepped back, put up his hands. “What’s going on?”

She, too, put up her arms.

“First, tell me what you’re doin’ with Butch Anderson’s truck.”

“Oh—we can explain,” Selah said.