He wanted to yank her away from the destruction, worried she’d insist on searching through the entire heap at that moment. But he stayed in place.
This is her way of mourning.
If she wanted to dig, he’d get a shovel and help her.
She dug out a plate, blew off the ash, and studied it before tossing it to the side. Truman knew the plate had been blue, but now it was scorched and unrecognizable. Mercy poked around some more, and he figured it was time to grab a shovel from the barn. Suddenly she stood and brushed the debris off something in her hand. She turned and showed him a six-inch scarred metal handle attached to a round scooped end. Her lips quirked. “I never got a chance to thank you for this.”
He studied the thing on her soot-covered palm, clueless.
She turned it over and made the motion of packing something in the round end.
It clicked. It’s from the espresso machine I bought. “I have no idea what they call that part,” he admitted. “But I’m glad you saw the machine before the fire. I’ll get you another one. When we rebuild.”
Her shoulders sagged, and she looked back at the mess. “It might be too big of a project.”
“Are you in a hurry? Because I don’t think we have anything we need to do for the next year or two.” He’d never seen her overwhelmed, and he didn’t like it. She faced every challenge head-on; she couldn’t be beaten by this one.
Could she?
This uncertain Mercy rattled him almost as much as bleeding and unconscious Mercy.
She’s broken on the inside too.
Her thigh would heal. It simply needed time and rest. But what would it take to heal this?
Truman felt as if he were flying a plane with no instructions.
All he could do was take one day at a time.
Mercy had asked Truman what she should say to a man who had killed his brother to protect her. “Just be his friend,” Truman had suggested. “He’s lost most of his family.” She’d nodded, a determined look on her face, and Truman knew she’d keep Christian close, consider him one of her growing family. That was fine with Truman. Christian had saved her life; Truman was forever indebted to him.
If Gabriel Lake hadn’t died, Truman would have hurt him very badly.
Gabriel had been punishing people for destroying his family, but his actions had hurt his own family even more. Christian had to bury his father and his brother, and Truman suspected his relationship with his mother was permanently broken. Christian had told Truman that he’d always known his mother was poison, and that Gabriel harbored a lot of anger, but he’d never dreamed it would come to murder. Her poison had amplified Gabriel’s shortcomings and created something very deadly.
Gabriel Lake had taken away Salome’s mother and Morrigan’s grandmother; their lives would never be the same. “I’ve had enough deep snow and forest for the rest of my life,” Salome had told Mercy and Truman. “I want a tiny yard and a picket fence. Morrigan will go to school like any other kid.”
“What about Antonio Ricci?” Mercy had asked. “I thought you were scared of being found.”
Salome’s eyes were distant as she answered. “I can’t live in fear anymore. It’s been like a slow cancer in my heart. We’ll find our spot, and then we are done running forever.”
“Where will you go?” asked Truman.
“I’m not sure yet.” Something in her tone had told him she knew exactly where she was going. He suspected he and Mercy would never be told, but he wished the best for her and her daughter. The past was buried; Truman’s original memory of Salome had been replaced by the one of her fight for Mercy.
Salome and Morrigan would simply disappear one day, starting fresh with new identities. No doubt Christian would know where she found a home. Truman believed the two of them had a bond that would never be broken.
The current look on Mercy’s face made him wonder if she wanted to leave and start fresh.
“Do you want to sell the land?” he asked.
Her head jerked toward him. “No!”
Finally. A spark.
“Do you still want to buy a house together?”
She sighed. “I can’t now. The deductible on the insurance for this property will take everything I’ve saved for a down payment.”
Ouch.
Another option popped in his head. “What about living here? How about building something a little bigger—”
At her skeptical look, he quickly clarified. “We wouldn’t build too big a home. We’d keep it to a manageable size in case we lost power.” He waited, hoping she would accept his help.
Mercy mulled over Truman’s suggestion. She’d planned to eventually live in the cabin. Why not now?
Because it takes forever to drive to work. Because the closest grocery store is far away.
The cabin was perfect for an imperfect future.
But not perfect for her current life.
“I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “I like the idea, but it’s not very practical right now.” She looked at the gray-and-black pile of destruction. “I feel beaten down at the moment. I don’t know if I can start from scratch.”
Truman pointed at the barn. “Isn’t two-thirds of the important stuff in there?”
True.
“Yes, but—”
“Then all you need is the cabin. I know you had a lot of special systems, but frankly, I’d rather rebuild a house than try to replace what’s stored in the barn.” He took her hands, making her look at him. “You did this alone the first time. You won’t be alone to rebuild.”
Tears burned.
How did I end up with such a good man?
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice watery. “You don’t know what that means to me.”
“You mean everything to me,” Truman stated, his brown eyes deadly serious. “I’m not going to let a little fire and a hole in your leg disrupt your future.”
She choked, making a wet snorting noise. “Little?”
“Every night in my dreams, I see Gabriel shoot you,” he admitted. “Christian’s shot is too late. I’m too late, and so is Salome. Compared to that reality, yeah . . . this fire and your wound are little.” He swallowed hard. “We can rebuild everything you had. Make it better. What do you think of that?”
Mercy held his gaze, unable to speak, remembering a private conversation she’d had with Salome during her recovery in the hospital.
“You’ll end up together,” Salome had suddenly said in the middle of a discussion about hospital food.
“What?”
“Truman.”
Mercy had squirmed, uncomfortable with the personal observation from someone she barely knew. “Probably.”
Salome’s perfect brows rose. “Probably? Like you have any say in it?”
“Of course I have a say in it.” Mercy scowled. “It’s my life.”
The woman had chuckled. “Oh yes, but your fate is already laid out. You just think you’re leading the way.”
Psychobabble.
But then Salome had tipped her head, studying her with dark eyes. “It’s rare for me to see it. My mother was better at it. But you have . . . nearly invisible threads that stream between you and Truman.”
“Threads?”
Salome shrugged. “More like a spider’s silk. Barely there. It’s hard to explain, but twice I saw them glimmer. They can’t be broken.”
Mercy stared at her.
Salome had sat back in her chair. “Don’t listen to me.” She brushed aside the topic with a hand. “I mutter on about weird things sometimes. It’s nothing.” She pointed at Mercy’s tray. “But seriously, that doesn’t look anything like chicken. I don’t know what that is.”
Mercy had continued the discussion about chicken as if nothing had happened.
But the conversation stuck with her. Because in the forest, when she’d turned her head away from Gabriel and spotted Truman, thin silver and blue lines had glinted in her vision. Lines from her to Truman.
&
nbsp; It was the light reflecting off the snow.
I was losing blood and nearly unconscious. Of course I would see things.
She didn’t know what to think of Salome’s words. But it was a lovely concept. Fanciful and storybook.
“Mercy?” Truman asked. “Are you uncomfortable with me helping you rebuild?” His eyes feared her answer.
“No! Not at all. I was just thinking about how we’d get started.” She smiled, pleased to see his apprehension immediately retreat. “I’d love to do this with you, and I know Kaylie will approve.”
Delight filled his face. “Thank God. I was terrified that you would be being willing to walk away from all this. That’s not the woman I know.” He pulled her to him and then took her face in his hands, his eyes dancing. “I can’t wait to work together on it.” He kissed her long and deep.
Mercy sank into the kiss, imagining multicolored threads spinning around them, catching his anticipation about their future.
One they’d build together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to everyone at Montlake who supports me and my books: Anh, Jessica, Kim, Elise, and Galen. There are many other people who work behind the scenes to make my words come to life . . . They are the best at what they do, and I am thankful every day that Montlake is my home.
Thank you to Charlotte Herscher, who is gentle and precise with her red pen. Her valuable insight makes my books better.
Thank you to Meg Ruley, who leads the way and loves to handle the author business dealings that make me cower. I’m grateful she’s in my corner.
Thank you to my girls and Dan, who give me the space and support to get my work done. The life of a working writer is a messy one. We remember nothing and make decisions based on how many words we need to write that day. School clothes? Dentist appointments? Dinners? Grocery shopping? Sometimes . . . often these things are pushed onto the back burner. I’m lucky my husband knows to pick up my slack.
Thank you to my readers. You send kind emails or messages on Facebook that remind me people are reading the results of my weird brain activity. I appreciate your words too.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Rebekah Jule Photography
Kendra Elliot has landed on the Wall Street Journal bestseller list multiple times and is the award-winning author of the Bone Secrets and Callahan & McLane series and the Mercy Kilpatrick novels. Kendra is a three-time winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award, an International Thriller Writers finalist, and an RT Award finalist. She has always been a voracious reader, cutting her teeth on classic female heroines such as Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, and Laura Ingalls. She was born, raised, and still lives in the rainy Pacific Northwest with her husband and three daughters but looks forward to the day she can live in flip-flops. Visit her at www.kendraelliot.com.
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