In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  After a while, something shifted. Abby’s trembling subsided, and she let out a long, unhappy-sounding, “Mmmmmmm.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Luc whispered with relief.

  Another pained groan from her pushed him slightly away.

  “Are you okay? What do you need? You’re hurt. Where are you hurt?”

  “Burns,” she slurred.

  “It burns?”

  Her only response was a moan. But that was good, right? Sensation returning?

  “Okay. I’ll call an ambulance or the authorities or—”

  “No!” she groaned against his neck. “Please don’t.”

  “Why not, Abby?” he asked.

  “It’s bad. So bad,” she said, slurring.

  “Okay. Okay, I won’t call anyone.”

  Luc held her in near silence, the only sounds the gentle crackling of the fire, a sleepy sigh from the dog, and the dry rasp of his hand rubbing her arm.

  He moved to her hand, relieved to find the fingers warm. He had to take her to the hospital, didn’t he? Wasn’t there something about the heart being affected if the body got too cold? He rubbed and rubbed her fingers, ignoring the feel of her against him, until finally he couldn’t ignore it anymore and backed up to give her space. To give himself room to breathe.

  “Please,” she whispered. Luc lay stock-still, breathing hard. “It’s better when you hold me.”

  He pulled her in again. “I’ve got you, Abby. I’ve got you.”

  * * *

  Hurt. Everywhere. Hot, hot burning, worse than anything Isaiah could do. Worse than God’s wrath.

  There were flames. They crackled close, popping like hellfire, growing, consuming. Tears rose up, and with them came regret. At all the things she’d never see, never do. It used to be wearing jeans and boots. Or flip-flops, with the sand in her toes. A milk shake for Sammy. It was different, this new regret. Darker. Hotter, rooted in her belly. Caresses. Aches to be tamped down, desires to be satisfied.

  Her lips moved, saying something. They hurt. Dry and parched. Almost stuck together. More words came out, and a hand touched her cheek, blessedly cool. Hard against her lips, words floated through the air and cold, cold water in her mouth. Sputtering, choking. Hauled up, sitting.

  I can’t open my eyes, she thought, although suddenly, the thought was floating in front of her, stolen from her brain. Her lungs. Real words.

  Other words in response. “Drink, chérie. Drink. Can you please?”

  Drink. Luc wanted her to drink.

  She wanted that, too.

  She drank. Each sip an effort, each movement controlled from somewhere outside her body, above or below or perhaps a tiny spot in the farthest reaches of her brain, telling her to pull in, slowly swallow, open for the next sip.

  He was there. She could see those harsh features, lips set in a grim line, eyes too shadowed to make out. Realer tonight than he’d been before. So real, she had to reach out and touch his face, run a finger down that chipped-looking nose, its texture exactly like the rock on the mountain.

  “Go back to sleep.” His words gave permission, and so she did.

  13

  Luc shot up, woozy and caught in a wave of déjà vu stronger than any he’d felt in his life. What was that? An engine? Something shifted against him, and he glanced down to see Abby asleep, mouth slightly open, face looking bruised in the moonlight. Bleary-brained, he startled again when the sound solidified into a car door slamming, followed by voices.

  What the hell?

  On the floor, Le Dog growled, golden eyes narrowed, muzzle curled aggressively. Another glance showed fur puffed up along his spine, ears flattened back. That sight brought every hair on Luc’s body to standing.

  He pulled back the curtain, like he’d done earlier this evening, only now there was something to see. Several men got out of a pickup with a snow plow attached to the front and disappeared around his property, leaving the truck running.

  Once again, they were heavily armed.

  He reached for his rifle, and his hand found nothing but wall. Bordel de merde. Where…? The shed. He’d left it there when he’d carried Abby inside.

  Moving fast, muscles tense with adrenaline, and anger making him fearless, he pulled his clothes on, raced to the kitchen, and made sure the back door was bolted. In the living room, he picked up the poker from beside the fireplace and went to the sofa, where Abby remained oblivious.

  They were here for her. Of that, he had no doubt. Would they force their way in this time? Take her?

  He’d kill them first. The poker in his fist proved that. A goddamned poker. It should be funny, this pathetic weapon against theirs, but it wasn’t. There was violence in his muscles and bones. It made him stronger. He’d tear them apart with his bare hands if he had to.

  Yelling reached him from outside.

  “Abby!” he whispered, hunkered down beside her, face against hers. “Wake up.”

  Her breathing changed, eyes opened, almost focused on him. He put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “Stay here and don’t make a noise. No sound. Understand?”

  She nodded, and without thinking it through, Luc pressed his lips to her hair in a hard, silent kiss.

  He moved to the door, which he hadn’t thought to lock. He hadn’t planned for this, an all-out attack on his property. He slid into his boots, yanked on his coat, and stepped outside, poker clenched in his fist. He wanted to slam that asshole in the face with it, drive the end in through his neck.

  But that wouldn’t do, would it? With a glance, he took in the single set of footsteps leading up to his porch. He’d carried her up here. They don’t know she’s here, he realized, awash with relief.

  How would I act if she hadn’t shown up here tonight? No frontal assault, although there would be enmity between them, certainly. He’d already confronted them once today. Scanning the night, he thought of the more than two years he’d spent without seeing these people at all. And here they were, at their third encounter in the space of just a couple of days. It was time for this to end. Now.

  “Who’s there?” he yelled. His voice carried a few meters and disappeared, soaked up by the heavily falling snow. He took a big, angry breath and stepped to the edge of his porch, the rage burning too hot for him to notice the cold.

  From somewhere past the chicken coop, he heard voices. Goddamn it, he wished he had his gun. He’d fire a warning shot. Without waiting, he pounded down the steps, through the fresh snow, and straight to their truck. Its lights burrowed soft, yellow tunnels into his yard, speckled with falling snow. Holding up the poker, he approached—caution forgotten—and yanked open the door.

  Nobody inside, despite the wipers and the engine and lights. Diesel exhaust wrapped him up in its cloud of stink. He leaned in and honked the horn twice, long and loud, before grabbing the keys, twisting them out, and sliding them into his pocket. Fuck it, he thought, laying his hand on the horn again and keeping it there. Nobody around to hear except these bastards, and he wanted them scared.

  Here we go. One man, followed by a few more, came into Luc’s line of vision, all of them focused on him. He watched them, waited, breath painful from adrenaline or the cold. He took a step back, two, and one man approached Luc, separating himself from the pack, rifle in hand this time. Isaiah.

  Damned bastard.

  That feeling of excitable fear hit him—it made his muscles heavy and his brain buzz. Made him feel invisible and dead already—kicked into double time.

  “What’s going on here?” Luc asked, keeping his voice as low and calm as possible despite the man now standing just a few feet from him.

  “Isaiah Bowden here, sir.” The man moved into the glow of the headlights. He—unlike Luc, who was freezing his ass off out here—appeared to be dressed for this encounter.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like thi
s,” Luc gritted out, reaching for a grim glimmer of humor in this messed-up situation.

  “Apologies for the late hour, but we have something of an emergency. Would you have a minute please, sir?”

  So polite with his sirs and pleases, despite the veiled threats every time they met. All of this was so unbelievable, and just for one second, Luc let himself wish Abby wasn’t here. That he’d never met her, that she hadn’t come and turned his perfectly empty, uneventful life upside down.

  Imagine that, he decided again. He needed to channel that cluelessness if he was going to convince this man that she’d never come here tonight.

  He ran one soaked sleeve over his eyes, clearing them of snow, and shook his head. Play up the bewilderment and tamp down the fear—that was the key. “Bit late for a visit, isn’t it, neighbor?” Luc said, moving out from the truck’s door, edging two steps closer to the cabin.

  “We’ve had an incident. Wanted to warn you.”

  So, that’s how they’re playing it.

  “What kind of incident?”

  “One of our residents is missing.”

  He fought the desire to glance back at his house and said the first thing that came to him. “Missing?”

  “The woman you asked about earlier. Mistress Merkley. She took off on foot.”

  “Bad night for it,” he forced out. His eye caught on the gun in Isaiah’s hand. It looked like Luc’s.

  “It is indeed,” Isaiah said, “and I’m sorry to say it’s my own fault.” The man didn’t yell, but his voice carried. It was full and theatrical. A belly voice. A preacher man. “Abigail—poor soul—is delusional, sir.” Sad pause. “I blame myself. When her late husband told me of her wayward ways, I didn’t listen. I’ve allowed her to live on her own these past months.” Isaiah compressed his mouth and lowered his brows in a parody of rueful regret. Oh, but he would be perfect in a pulpit. “She’s taken off into the night, sir. All alone, barely clothed. And—I must tell you, neighbor—poor Abigail has done herself harm in the past. You’ve met her, you said. You must have noticed how…capricious she is.” He looked away, removed his hat, and ran that same gloved hand through short hair, shaking his head with something like regret, before dropping the hat down again.

  For the briefest moment, he wondered if it could be true. Could Abby be mentally ill?

  No. Of course not. Curious, maybe, but capricious? Never. Imaginative and interested, yes, but never delusional.

  He shoved back a wave of resentment that simmered up and tried to choke him.

  “How is she delusional?” he forced out.

  “She hears voices. Sees things. Thinks she’s the conduit of our Savior.” A sad chuckle from the man’s mouth.

  “Have you called the police?”

  With a friendly smile, the man moved forward another pace or two. “Oh, no. We take care of our own, sir.” Something slippery and cold worked its way down Luc’s spine. Before he could come up with an appropriate response, Isaiah carried on. “You haven’t seen her come through here this evening, have you, neighbor?”

  Luc shook his head, eyes flicking from the poker in his own hand to the gun in the other man’s. If they decided he was lying, he was screwed. But even worse, so was Abby. Tightening his hold, he shifted forward, gaze driving hard into Isaiah’s. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time here tonight, Mr. Bowden.” Letting his eyes travel over the rest of the group, he went on. “Now, I think it’s time you moved on.”

  * * *

  Abby’s internal debate raged for about five seconds. Her first instinct was to huddle up, hunker down, and let the exhaustion help her disappear into the sofa cushions. Her second instinct was to run up the stairs as fast as she could and hide in whatever nook she found there. But, as usual, her brash side won out. The side that told her to get up and find a weapon. To prepare for a fight.

  She stood, blanket around her shoulders, and took a big, rasping breath, evacuating the dizziness and the pain. She took a slow look around. Luc had held a poker when he’d gone out, and she didn’t need to be a genius to know what awaited him out there: Isaiah and the others. They’d hurt him for sure.

  Hurry.

  No more pokers beside the woodstove, so…

  Hurry.

  Kitchen. Knife. Rodeo walked close beside her, and she considered dipping to pat his head, but just the idea made her feel off-kilter. Like if she bent, she’d fall all the way.

  Drawers opened and closed, cupboards inspected… Nothing. Gosh…darn it! She wanted to scream, wanted to curse and—

  There, by the stove. A big jar of utensils and, in it, a boning knife. It brought to mind thoughts she could live without: Isaiah holding this kind of blade to her ear, threatening, slicing.

  A head shake to clear it. Where on earth had that come from? He’d never threatened her like that with a knife. It was pure fiction…

  She swallowed hard and grabbed the knife by the handle.

  Her limbs were heavy. She fought the weight that made her want to sink onto the floor and returned to the living room, ready to help. She stumbled to the curtains, reached out one hand and stopped. What if they saw the fabric twitch? They’d know someone was here.

  But she needed to see, had to know what was going on. She lifted a hand and gently nudged the material to the side.

  14

  Isaiah’s posture stiffened, tensile but curved, reminding Luc of a copperhead he’d almost stepped on last summer. Not a snake he’d met before coming to Virginia, but immediately, he’d known it was deadly. Right there, among his vines, the creature had challenged him, stood up and made Luc back down. He’d gone to fetch a shovel, but by the time he’d returned, it was gone.

  Even in the dark, Luc could see something unpleasant in Isaiah’s face, despite his mask of sincerity. An eagerness or excitement that wouldn’t be there if this was all aboveboard, and the threat of it thrummed through Luc’s veins. It electrified and terrified him like the face-off with the snake had, zapping nerve endings in a way that was wrong, unnatural.

  Actually, Luc realized as he fought the urge to shift back or show some other sign of weakness, the sensation was in fact perfectly natural. It went back to animal instinct, rather than relying on learning or intelligence. As the snake had lifted its diamond-shaped head, preparing to strike, Luc’s body had acted faster than his brain, moving him out of harm’s way. Instinct told him that the safest course of action was to run inside and bolt the door.

  But it wouldn’t be the action of a clueless bystander. He needed to be that clueless—if annoyed—bystander. For himself, for the woman on his sofa. For the dog, too.

  “Well, if you see anything off, I would certainly appreciate it if you’d let me know.” The snake moved in, flat, yellow eyes glancing over Luc’s shoulder at the cabin, testing Luc’s resolve. “If she does pay you a call, please remember she’s unwell. We’ve been…we’ve been concerned about her for months.” He shook his head. “Should have listened to the other women, rather than letting her go on as she was. Ever since her husband died. I’ll never forgive myself if she comes to harm.”

  “I will certainly keep an eye out,” Luc said noncommittally. “She can’t be safe wandering around in the snow.”

  Isaiah raised his gaze and smiled. “Indeed, sir. Not safe indeed.” He turned and stalked to the passenger door of the truck. The others remained where they stood in the shadows, snow coating the tops of their wide-brimmed hats. Isaiah Bowden opened the door and got in. After a beat, he turned the rifle around and held it out. He did it with a nod, quiet and friendly. “Looks like someone left this rifle against a shed on your property. Might want to lock up your weapons, Mr. Stanek. Wouldn’t want them falling into the wrong hands.”

  Luc was forced to walk around the truck to grab the gun, and for about five seconds, the other man held on. Three heartbeats, two big breaths, while some sort of me
ssage passed between them, the two men too close for comfort. Finally, Isaiah let go with a friendly, “God bless,” and Luc stepped back—stumbled, really, chest rising and falling hard, jaw tight and knuckles white over wood and metal.

  Luc turned away, ready to leave, and remembered the truck keys in his pocket.

  Taking them out, he held them up, let them jingle in the quiet night. “Apologies for taking these, neighbor,” he said, satisfied by the look of surprise on Isaiah’s face. “I wasn’t sure who would visit me at such an ungodly hour.”

  He tossed them lightly into the cab, where they fell with a clang. Why did this feel like a gauntlet thrown down? He hadn’t done it on purpose. Isaiah’s gaze rose to meet his, an odd smile on his face. He leaned out the door.

  “You smell that?”

  Testing the air, Luc said, “No.”

  “Hm. Thought I smelled smoke.”

  “Wood fire in my cabin.”

  “Yes, well.” The man sized him up with a long, slow nod, his eyes hard as pebbles. “Be a shame for anything else to catch fire.”

  “Such as?”

  A lazy shrug lifted Isaiah’s shoulders. “Grape vines, for example. Seen a bad fire decimate a crop before.” He wrinkled his brow, as if trying to call up a memory. “Maybe ’round here, in fact. Long time ago. Sure would hate to see that happen to your vines.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Luc asked as a long, slow shiver slid its way up his spine. He held still, because nothing would be worse for Abby right now than shooting Isaiah or jamming the poker through his eye.

  “Course not, sir. Course not. But I’ve seen stranger things happen in these parts.” With that, Isaiah settled back on the bench seat and slammed the door shut.

  Luc stood his ground and waited. No way he’d turn his back on these assholes. Already he felt the crosshairs on his chest as surely as if they were burned there. The rest of the men climbed slowly into the truck, three in the cab, two in back. Which must have been uncomfortable as hell in this weather, but…it certainly showed what they were willing to do. The lengths to which they’d go for their leader. Or was it for their God?