“Honey.” His tone left no room for argument.
“Fine. Please don’t drop us.”
“I’ve got you. Hang on,” he called, bracing his boot against the stone rim.
The rope bit into his palms as he hauled them up. The bucket creaked and swayed, and water dripped in steady rivulets. His muscles burned, and his shoulders knotted as the weight grew heavier with each inch, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t, not until she was safe.
When her head came into view, he caught sight of her. Her dripping hair plastered to her cheeks, clothes stuck to her frame, and both arms wrapped tight around Pickles.
As soon as her feet hit the ground, he grabbed her, goat and all, into a hard hug. Something about the way she burrowed into him for a few thundering heartbeats before pulling back made something tighten in his chest.
“Let’s get you two inside,” he said.
The words came out rough, like gravel catching in his throat. He kept his hand at the small of her back as they walked, his thumb brushing against the damp fabric of her shirt with each step. She was shivering, water dripping steadily from her hair, to her elbows, to the goat’s matted fur, and still he couldn’t make himself let go. It was ridiculous.She was fine. She was freezing. She was infuriatingly reckless.
And yet, when they got to the back door and the porch light caught the curve of her cheek or the stubborn tilt of her chin, he found himself cataloging the way she moved. Maybe if he memorized her now, he might not lose her later.
She was halfway up the steps when Marlene threw open the screen door, the hinges screaming. “What on Earth?”
“Don’t just stand there,” Honey said briskly, brushing past her without slowing. “We need towels, a blanket, and a hair dryer. And someone call a veterinarian. I don’t like the way he’s shivering.” She was already striding toward the living room, her voice trailing instructions behind her. “And put the kettle on. Emma’s probably chilled, too.”
Honey went straight for the fireplace beside where Emma sat.
“Already in dry, clean clothes with the fire going,” Honey murmured to her. “What a sensible girl.”
It was such a Honey thing to say, and for some reason, it affected Ethan.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” he heard himself reply, his hands already moving before he’d even thought about it. It was strangely natural to follow her lead, like she’d been giving him orders for years and he’d never minded.
Marlene came in just as he set the kettle on the stove. She leaned against the counter. “I just got a call from Poppy. He said the bells were tolling.”
Ethan stilled. “And?”
“He wanted to know exactly what I was doing thirty seconds before he called.” Her eyebrows lifted, the meaning clear without her saying another word.
They stood there for the briefest beat, the air betweenthem charged with something he wasn’t ready to name aloud. But he knew. God help him, he knew exactly who those bells were for.
He looked over. Honey was kneeling on the worn rug, her soaked clothing dripping onto the floor and her hair hanging in dark ropes down her back. She talked quietly to Emma, one hand rubbing Pickles dry in short strokes, the other reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind his daughter’s ear. She smiled at something Emma said, and for a moment, the storm outside might as well have been a thousand miles away.
He didn’t know when it happened. Maybe it had been the moment she hurled herself into that well. Or the way she knew exactly where to find Emma.
Maybe it had been a dozen smaller moments before. The way she stood toe-to-toe with government suits twice her size, or the way she made Emma smile when the girl’s shoulders were heavy with things no kid should carry.
Or maybe, he thought, watching her talk softly with Emma, it had been all of it, stitched together into something he couldn’t stop himself from loving.
Maybe he’d been truly helpless to her all along.
Chapter 21
Honey
Honey woke up with a sore neck and a crayon stuck to her cheek.
The morning light filtered through the window, casting a hazy glow across the living room. The fire in the hearth had long since burned down to ash, and the room was quiet except for the soft ticking of the kitchen clock and the slow, even breaths of the baby goat still curled beside her.
Despite Ethan’s continued insistence that Pickles would be just fine, she hadn’t been able to pull herself away. He’d finally stopped shivering sometime after midnight, nestled tight against her side. She’d stayed there on the rug, curled in front of the fireplace with one hand resting gently on his ribs, counting each rise and fall of his chest.
At some point, someone must have thrown a blanket over her. She let out a quiet groan as she eased her arm out from beneath Pickles. She shifted to sit up?—
