by MJ Compton
Restin’s spine stiffened. “You wouldn’t.”
“You want to risk it?” Luke raised an eyebrow. “I have a lot less to lose than you do. I’m nothing. What’s he going to do to me? The only thing left would be to banish me from the pack, and if I run, that happens anyway.”
Luke rubbed Abigail’s back as he taunted Restin. The cool autumn air helped contain the stench of her sickness. When Delilah was first pregnant and on tour with the band, they’d all learned human women barfed a lot in the beginning. But he couldn’t remember what she or Tokarz had done.
“Don’t forget payback is rough, and I owe you a lot.” Years’ worth of cuffs upside the head, of being forced to run trivial errands. Of never measuring up and always being humiliated. Luke’s debts were staggering.
“I don’t have a container.”
That was a problem. If Abigail were lycan, she could shift and drink from a stream as a wolf. Except pregnant females couldn’t shift.
Oh, scat, what did he know about females other than anatomy?
“I’m okay,” Abigail said. “Motion sickness. Can we please . . . go?” She pulled the door shut. And didn’t apologize for the mess on the outside of the Jeep.
Except for giving Restin directions, no one spoke. Abigail grew tenser with each city block closer to the house on Silver Moon Terrace.
“Here,” Luke said.
He hadn’t seen the house in daylight. Now he wished he wasn’t seeing it at all. It was shabbier than its neighbors. The pale yellow siding could have used a good power wash. A couple of windowpanes needed replacing. The front door begged for several coats of paint. And none of it was his problem.
His only problem was resisting his urge to kill Gary, and with any luck, Gary would be working a shift at the brewery. But luck had deserted Luke the day of the Moonsinger picnic.
Abby had hoped to slip into the house, gather her things, pack Libby, speak to her mother, and sneak out while Gary slept. Working second shift at the brewery meant he slept days. When she saw the number of vehicles parked on the street in front of the house, she abandoned her plan.
Her heart lurched. What if she was too late to explain the situation to her mother?
Gary was in the front room. He wasn’t alone. Digger Sendall, the funeral director who’d handled the arrangements for her father and the two stillborn babies was there. He was one of Gary’s poker cronies, but he wasn’t dressed for their weekly game. His dark suit, subdued tie, and dressy shoes might as well have been a neon sign: death is imminent.
Abby stumbled, but Luke caught her elbow.
Mrs. MacDougal from church sat on the lumpy plaid sofa, wearing too much make-up and perfume as usual. The family hadn’t been to services in five years, but Abby would never forget the older woman’s singular stench. Pastor Shaw and Mr. Jeffers, the hospice caregiver, stood near the hall, conversing in low voices. Libby was nowhere in sight.
“I didn’t think you’d show up after you ran off last night,” Gary said.
So that was how he planned to spin the truth. He always had a lie handy to explain whatever was wrong. After all, he had an image to maintain: the hero who’d rescued poor Tina Grant and her daughters. He had assembled quite an audience for today’s performance.
“What happened to you? Were you in a car accident or did your boyfriend smack you around when you told him about the bun in your oven?”
Luke’s hand left the small of her back, and he took a step toward Gary. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Pastor Shaw and Mr. Jeffers turned, their conversation stopped, and Abby’s face heated.
Restin grabbed Luke’s arm. “Not now.”
“How’s Mama?” Abby asked.
The mood in the room shifted. Abby felt it as clearly as if someone had opened all the windows and let the cool autumn air blow through the house.
“My mother?” Abby’s voice cracked as she repeated her question.
Pastor Shaw’s knuckles whitened on his Bible. “It’s not good, Abby.”
Abby brushed past him and Mr. Jeffers and ran to the room hospice had turned into her mother’s death chamber.
The shades were pulled and the curtains drawn. A small lamp burned on the bureau top. The odor of rubbing alcohol nearly disguised the stench of dust. Her mother’s wasted frame was barely visible in the dim light—barely visible because she didn’t create a presence in the bed on which she lay. She scarcely disturbed the blanket covering her.
“Mama?” Abby whispered.
Her mother’s eyes fluttered open. “Abby?”
Abby gripped the cool metal rail of the hospital bed. “I’m here, Mama.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were barely audible, spoken between harsh breaths, but Abby understood.
“Thought . . .”
“Don’t waste your strength, Mama,” Abby said. “We’ve already gone over this.”
“Will.”
“Yes, I remember.” Abby glanced toward the doorway, where she thought she’d seen a flicker of movement. But it was empty.
Abby lowered her voice. “I have your will and other important papers in a safe place. I know what to do. Don’t fret.”
Her mother’s emaciated lips stretched slightly, a mockery of the smile that had once lighted up the house. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” Abby kissed her mother’s sunken cheek. “I love you, and I know you love me and Libby.”
“Careful.”
Scalding tears clung to Abby’s lashes, but she refused to release them. She had to be strong. She had the rest of her life to cry. “Of course. You know you can count on me. I’ll take care of Libby.”
Something brushed against Abby’s legs, startling her. Libby emerged from under the bed. “Don’t die, Mama.” Libby wasn’t quiet. Wasn’t subtle. “Don’t die!”
Mama inhaled deeply enough to raise the blanket a fraction of an inch. “My b’ful girls.” She gazed at Libby, then at Abby. “So sorry.” She closed her eyes. Exhaled. Once.
“Mister Jeffers?” Abby called out, her voice warbling.
A movement in the doorway caught her attention. Luke. Who moved aside to let the hospice caregiver into the room. Luke had been standing watch. Gary had not.
Mr. Jeffers placed his stethoscope against Mama’s chest. The only sound in the room was Libby’s heavy, wet breathing.
“I’m sorry, girls,” he said as he straightened.
Abby’s eyes burned. She blinked away the tears and pulled Libby’s hand into hers. Yes, she’d known Mama was dying, but knowing didn’t make the loss easier. The hole in her heart was still there. She couldn’t crack, couldn’t break. Not now. Later. When she was alone. When her escape from Gary was final.
Luke lurched from the wall where he’d been leaning. “You okay?” he asked. “Anything you need me to do?”
She considered asking him to kill Gary for real instead of merely threatening, but he was already offering her and Libby a way out. She shook her head and led Libby to the living room. To Gary, who wouldn’t mourn; to the strangers professing to be concerned neighbors, but who hadn’t done a thing about . . . the way Gary had isolated them from their previous lives.
“Mr. Sendall?” She barely recognized her voice. “I believe my mother made her final arrangements with you?”
The funeral director nodded and went to Mama’s room.
“The women’s fellowship will be bringing meals, of course,” Mrs. MacDougal said. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”
“Libby and I are moving to Loup Garou,” Abby replied. If she married Luke. Plans could change. “But thank you.”
Her brain was spinning. She had so much to do. First of all, she needed to endure this farce, this scene from Gary’s I’m-a-grea
t-guy-campaign.
“Don’t I have a say in any of this?” Gary asked.
“Mama made her own arrangements with Sendall’s several months ago.” How could she sound so . . . detached? But she did, and that was probably a good thing. “She remembered how . . . difficult everything was after Daddy died, and wanted to spare Libby and me.”
Abby led Libby as far away from Gary as the room permitted. Luke followed, almost as if standing guard. Restin made no secret of his intentions as he positioned himself between Luke and Gary. Pastor Shaw prayed, while Gary buried his face in his hands and sobbed for the benefit of his audience.
Libby’s shrieks overpowered Gary’s performance.
Abby couldn’t watch as Digger Sendall wheeled her mother from the house. No, not her mother. Just a body. An empty shell, like those at the seashore. Mr. Jeffers left, taking the hospital bed and other hospice equipment with him, followed by the pastor and Mrs. MacDougal. The house was empty of visitors. Finally.
Libby finally stopped sobbing.
“Start packing your things,” Abby told her. “We’re moving to Loup Garou.”
“But Gary said I’d have to do the cooking and cleaning here now that you’re not here anymore. And Uncle Dougie said he was looking forward to seeing more of me.”
“Gary is mistaken.” She didn’t mention Uncle Dougie, because there was no such person except in Libby’s imagination. Now that they were getting away from Gary, Libby could start taking the meds she needed. Gary had nixed those after only a year. She doesn’t need drugs, she needs discipline. As if discipline had worked before the formal ADHD diagnosis. Those months she’d been on Ritalin had been a window to the person Libby could have been had she not been bouncing like a pinball. She didn’t have to rely on imaginary friends.
“Don’t you want to live in Loup Garou?” Luke asked.
“You lied to Abby,” Libby snapped. “You told her you’d show her songs to Toke Lobo, but I’ll bet you didn’t.”
“Elizabeth is not going anywhere,” Gary said.
“Wrong.” Abby lifted her chin. “Mama named me Libby’s guardian. You have no say.”
Gary’s eyes narrowed. Gleamed between his lashes. “You’d better mind yourself,” he said in a low voice.
Before Abby could respond to Gary’s implied threat, Luke stepped forward. Every muscle in his body appeared tense. “No, she’d better start packing.”
Restin stepped closer to Luke. “Libby, start packing. You, too, Abigail.”
“Hey,” Libby said. “You’re Toke Lobo’s fiddle player. Do you live in Loup Garou?”
Restin nodded.
“Okay, I’ll live with you.” She started toward her bedroom at the back of the house.
“Get some garbage bags from the kitchen to put your things in,” Abby called after her. So sad that the minutia of their lives was reduced to trash.
“You girls don’t have anything I didn’t buy for you,” Gary said. He glanced at Restin, who stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his massive chest. “And if I were you, Abigail, I’d be real careful.”
“You don’t scare me. Not anymore.” Then why were her insides shivering like pudding in an earthquake? Gary could still hurt her. She prayed the past he’d forced on her never came to light.
Luke followed her down the hall to her tiny bedroom. He even helped stuff her clothes into a black plastic bag. “I remember this.” He held up the pink and lace dress she’d worn to the Moonsinger picnic. “You looked as pretty as a valentine.”
“Leave it,” she said. The garment was a summer dress, too lightweight for the current weather, and in a few more months, she wouldn’t be able to fit into it.
“I think you should wear it today when we get married. Unless you have a regular wedding gown stashed somewhere.”
Abby stopped packing her underclothes to gape at Luke. “What?”
He grinned. Dimples so deep a woman could drown in them framed his mouth and tunneled in his cheeks. “We’re getting married today. I know it’s a bad day for you, but we need to get married. Today. And I would love it if you would wear this dress. I have very fond memories of it.”
“So fond you couldn’t call me for three months?”
His smile faded. His Adam’s apple visibly bobbed in his throat. “I’m trying to do right by you. And I owe you.”
“Luke—”
“I’m sorry. I know you’re hurting. I shouldn’t be dumping all this on you. And it’s probably not the best day to get married, but I think we should stick with our plan.”
She took the dress from him. “You’re right. I am hurting. But I also know we have to try to . . . rise above our circumstances.” She was going to freeze in that dress, but if he was making an attempt, she needed to be open to his efforts.
He stepped into the hall while she changed.
The top was too tight. She couldn’t pull the edges of fabric close enough over her breasts to button. She settled on a wedding outfit of gray dress slacks she couldn’t fasten at the waist and a pale pink sweater that emphasized her daily-deepening cleavage.
She picked up her guitar case and took one final look around her childhood bedroom and wondered if she would ever be back. The grimy pink walls, the limp floral curtains, her narrow twin bed . . . she wouldn’t miss any of them.
Luke carried the plastic bag with her clothes in one hand and pressed the other in the small of Abby’s back as he steered her out of the bedroom. “We need to get going.”
Gary sat in his cracked brown vinyl recliner. Silent. Watching. Probably making sure they didn’t take anything he deemed his.
“Abby.” Libby ran through the front door. “I forgot my pillow. I can’t sleep without my Santa Claus pillow.”
Abby set her guitar case next to the door. “I’ll get it. You wait in the car with Restin. Luke, you go ahead. I’ll be right out.”
“I’m not leaving you with him.” The sentence sounded more like a growl than words.
It took only a moment for Abby to locate Libby’s pillow, Luke dodging her steps the entire time.
When they returned to the front room, Gary was standing, her guitar held over his head.
“No!” She dropped Libby’s pillow and lunged.
Too late. He slammed the guitar down. Hard. On the arm of his recliner. The wood splintered. The steel strings sagged with nothing to keep them taut. Something inside her broke as Gary tossed the scraps to the floor. She hadn’t thought her day could get any worse. Wrong again.
Luke charged Gary, but Restin streaked through the front door and caught him. Stopped him. Why? Why didn’t Restin just let Luke do what needed to be done?
“Outside. Now.”
Luke’s fingers brushed Abby’s hand as he took the ruined instrument from her and gently, almost reverently returned it to its case. His hands shook as badly as hers as he helped her close the hasps. She never would have made it to the Jeep if Luke hadn’t guided her. She crawled into the back seat, cradling the case.
“I’ll buy you a new guitar right after we get married,” Luke said as he climbed in next to her.
Abby shook her head. “It was my father’s guitar. It’s all I had left of him.”
Chapter 5
Good thing Abby had never dreamed about her wedding, because there was nothing fantasy-like about it at all. They were married in the county clerk’s office. No pretty dress for her. No bouquet. There wasn’t even a ring. Not that a ring meant anything. Gary had proved that. Libby stood up for her. Restin stood up for Luke. That was it. She was married. For better or worse. She’d take the status quo. She was already intimately familiar with the worse part.
She stood in the center of the main room of Luke’s minuscule cabin and surveyed her new home. One corner was devoted to a drum set
. Another looked like a home office. Luke’s computer set-up rivaled Gary’s in its complexity. A kitchen area occupied one end of the room. Wide plank stairs led to what appeared to be a loft. There were no bedrooms. Where would Libby sleep? Where would she sleep?
Maybe Luke expected her to sleep with him. He might even want sex from her again. She didn’t know how she felt about that. She’d certainly enjoyed being with him. But he lied to her. A lot. Since she was starting a new life, things were going to change. No more letting people walk all over her.
“You girls can share the bed,” Luke said. “I’ll sleep on the sofa for the time being. The Pack is going on tour starting this weekend, so I’ll be gone a month or so.”
“I thought I was going to live with the fiddle player. I don’t like it here. I want to move in with Uncle Dougie.” Libby clutched her Santa Claus pillow to her chest.
“We’ll be building on to your cabin,” someone said from the door.
Abby started. She recognized the man as one who’d helped tackle Luke the previous evening.
The man held out his hand. “I’m Marcus, your father-in-law.”
“Welcome to the family,” Colette said as she followed Marcus inside. Luke’s mom was a pretty woman. She was clearly the source of Luke’s mop of buttercup yellow curls and sky-blue eyes.
She gave Abby an awkward hug.
“Tokarz called the housing council together this morning after learning about your sister,” Marcus said. “The council decided to build on to your cabin to make room for everyone.”
Housing council? Things must work differently in Loup Garou than they did in Oak Moon.
“The addition needs to be started right away, before the weather turns,” Marcus continued.
Luke nodded, as if family interference were completely normal. “I thought they could stay with Granny a few nights while I’m on tour.”
