by Mia Sheridan
He turned, pressing his back to the wall as the soft tapping continued. For several minutes he simply sat there, waiting to see if the woman would go away. But instead, she knocked again, this time calling out softly, yet loud enough to be heard through the window. “Please let me in.”
She sounded scared. What if she needs help? What if she’s lost and alone like the blond boy?
He sat there for another few seconds, nervous, unsure, before finally standing, and looking at her through the glass. She stared back, raising her hand. “What do you want?” he called.
She stepped forward, letting out a sob and then putting her palms on the glass. “It’s you.” There was a small thump sound as she let her head fall forward so it was against the glass. “Please let me in. It’s so cold out here, and I just want . . . I just want to talk to you. Please.”
He paused for another second, but finally reached out, lifting the window slowly. “Who are you?”
The woman smiled, tears shining in her eyes as she moved from one foot back to the other. She itched at her neck and sniffled, then wiped her nose with her sleeve. She looked behind her and then climbed through the window, even though he hadn’t invited her inside. “Do you live here alone?”
Jak paused, figuring she was worried there was someone else inside who might hurt her. “Yes. It’s just me.”
She nodded, letting out her breath. “I left the car way up on the road and walked here. I came to the back of the house in case the front is being watched.”
Watched? No one was watching him. Was this woman acting this way because of the war?
Jak stepped back and she shut the window quickly, turning toward him, her eyes moving from his hair to his feet. She smiled again as she met his eyes. She was pretty, with long, black hair and smooth, tan skin, but her eyes had red around them, and she kept itching and moving like there was something wrong with her.
“Look at you,” she said, her eyes wet, teary. “You’re so handsome. I hoped you’d look like him, and you do.”
Jak frowned, confused and still nervous. “Who are you?” he asked again. “What do you want?”
She stepped closer and he stepped back, keeping his space though he was larger and stronger than the small woman in front of him. She reached her hand out, trying to touch his face and he moved back. Away. A tear fell from her eye and she dropped her hand. “I’m your mother.”
Shock made him go still. “My mother? How . . . I don’t have a mother.”
She stepped closer again and this time he didn’t step back. His mother?
“Of course you have a mother.” She made a jerky move again, and scratched at her neck, and then shook her head like she was trying to clear it. “It’s me. I knew, God, I knew I shouldn’t have given you to him. But I didn’t have a choice—” Her face screwed up and she started to cry, but then stopped herself. “I thought you’d be better off with him. And he’s taking care of you, I see that.” She looked around at the cabin. “You’re safe, right? Warm?”
Jak nodded slowly. “I’m warm. But no one’s taking care of me.” He took care of himself.
The woman—his mother?—tilted her head, jerking and scratching at her neck again. His eyes moved to the place she’d scratched, and he saw that she’d opened a sore and that a trail of blood was moving slowly down the side of her neck. “But he gave you this house, made sure you had a safe, warm place to live.”
“Driscoll? Yes, he gave me this house . . . how do you know Driscoll?”
She shook her head again. “It’s a stroke of luck that I found you. I saw Driscoll in town, and I followed him but lost his car. I thought I was lost, but then I saw your house. It’s like God led me here, you know?” She sniffled, wiping at her nose with her sleeve again. “I know it’s not right, him keeping you out here. And I’m going to fix that. I’m going to get clean, I promise, and I’m going to find a place. A nice little house with sunflowers in the garden. Do you like sunflowers?”
Sunflowers? “But there’s a war out there. Don’t you know that?”
She stared at him for a second before nodding, her head jerking up and down and her eyes filling with tears again. “I know. God, I know. No one can be trusted. The whole world’s on fire. It’s always on fire.”
He nodded. “Yes. You shouldn’t go back out there.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m a survivor. I’ll be okay.”
He stared at her, trying to understand this confusing visit. Could it be true that she was his mother and she’d given him to Driscoll so he’d be safe from the war? But what about his baka? He felt his brow pinch together as he tried to make sense of it all. Of the ways he might have been passed around from person to person so he’d be kept safe. Is it possible?
And if it was . . . he had family. He had a mother. He stepped forward, gripping her arm. “Let me come with you. I can protect you. I can find food for us, and . . . and make warm clothes to wear.”
She smiled again, another tear slipping down her cheek. “Sweet boy.” She sighed and then shook her head slowly. Sadly. “No. I can’t take you with me yet. Soon, I promise. I’ll be back for you. But,” she said, her voice cheering in a way that sounded like a lie, “I did bring you something.” She stepped away, bringing her bag from her shoulder and setting it on the floor. She knelt down and dug inside, bringing out a couple of books.
She stood, handing the books to him. He took them, reading the titles: The True Story of the Three Little Pigs and Goodnight Moon.
“I was told they’re the most popular books for kids.” She frowned. “I know they’re for younger kids, but . . . I wasn’t sure so . . .”
He looked at her blankly. His baka had told him he must never ever tell anyone she’d taught him to read. His baka had told him it would be very dangerous. But this woman was his mother, or so she said. He didn’t have to tell her he could read, but he didn’t have to lie and say he couldn’t either. “Thank you,” he finally said, but couldn’t help adding, “when you come back, will you bring me more?” Not baby books, he wanted to say, but didn’t. He didn’t want her to take back the ones in his hands. He held them tighter.
“Of course. Yes.” She let out a breath, smiling and stepping away. She bent, picking up her bag again and moved toward the back window. “I’ll be back. I will.” She smiled again, bigger this time, but there was hurt in her face and her body was even more jerky than it’d been. “I just need to get well and then I’ll be back. Until then, you take care of yourself, okay?”
Jak nodded and she opened his window and began climbing back through, out into the snowy night. “Wait,” he called and she turned. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s Emily.” She paused, turning back toward him. “But you can’t mention me. Don’t tell anyone I’ve been here, okay?”
Jak nodded. But he didn’t understand. Who was he going to tell? And he didn’t get why everyone always wanted him to keep their secrets. He didn’t know who was protecting him, or who the bad men were. He was all twisted inside and had no idea who to trust, or if he should trust anyone at all.
She turned away again, starting to duck out of the window, but then paused. “What does he call you?” she asked over her shoulder.
He knew she was talking about Driscoll, but Driscoll didn’t call him anything at all. And he didn’t know if there was any point in saying anything about his baka, wherever she might be now. Why did Driscoll and his mother not know what the other called him? Who am I? he wondered. “Jak,” he said.
She nodded, still turned away from him. “Jak’s a good name. I called you Lucas.” She sounded very sad. “I know that’s not your name, but when I was carrying you, that’s what I called you. I’m sorry that in the end, I never even gave you that.” She ducked out the window then, landing in the snow with a soft crunch.
He watched as she turned on her light and walked into the woods, the light fading in the darkness, along with the woman who’d called herself his mother but had left him alone again.
Jak read the books, three times each, memorizing the words, and then got back under the blanket on his bed and lay staring at the ceiling. But the books didn’t make sense. Wolves were good, not bad. Pup had been his best friend. Wolves had families and mates that they stayed with for life. They sang love songs to the moon and rolled on their backs in happiness at the smell of the rain. It was wild pigs who were mean and bad and greedy for their mushrooms. They liked the smell of blood and laughed at things no one else could see. He shivered when he thought of them, and the memory of Driscoll’s words came back. Pig is going for lots of money in town. Bring me one, and I’ll give you a bow and arrow. He hadn’t found any pig yet, not that he had looked very hard. He couldn’t seem to make himself want to do much of anything the last few months. He missed Pup. He hated the loud and empty quiet.
The other book, the one with the little boy and the red balloon just made him more sad. The old lady in the chair made him think of his baka, made him know there was no one sitting in a chair in his room, or anywhere else, watching over him. No one to make him food, or make sure he was warm and happy. The person who called herself his mother had left him that story and then walked away from him. He had a feeling she wouldn’t be back. Just like when she must have given him away to his baka. But why? When? He didn’t understand anything about who he was.
It was a long time before he slept again that night and when he did, pictures of an unknown enemy with a face in shadow and dark eyes filled with meanness, haunted his nightmares.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Harper stirred the soup with one of the plastic spoons she’d thrown in the bag with the canned items she’d brought to Lucas. A quick glance at the things on the table told her he had one of everything: a pot, a bowl, a spoon, and a fork. Things he’d traded Driscoll for? What did the fork cost him? How much did a pot go for? If it was a kindness Driscoll had been doing for him, why didn’t it feel that way to Harper?
Something was way off about this whole situation, and she hoped Agent Gallagher would find out what it was, though he wasn’t under any obligation to share it with her. But she could be a . . . she searched her mind for the most fitting description . . . friend? Contact? Yes, contact at least. She could be a contact to this man who had few options for obtaining needed items, after the way he’d lived his life thus far. So why didn’t that word . . . satisfy her?
As she stirred, she thought back to his expression as he’d licked the peanut butter off his finger, and a shiver went through her just as it had at the time. She was attracted to him, not only because of his looks, but for the way his gaze sharpened with intelligence when he was curious about something, for that shy expression when he was worried he was saying the wrong thing or using the wrong word, for the way his voice sounded, and the way his body moved. He appealed to her in a deeply sexual way no man ever had, and it scared her, but it also came with an edge of excitement.
Maybe the rules and social structures she’d grown up with didn’t apply here. Maybe it was easier to acknowledge your base instincts in a place with no grocery stores or electricity, nothing to keep you warm except the heat of a flame and another’s body. He was a caveman of sorts, but maybe they all were if put in the right environment and forced to live on instinct and prowess alone.
She snuck a glance at him. She knew he was attracted to her too. She saw the way he watched her, the way his smile was innocent but the heat in his eyes primal, the way he studied her body when he thought she couldn’t see. She’d learned to watch men for unwelcomed interest, for a warning of impending danger, a red, flashing caution sign that told her to run and hide.
And yet she didn’t want to run from him.
And that should scare her too. But it didn’t.
The soup was bubbling and so she dished it into his one bowl and his one mug, setting each on the table and sitting on the tree trunks that acted as stools. Had Lucas made them? No, how could he? He didn’t seem to have tools. Did he? She didn’t want to ask and make him feel like everything in his world was weird and questionable, but it felt like there were a hundred small things she wanted to know. How had he gotten by without everyday items she took for granted?
Did he really hunt with nothing more than a knife and his bare hands?
How had he made the boots and jacket he wore? The ones that were so carefully stitched together with . . . what?
Was he lonely?
Scared sometimes?
He had to be. He was human after all.
She smiled at him as she took a spoonful of the soup, watching as he did the same. That look of pleasure came over his expression and her stomach muscles quivered. “What do you think?”
He nodded as he scooped another bite into his mouth, slurping loudly. “Salty. Good.”
Harper hadn’t ever heard anyone seem to enjoy chicken noodle soup from a can quite as much as Lucas, and it made her grin, taking pleasure in his pleasure. Although she made note that he was pushing all the squares of chicken meat to the corner of his bowl.
They ate in silence for a moment before she finally got the nerve to ask him one of her gajillion questions. “Lucas, can I ask you something?” He scooped more soup into his mouth and met her eyes, wariness in his expression though he nodded. “Why did you take that magazine from the sheriff’s office?” She put her hand up, rushing on, “It doesn’t matter. I won’t say anything. I mean, it’s not that anyone would care anyway, but I’m . . . curious.”
He put his spoon down, and it appeared he was considering whether to answer her or not. Or maybe he was surprised she’d seen him take it. Finally, he shrugged. “Just to look at the . . . pictures.”
“The pictures? Oh. So . . . you . . . can you read?” She hadn’t considered that but . . . if he’d been abandoned at a young age, maybe he’d never been taught to read at all. Maybe he’d never attended school. “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said when he didn’t immediately answer. “You can learn. I could teach you if you want.” She liked the idea. Bent over a book with Lucas, their heads close together . . .
But he had narrowed his eyes and looked to be on guard, and she suddenly regretted ruining what had been an easy camaraderie for a few minutes there. “I read some.” The words came out spaced strangely as though he was reluctant to release each one.
She bobbed her head. “Oh.”
“I don’t know about the world. I thought the magazine might help me understand.”
Harper released a breath. “That’s understandable.” She tilted her head. “What did the magazine tell you?”
He gave her sort of a bewildered smile and raised his eyebrows as he brushed a hand through his thick, choppy hair. He’d cut it himself. Without a mirror. The thought combined with the boyish expression on his masculine face made her heart jump. “That there’s a lot of food out there. Almost every page was a picture selling something to eat.”
She smiled. She could only imagine what he thought when he’d experienced only a diet of meat and fish and whatever he could forage. “Is there something new you want to try?”
He looked unsure. “I don’t know. Pizza maybe. The people eating it looked happy.”
The way he mispronounced it, his expression so serious, made Harper laugh. “Then I’ll bring you a pizza too. Add it to my shopping list.”
Lucas regarded her for a moment, tilting his head in that questioning way of his. “Why are you coming out here, Harper? Is it because you’re helping the police?”
“No, I don’t work for them or anything. I have my own business like I told you, taking nature lovers out. I’m helping the agent get around in these backwoods and answering questions that arise. Honestly, Lucas, you’d probably be better than me at helping Agent Gallagher figure out who killed Isaac Driscoll.”
He looked behind her, out the window on the far wall. “I don’t care who killed Isaac Driscoll.” He met her eyes and something burned in them. Hatred.
Harper was taken aback. “I thought you said you b
arely knew him.”
“I didn’t.” The fire in his eyes dulled, then went out, leaving what looked like hopelessness behind.
“I don’t understand.”
Lucas looked at her. “He was a cheat and a liar. My life is harder now that he’s gone, but I won’t miss him.”
Oh. Harper wondered if he’d hinted at that much to Agent Gallagher, or if he was confessing that to her because he’d come to trust her a little. “If you have information that might lead to—”
“I don’t,” he said. It was clear he was done discussing Driscoll.
“If it turns out you’re not allowed to stay on this land, where will you live?”
He paused but then shrugged, though he really couldn’t be that unconcerned about the potential of being homeless. “I’ll survive.”
What did that mean though when it came to lodging? Survival alone sounded like a dismal goal. He couldn’t be planning to simply find a . . . cave or something. Could he? She couldn’t let that happen.
Harper felt on edge. She still sensed this man’s goodness and spending more time with him had only made that feeling grow, but there was no denying there were secrets in his eyes. And she would not let some sexual tension get in the way of her asking the questions she felt required answers if she was really going to be a . . . contact. She bit nervously at the inside of her cheek for a moment as she watched him stare into space, his mind obviously somewhere else. “For all evils there are two remedies—time and silence.”
His gaze shot to hers, eyes flaring with recognition as his body stilled. As quick as that, his expression shuttered dispassionately. But she’d seen it. He hadn’t been quick enough to hide from her.
“Lucas, you read more than some. You read as well as anyone.” Why had he lied about that? He was eying her warily now as though waiting for her to pounce. “I just quoted Alexandre Dumas. But I think you know that.” She paused for a heartbeat, two. “Do you have the backpack, Lucas? It was my mother’s.”