In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  Compressing his lips, he threw the truck into gear, pulled out into the snow-covered street, and slid his right hand into Le Dog’s fur. “What should we do?” he asked, his voice hollow in the cold cab. When the dog didn’t answer, he gave him a quick squeeze and nodded. “I don’t know either, boy. I just don’t know.”

  * * *

  How could she do this in the snow?

  She couldn’t. Not with the way she hurt. The ankle was bad enough, but it was her back that worried her now. Why did it hurt so much? It hadn’t been like this before.

  Just to the next tree. To the dogwood. The one that bloomed pink in the spring. She lurched, hurting, weak and cold—much too cold. No time to think about the cold.

  With her body bent forward, the pain was the only thing that propelled Abby to the farthest pasture, almost to the hole in the fence. Sammy was someplace behind her, back with the Church. Isaiah had made sure she knew that. He never made it out, Isaiah had said. Which made no sense. No sense at all, since she’d sent him right to the hole.

  Pain lanced through her ankle as she stumbled, and Abby reached for something good to help push her forward.

  A memory: Luc with his knuckle to her lip. Just that one hot touch spurred her on as snow soaked through her shoes and left the bottom half of her nightgown plastered to her body. She shook as she tried to see through the driving snowflakes. This familiar journey was nearly unrecognizable. The night didn’t help either. Abby slipped, stumbling on a rock. She tumbled hard to the ground, the air forced out of her lungs with an audible oof. While she lay there, letting the rest of her soak and waiting for the energy to get back up, the dogs started barking, flashing her back to that moment two nights ago when they’d caught up with her. Were they looking for her already? If so, there was no hope.

  No hope.

  Get up! a voice said, right there in her head, loud and clear enough to be straight from God himself. But Abby didn’t believe in direct communications from Heaven. She’d seen enough firsthand evidence that those led to unhappiness and despair. She did, however, believe in Sammy, who deserved a better a life. A chance, at least. And she believed in Luc, whose steady hands were strong enough to put her back together again.

  Feet caught up in her gown, she stumbled a few times as she tried to push herself to standing. Finally—finally—she rolled and got her feet under her. She pulled herself onto her knees, head pounding, eyes…wrong. Squeezed too hard by her skull. Time to go. No more resting. Go, go, go.

  Up, moving, although she couldn’t be sure it was her legs taking her. Hard, fast, frantic, lungs full to bursting, face burning from the cold, back weak, but now blissfully numb.

  Faster, faster, faster, legs swishing, fabric grasped like wet hands, like ropes, until she yanked it up and gathered it around her waist.

  There it was: the fence, the last barrier, and the hole she’d cut into it. Only… No. Nononono.

  It was gone. Of course it was. Of course they’d closed it up. She scrambled to the spot—she knew this was it—and saw where it had been wired shut. They’d found it, after all. Of course they wouldn’t just leave it open. Instead, Isaiah had had it reinforced with so many layers of wire, it felt like a message. It told her turning back was the only option.

  Where were the cutters? Not here where she’d left them. Gone. Two steps back showed what she knew she’d see: eight feet of fencing topped with razor wire. The view from inside.

  With a final glance behind her, she took in the cold, cold mountain, the miles of nothing. In front, frigid metal. Behind, Isaiah’s rule.

  Please help me get Sammy out, she prayed. She’d looked for him tonight on her way out. He hadn’t been in the shed he sometimes used, nor had she been able to spot his sleeping form through the window at the Cruddups’ or at Benji’s cabin. She’d have risked going in if he’d been there.

  Without hesitation, her fingers slipped over metal and pulled up, feet following suit, to no avail. The shoes had to go. She threw them over the top and started over.

  She sucked back a sob, ignoring the strain and bite of chain link. Her body weight dragged her down, but she was driven by nothing but the need to survive. At the top, the galvanized coils, too high to be straddled, would slice her to bits if she didn’t cover them.

  Without hesitation, she struggled to pull off the cotton nightgown—immodest!—spread it over the wire, tried to press it down a bit, and followed with her leg. But thin cotton was no match for apocalyptic paranoia.

  Don’t think about it. Breathe through the pain. Breathe. The words pushed her to straddle the barrier that had held her prisoner for close to a lifetime. Up here, this high—closer than she’d ever been to the night sky, cradled by these mountains—Abby threw a long, aching look toward the compound. She said a silent good-bye to Mama, who didn’t know better than this place. To Sammy, whom she’d get out if it killed her.

  It wasn’t until she’d made it all the way down that she remembered her near nudity—and the clear signs of escape she’d left in her wake. Barking sounded again, muffled by the snow. It was impossible to tell if it came from in front of her or behind. She ascended to retrieve the nightgown, torn to bits and stained in places. It was necessary but tedious and it took too long, too long with her dry mouth and tight chest.

  Not one for details, our Abigail, echoed the voices in her head. Always in the clouds.

  Always! she’d wanted to scream. It’s better than here! Anything is better than here!

  Finally, she stumbled toward Luc’s cabin, leaving the fence behind for what she prayed was the last time.

  * * *

  Luc didn’t think about going to the neighbors’ place. He just went there, his truck barely making it up their drive, tires slipping all over the place. By the time he opened their gate, went up the drive, and pulled up to their main building—dark at this time of night—they’d been alerted to his presence.

  But for now, he needed to know that Abby was okay.

  “Help you?” came a voice from off to the right. A man. Possibly one of the guys who’d crowded onto his front porch last night. And like last night, the man held a rifle. Only now, it was pointed right at Luc. Should have listened to the sheriff.

  “Yes.” Luc girded himself. “I want to see Abby.”

  “Abby?” The man squished up his face. “Don’t have an Abby living here.”

  “Abigail, her name is. I want to see her.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this isn’t—”

  “Neighbor!” came Isaiah’s voice. The leader. He stepped out from the shadows beside the building and ambled toward Luc’s truck. “What brings you here?”

  “I want to see Abby. Where is she?”

  Isaiah’s smile was visible in the night. The rest of his face was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. “How is it you know Mistress Merkley?”

  “She…” Luc paused, suddenly recognizing the mess he’d gotten himself—and possibly her—into. “From the market.”

  “She hasn’t worked the market in ages,” said the first man.

  “She was there last weekend.” Luc looked from one face to the other. “May I see her?”

  “No, sir.” Isaiah’s voice was hard.

  Silence. Luc’s hands ached from holding them too tight, his knuckles dying to connect with the bastard’s jaw.

  “Why not?” he asked, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

  “I don’t believe she is receiving right now, Mr. Stanek.” Isaiah moved closer, not quite in Luc’s face, but close enough for Luc to see the pores on the man’s nose, smell the rank acid of his breath. “But we will let her know you paid her a call.”

  Isaiah lifted his hat and turned to walk away, dismissing Luc. After a few crunching steps, he turned back, eyes harder than they’d been a moment ago.

  “I don’t recommend trespassing on our land after da
rk, sir.” He smiled, a quick, dangerous flash. Then lifted his chin toward the man who still held his weapon trained on Luc. “We’ve been known to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  12

  A loud bark from somewhere close by startled Luc from his slumber in front of the fire. Bleary-eyed but alert, heart beating fast, he took in his surroundings.

  Living room. Right. America, not France. At the door stood Le Dog, whose presence was more necessary than ever.

  “What is it?” Luc asked, standing up from his comfy armchair. He waited a few moments. No more sounds from outside.

  Back to staring at the fire, trying to drown himself in bourbon or… He grasped the bottle by the neck and squinted at the label. Virginia Straight Bourbon Whiskey. Made locally. If the locals drank it… He shrugged, took a sip from his glass, and set the bottle back down. No point going against the grain.

  He settled back into the worn leather.

  Another noise outside, a metallic thud, had him up and out of the chair in a second, bottle and glass forgotten. His head cocked like the dog’s, who let out an alert woof.

  “Bon garçon.”

  Whatever it was, it was close.

  Another noise, a softer scuffling this time, sent Luc to the window. Tonight, for the first time, he had closed the curtain. He tweaked it back and stared outside. Nothing moved, but Le Dog remained at attention. He jammed his feet into his boots, grabbed his coat, and yanked open the door. He shooed Le Dog back inside. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

  Outside, the air hit him hard, shocking his lungs into momentary paralysis. He inhaled sharply and zipped up in a hurry.

  He took a few steps, walking straight through the fog of his own breath to the edge of the porch, and waited for another sound, a clue as to its direction. Nothing.

  Well, merde.

  That first sound had been metallic, like…

  The old shed, which sat a couple dozen meters farther uphill. He hadn’t bothered securing that door, since he had no current use for the building, but that must have been it. Or an animal. It could be an animal. Possibly.

  This late at night? Too loud to be one of the chickens, who were all snug in their coop.

  Perhaps it had been the wind. Unless…a fox? He grasped at that notion.

  You could never be too careful with the fauna around here. He’d heard of bobcats and the like coming down from higher elevations in search of food. Although this blizzard should have been a deterrent, it could have pressed some poor creature to take extreme measures. Big cats, hungry and cold, might be attracted to a place like his.

  Either way, Luc eyed the snow covering the ground, turned, and backtracked to the cabin, where he grabbed his rifle.

  The snow was blowing, big gusts of it, with a cold that felt bone deep. Sharp.

  A shiver of foreboding slid down his spine.

  He tried not to think about the neighbors. Tromping over there might well have set off a shitstorm on the mountain. In his own damned backyard. Not his best move.

  Another few steps, stomping through inches of snow—blinded by it—before he was stopped by that furtive noise. It told him whatever else this was, it was alive, awake, and up to something. A wave of adrenaline-fueled anger flooded him. He lifted his rifle, realizing a second too late that he’d have been better off armed with a piece of wood in the close quarters of the shed than something that needed to be aimed from a few feet away.

  Too late to turn back, he yanked open the door, weapon raised…and stopped.

  Nothing.

  Dammit. He’d been sure it was in here. Slowly, with the tingle of another presence as solid as the shoes on his feet, Luc backtracked. Two steps out, and instead of left toward home, he turned right and almost walked right over her.

  In the split second before he moved, Luc took in the scene. Against the outside corner of the shed, pale and ghostly and barely visible against the falling snow, lay a human being. A woman.

  Abby. Her body a Rorschach pattern of light and dark, like something out of a Japanese horror film.

  “Putain de merde,” he breathed, not understanding what he saw. His stomach twisted into a knot of confusion.

  “Luc?” She said his name, the voice soft and barely recognizable. Fear slammed into his body, hitting him hard in the chest. It drove him to the ground beside her, on his knees in the cold, cold snow.

  Damn it. She was naked. Or close to it. She was wearing something wet and torn and spotted with…

  He dropped his rifle to the ground and slid out of his coat, wrapped her shaking body in it before lifting her into his arms.

  Abby was nothing but a crumpled heap when he picked her up, so tiny and light he wondered if she’d somehow disappeared, leaving nothing behind but her torn nightgown, a puddle of fabric like something out of The Wizard of Oz.

  After his moment of idiocy—I must be drunk—his reactions finally kicked in.

  Too light for a grown woman. Sparing a glance for his gun on the ground, he carried her back to the house, slipping on what felt like ice. She had to be frozen, half-naked like this.

  He carried her up the three uneven steps to the porch and—after a brief struggle—through the front door, into the heat of his cabin. Le Dog woofed, jumping at him, showing energy for the first time all evening. Luc pushed the animal away and blinked down at Abby, hoping the light inside would turn the bloodstains back into shadows.

  He moved quickly to set her down on the sofa and ran upstairs for blankets, feeling like his chest would explode with the panic.

  Even in the yellow wash of firelight, she looked glacial, her skin cold as marble, the filthy cotton of her nightgown an unearthly shroud. It was so different from how she’d been in the bright sunlight. He lifted a hand to touch her and hesitated.

  What should one do to keep a person from freezing to death? Hypothermia, hypothermia. This wasn’t something that happened much where he was from. Should he take off her dress? It was soaking.

  “Abby?” he whispered, feeling like an idiot. “Your nightgown. I have to take it off.”

  Nothing. His hand hovered over her body before he let it settle on her cheek. Frozen. Her hands were cold, too.

  “Talk to me, Abby. Please.”

  He dropped to his knees beside the sofa, moving his fingers across her face to tap them lightly against her cheek. “Wake up, Abby. Please.”

  Luc’s internal debate lasted only a second. A woman like Abby, so modest and sweet, would hate him for doing this. Or she would die. Right here, on his sofa.

  She was waxy and pale, looking barely alive aside from the shivering that racked her body. Her torn nightgown was soaking wet and stained here and there with what might have been mud. And blood. That thick hair of hers was still trapped in its long braid, incongruously sleek and pristine.

  “Merde, merde et bordel de merde.” He muttered obscenities while rushing to the kitchen for the scissors, wondering what would push a woman like her to run outside in weather like this, half-naked.

  Back to the sofa, on his knees, the blades sliced through the soaked fabric with difficulty. The cloth was frozen stiff in places.

  Frantic, he ignored the inappropriate thread of interest at what the gown revealed—a modest undergarment that he carefully cut off, then slid out from under her—and piled the blankets back atop her. Okay. More wood in the stove. He stoked the fire high, higher than he normally would, until it spat and popped angrily.

  Behind him, she made a noise. He turned, hoping for her to be lucid, but all he found was more shivering, so hard that her teeth audibly clacked. The dog had settled right up against the couch, guarding her or watching over her or—

  Skin to skin. The phrase floated to the front of his mind. A first aid video, that’s where he’d seen it. Head, chest, neck, and groin. Those were the places to warm first. There’d been an elec
tric blanket or hot water bottles involved, but if unavailable…skin to skin was recommended. Dammit.

  No more hesitation. No letting whatever it was he felt for her decide. This was about her safety. Her life. He stripped to his underwear, the dog watching closely. Pulling back the blankets, he slid his arms around Abby and turned her onto her side before scooting in to press against her.

  Take my heat, he thought. He envisioned it sliding into her, the cold from her body leaching into his. An exchange. He moved to run a hand along her back and encountered… What was that? A bandage? Gingerly, he felt up and up, only to find that her entire back was covered in them.

  What the hell?

  Avoiding her back, he put his hand on her arm. Rubbed up and down, and there, too, something was off. Strange ridges lined her forearm.

  What the hell had they done to her?

  Shifting back, he lifted the blanket to eye the pale, discolored shapes along her arm.

  A moan drew his attention back to her immediate needs, and he let his questions go—for the moment.

  He pulled her closer, molding himself to her, ignoring the tightness down below. Trying to ignore the fear that she’d die on him, right here…

  After a few minutes of rubbing her arm and hands, then moving to rub her feet, all the while listening to her teeth make that horrible noise, he thought he detected a slight thawing. More time passed. Half an hour maybe, during which he held a naked woman who, in many ways, was a virtual stranger. Although she didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt familiar and real.

  The person he was closest to.

  “Don’t die,” he said against the side of her face, the discomfort of their physical intimacy almost forgotten as he whispered into her ear. “Ne meurs pas.” He considered loading her into his truck and heading into town, taking her to a hospital. But there was nothing in Blackwood. He’d have to go all the way into Charlottesville, which would take an hour, longer in this storm. Not a good idea, especially considering he’d been drinking. Maybe he should call 911. This was an actual emergency. He couldn’t imagine an ambulance getting up here, though.