He doubted that. “You need medical care.”
“I need privacy.” Her voice came out stronger, her gaze boring into his.
“You practically fainted in the tub.”
“The water was scalding. I didn’t realize.” A pause. “Please, Luc. I can do the rest myself.”
He eyed her doubtfully.
“I can do it.” This time, her voice was firm, certain, and Luc chose to believe her.
“You can stay sitting up on your own?” he asked, getting a bleary nod in response. For such a small person, she was made of tough stuff, this one. “I’ll be back.” He headed to his kitchen, where he kept his first aid kit—the one he’d bought when he’d hired help at last year’s harvest. He grabbed the big bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a pair of scissors and returned to where she sat, barely propped up on the side of the tub.
“Do you know how to use this? It’s—”
“We may not practice medicine, Luc, but we’re well versed in the art of hygiene.” The look she gave him, full of humor, softened her words. “And cotton,” she said with a half smile. “We know our cotton.”
He smiled in return, because even torn apart and bleeding, this woman had liquid steel running through her veins. He’d seen it outside, in the way she worked, uncomplaining in the cold. He’d seen it in her ability to adapt, learning new things with openness and curiosity. And he saw it in her humor. In the way she smiled and never appeared to feel sorry for herself. He’d never known another woman with such fortitude. Or man, for that matter. How could he not admire that?
The humor meant she’d be okay. Didn’t it? You didn’t laugh at death’s door, right? “What about the bandages on your back?”
“Please, Luc. Please let me do this on my own.”
“Okay,” he answered, breathy with irritation, relief, and some admiration as well. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
“Luc.”
Her voice stopped him at the door, and he turned back. She was beautiful, even wounded and hunched in on herself in his bathroom. Maybe even lovelier, with the bright-pink patches on her cheekbones and the damp curls sticking to the skin along her hairline. Her eyes on his were a fathomless, liquid gold, and all of it, every little thing that should have made her into a victim translated instead to strength. Mistress of her destiny.
“Thank you.”
He left with a muttered, “It’s nothing.”
In the living room, he wandered. The fire, just low-burning embers, needed to be fed. After that…after that, he’d clean up this mess. Only he wasn’t sure which mess he meant—the wad of blankets on the sofa, the bathroom…or Abby’s situation. His situation.
And whatever the hell this night would bring next.
16
Wrapped in mortification, Abby let her shoulders curve and her breath come. She’d been unclothed in front of him—again—and still not on her terms.
This wasn’t how she wanted her body to appear to him—bloody and battered.
The sting of hydrogen peroxide on her wounds was good. It made things sharper, made her feel more focused, more in control.
In control of my own pain.
A knock on the door jarred her out of that odd train of thought.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got ointment. You can spread it over some of the cuts before bandaging them.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Can I…can I open the door?”
She pulled the towel up tighter around herself, taking special care with her shoulders and back before responding. “Yes.”
“Here, I’ll hand it through.”
“Thank you,” Abby said, expecting him to leave.
Instead, he spoke from behind the open door. “It looked like… You can’t do your back on your own, Abby. I could do those for you, if you—”
“No!” Abby’s voice was close to a shout. I don’t want you to see me like this.
Silence.
“You want me to go?”
“Yes.” A pause. “Thank you.”
She waited for him to leave before doing her best to clean and clothe her body. Her back would just… Have to wait, she’d been about to tell herself. But why? Why would it wait when there was a person here who could take care of it for her? He could help her. Why refuse the help?
Modesty? Ha! A lot of good that’s done me.
She knew from experience that the bandages wouldn’t unstick themselves, and if she didn’t do something about it, healing would turn into a painful, never-ending cycle of sticking and removing, sticking and removing, until it scabbed up. And the scars.
The scars were the whole point, of course. Keeping God’s Mark on her body, wearing it as penance.
She shouldn’t care about the brands. A modest woman wouldn’t worry about her looks. She wouldn’t concern herself with the eyes of men like Luc on her body. She shouldn’t care that he’d find her ugly.
How skewed her priorities were—choosing an antiquated, man-made notion of impropriety over her own well-being. Choosing beauty over health.
And that thought decided her. Bare your ugliness. Stay alive. Forget modesty; forget everything but survival.
“Luc!” she called before she could change her mind. “I would like your help.”
She waited as he came in, dropping the towel in back and letting him see the bandages.
His breath came out harsh and surprised.
“Did they cut you?” he asked. She heard the moment he saw her arms, the gasp he couldn’t help but release.
“No,” she said, shutting her eyes tight. She wished she wasn’t here for this, wanted to disappear up, up, up above the world, on a tiny planet of her own. The way she’d disappeared when they’d done this to her back.
* * *
“What did they do to you, Abby?” He stared. Bandages. Big, yellowing bandages. They looked like they’d been on her skin for ages. And those scars on her arms.
She didn’t answer, only hunched her shoulders, silent. Nothing disturbed the steamy, warm air of his bathroom, except for the shuddery sound of her breathing.
“Burns,” she finally whispered.
Luc’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw cracked audibly. His hands felt like battering rams without a target, knuckles white.
“Can you…” He held back, breathing hard. “We need to get those bandages off.”
She nodded in agreement, and like a fool, Luc wasn’t at all sure he wanted to see.
In the end, it wasn’t a simple matter of taking off the bandages, since they were stuck to her skin. But the more he saw, the angrier he got. Putain d’enculés.
Brands. Those pigs had fucking branded her.
Regret, that’s what he felt, at having let her go back to them. And fear, too. Not the fear of facing off against that smooth and slimy snake bastard, but the fear of Abby dying here. Fear of being responsible for her. For getting it wrong and losing her when she’d only just appeared in his life.
“You should have come to me sooner, Abby.”
“Couldn’t get away,” she grunted. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Just takes a little while to heal. Needs air.”
“Right,” he said. He pushed out the fear and anger as best he could. Not anger—something stronger.
Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. “Who put on the bandages?” he asked.
“I did. The arms healed best when I let ’em air, but that wasn’t easy, since modesty dictates that I—” She dropped her chin to her chest with a huff and spent a few seconds apparently gathering herself before craning her neck to meet his gaze. “It has done me no good at all. And I don’t know how my back could heal while maintaining my modesty. Modesty wasn’t an issue when they…”
She didn’t finish, and in all honesty, Luc didn’t really want her to
. If he heard any more about the brands, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He pictured himself going back to their side of the mountain, his truck plowing straight through the glass double doors fronting that ugly building.
Gathering himself, he soaked a washcloth in the water, wrung it out, and set it on the bandage, covering as much as he could.
Her body tensed. Nothing else.
Luc didn’t know what he’d expected. Histrionics, perhaps? Freaking out from the pain? Instead, she turned her head, and those glowing eyes sought out his face, landing on his lips and lingering a little too long. Somehow, the insane attraction replaced the worry. It was more than just physical, he realized. Here she was practically naked in front of him, and what got to him wasn’t her nudity. It was those eyes.
She nodded. He had no clue why.
“Try now,” she finally whispered, breaking the spell.
“You’ll tell me? If it hurts, I mean?”
Again, she nodded.
He reached for one corner—already unstuck—and pulled.
One of Abby’s hands left the towel in front of her, lifted, sought him out. He grasped it tightly, which made his work more difficult. He sank to his knees on the floor beside her, their faces close enough to share air, their fists shaking with her pain as he teased the once-white cotton from her skin.
About halfway through, the bandage stopped coming off.
He reapplied water, pulled at the other corners, concentrated on the second bandage, and got that almost all the way off. The yellow stains worried him the most. That couldn’t be good, could it? A sure sign of infection.
When had they done this to her? Could he have stopped them?
Yes. Yes, he could have. He could have told her to stay here, with him. He could have offered her a safe place. Made her stay.
Should have kept Sammy, too.
No, he wouldn’t even think about that. How could he have done it without risking all of their lives?
A glance showed her eyes screwed shut, lovely face tied up in a knot of pain. Her hand convulsed in his, and he squeezed hers back.
He had to unstick the rest of this foutu bandage, fast.
After what felt like forever, he got them off with a little more tugging and exposed her back.
Nom de Dieu, her poor, poor skin, defiled.
“Thank you,” Abby whispered.
Mouth open, all he could do was take it in. The brands covered every inch of skin up her arms and across her back. Fresh burns and old ones, scars that had whitened with age, shiny on the raised parts. In places, the brands overlapped.
Luc took in the damage, and his only lucid thought was I’m going to beat that bastard to a pulp.
* * *
It was getting light by the time they made it out of the bathroom. Abby let Luc take her upstairs, half-naked, with her back in full view. He’d run up to get her a button-down shirt, helped her slip it on backward, and left it undone in the back while he smeared some ointment over the new brands. He made her drink water before having her lie facedown on his bed, where he reapplied clean bandages and presented her with a small, white stick.
“Here,” he said, handing it to her, clearly expecting something.
“I don’t…” As she examined the object, memories came back—sweet ones she’d lost beneath layers of fire and brimstone: sick in bed, Mama’s cool lips on her forehead, one of these sticking out of her mouth. Another flash: a white room at school, back when she still attended school— posters on the walls and a nurse shaking her head, tutting at whatever she read on the…the…
“Thermometer,” Abby said, the word suddenly clear, along with the feeling of safety it engendered. Once this was inserted into her mouth, things would be taken care of.
“You know how it works?”
“I remember.”
“Under your tongue,” said Luc. When she hesitated, he moved to sit beside her on the bed. “Open your mouth. Like this.”
He stuck it in and waited until it beeped, then removed it and looked at the small, red, flashing screen.
“Merde,” he exhaled. “Here, take two more of these, and we’ll check again in a bit.”
“Okay,” Abby said, watching as he shook two more pills out of their bottle and put them on the table beside her glass of water.
“Get some sleep, chérie. I’ll be back.”
“Wait!” she called as he moved to go. “I have to get Sammy out.”
“Not tonight, Abby. You can’t tonight.”
“But he’ll die, Luc. He’ll die.”
“He could die trying to escape, Abby. Just like you came close to dying out in this weather.”
Blinking, she nodded.
“Where is he, do you think, tonight?”
“Possibly with the Cruddups? Or with Benji and Brigid.”
“You think Isaiah doesn’t have him under lock and key?”
Luc’s words chilled her for their truth. Slowly, it dawned on her. Things were different now. Totally, inexorably changed. Forever.
“You’re right,” she whispered.
“We’ll get Sammy out.” She opened her mouth to protest that we, but he kept right on going. “But not tonight. Not until you’re well enough and the weather is clear enough. Otherwise, it’s suicide.”
And she was tired. So tired. “Okay, Luc,” she whispered. With one last caress of his hand to her forehead, he went back downstairs.
After sitting up to swallow the pills, Abby collapsed onto her belly, wondering how she’d ever thought she’d survive in this unfamiliar world. Even thermometers had changed since she was a child. They had a little window that flashed red, and it beeped and… What had her temperature been anyway? He hadn’t even told her. And if he had, she wouldn’t have understood what it meant. Wouldn’t have known what flashing number she was looking for.
Even here, in this man’s rustic cabin in the mountains, Abby felt unprepared, uneducated, and inadequate.
After a short while, the pain lessened, and she found herself disappearing into fitful sleep.
More bleak dreams, peppered with oddly happy ones. Unexpected moments she grasped, only to lose them again.
Hours passed. Or more. Days, maybe?
A cold weight on her forehead, an angry voice. “Shit.” Something in her mouth, a high-pitched sound, and more curses. It took a while for Abby to recognize these modern conveniences, the sound of Luc as he reapplied ointment to her back. His hands were gentle and cool.
When he’d finished, he shifted as if to leave, and Abby reached for him. She turned her head, unable to open her eyes. “Wait,” she croaked. “Please don’t go yet.”
“You need something? I’ll get you fresh water.”
“Yes, but…”
“Hold on,” he said and disappeared down the stairs.
Decades later, he was back, with fresh, ice-cold water, just enough to soothe her aching throat.
“Luc,” Abby rasped out, “don’t go.”
He sighed. Even in her current state, she knew that meant he wanted to leave, but she found his hand again and squeezed it as hard as she could.
“It’s cold in the snow,” she said.
“You’re burning up, Abby. I don’t have anything stronger than ibuprofen. I’ve got to get you to a hospital.”
“No. No, no, Luc. Don’t you get it?”
He stilled, stopped trying to pull away from her.
“Get what?”
“We’re burning. It’s all gone. Everyone on this mountain. Them. Us. The world.”
“Gone?” His voice was hesitant. Slow and quiet, like he didn’t believe her, which made Abby need to say it louder, stronger, to make him understand.
“He’s killed the babies. The sky’s orange with it. The Cataclysm.”
“You’re dreaming, Abby. You’re
delirious.” He peeled her hand off of his and placed it beside her. “You need more sleep. Go back to sleep.”
“I have to go back. For Sammy.”
“Not tonight. Not until the storm clears, Abby. You’d die out there.”
“When the storm clears. I’ll go when the storm clears.”
With a moan, she shifted until her face found a cool spot on the pillow and sighed before sinking again into the fiery inferno.
17
Abby woke up drained but hungry. She lay on her side in Luc’s bed and watched the light fade as the snow continued to fall, enclosing her more fully inside. What time was it? Had she slept through an entire day?
Somewhere outside, beyond the cabin’s thick log walls, a rhythmic thud told her that Luc was chopping wood. Pressed by the demands of her body, she got up, hobbled to the top of the steps, and slid downstairs on her bottom. Slow, so slow, with her stinging feet and sore ankle, every part of her body aching.
She watched him through the kitchen window as he hauled big logs and took an ax to them. His movements were practiced and skilled—the swing constant, like music—and he piled pieces neatly before repeating the entire process. Every movement was big, because the man was, but concise as well. Lord, it wasn’t right, was it, for her body to feel this…sluggishness when she looked at him? Bright and alive, but slow and heavy, all at once. It seemed wrong, given her condition.
After a bit, he tromped through the snow to his vines. Lord only knew what he did there before heading up to the barn.
Once he disappeared from view, Abby shook herself, as if coming out of a spell, and realized just how ravenous she was.
Turning from the window, she took in the kitchen. What could she eat? Bread. Bread was good. She took a slice from the loaf, munched it dry, and decided to make herself useful. She couldn’t just sit in someone’s house all day and get nothing done. But after a few minutes of puttering—sweeping and cleaning his already-spotless kitchen, ignoring the pain in her extremities—exhaustion took over. She slid another log into the fire and collapsed onto the sofa, pulling a blanket over her shoulders.
A grunt woke her up—was that her own voice?—tearing her from dreams of arms tight around her, too tight but warm, and fire on the mountain. Fire all around them.
In His Hands Page 17