by Willa Reece
“You think the wildwood influenced my attraction to you?” I asked.
“I tasted you that day. It wasn’t planned, but that moment started something,” Jacob said.
“I choose my path. I always have. I always will,” I said. He leaned forward. Maybe I whispered and he couldn’t hear. Or maybe he wanted to be closer. “I was open to the experience, and it shook me, I won’t deny it. But it didn’t start anything between us that hadn’t already started.”
“When I accepted the hiking stick, I knew it meant something more than you intended,” Jacob said. I could feel the soft air of his words teasing across my lips.
“You’re wrong. Deep down, I knew,” I said. “And if the wildwood is a matchmaker, I don’t mind.”
The confession was the last bit of encouragement he needed. He had given me more time than necessary to allow me to run away. And I had proven I had no intention of going anywhere. He pressed his mouth against mine and our lips opened, to merge, to taste, to remember the thrill of magic between us that had started even before the thorn prick and the first flick of his tongue. He tasted of peppermint. Or we both did. I pressed into the solid warm strength of him, and he wrapped his arms around me. Finally. As close as I’d always wanted to be. Or almost. Heat rose as mint mingled and our hands found their way under clothes. His bare skin was a revelation—all smooth and masculine and vulnerable somehow in spite of his strength. From his murmurs of appreciation against my lips and then my neck, and then more intimate places, he discovered revelations of his own.
Much later, Jacob fished a photograph from the jeans he’d retrieved from the floor.
“She wants to meet you,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any doubt from her past and her appearance, but she’s agreed to any testing you might require if you want to be sure first.”
I’d seen the woman in the photograph before. In my mirror every day and in the photograph of the Sect woman with the baby Tom had placed on the counter for me to find. I wrapped myself in the afghan to go to the closet and retrieve the old photograph to compare the two.
And to get a closer look at what I knew now to be a baby picture of myself.
There wasn’t much to see. The photograph was yellowed and I was wrapped in a blanket. But even with her face turned away from the camera, the young woman looked so like me I wondered if the only way I’d missed the resemblance was to refuse to see it.
“I don’t want to put her through anything else. This is enough for me. I’d be happy to meet her,” I said. But then I had to lean against Jacob when another horror occurred to me. “Does she have any idea who my father is?”
“Not Moon, Mel. She told me that. She was given to one of his closest acolytes. A Sect man who died after being bitten by a copperhead about five years later,” Jacob explained.
“Thank God it wasn’t Moon or Hartwell,” I said. My whole body had collapsed from relief.
Jacob held me and I allowed myself to be held.
There was a scratch at the back door.
I was the one who stood to answer it. When I opened the door, the fox looked up at me. We stood like that until Jacob came to pull me back inside. I had started to shiver from the cold. The fox shook itself free of snow and followed us.
Sarah had known. The fox had been in her life long before mine. But she’d shared her premonition when she’d given me the embroidered bag. She’d somehow known that the fox and I should be together.
I dropped down and placed my hand on the fox’s damp head. He didn’t shy away from my touch.
And Jacob closed the door.
Acknowledgments
Lucienne Diver patiently read numerous early versions of this book. Her support was invaluable. The wildwood never would have existed without her. Thank you for finding a home for the wisewomen and the book of my speculative heart, Lucienne!
My sons are scientists. Deciding if they were born scientists or I somehow raised them to become scientists is impossible. I couldn’t have written Wildwood Whispers without watching three growing children discover the world and commit their lives to a deeper exploration of the universe. This is simply who they are and I suspect nature and nurture both played a part.
And what can I say about Nivia Evans? I’ve only known a few special creatives in my life who inspire worlds with mere conversation. After speaking with Nivia, I hang up the phone and my head is so full I have to immediately put pen to paper. It’s been such a joyous privilege to work with her and the entire Orbit team.
My mother, Elaine Meador Craighead, is the Appalachian woman behind the character of Granny. Canning, remedies, porch swings and pie—all magic of a sort. Not to mention tales of eccentric ancestresses and mountain lore. I grew up hunting for fairies in blackberry bushes and trying to catch robins with salt. For haints and hollers. For tonics and tall tales. For books. So many books. Thank you, Mom.
This book is dedicated to Todd because he’s the one who brought me to a cabin in the wildwood. The perfect sunny spot for a family, all my rescued pets, and a writing chair in the trees. Love always.
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