In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  Abby relaxed. A bit.

  “He’s also… Did you get a look at him earlier? He’s a little”—Dr. Hadley glanced at her, then back out at the snow-crusted road—“intimidating. His face is…marred, and he’s been through a bit. He won’t ask you questions, but he’s the type of person who would get involved if he thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “So, should I—”

  “You should not worry. But don’t mention anything in front of him, unless you want him to…do something about it.”

  “All right.”

  “And remember. Clay’s not as mean as he looks.” Dr. Hadley smiled. “He’s a pussycat.”

  She looked at the doctor, considering. This woman had been one of Abby’s favorite customers, a regular who’d taken the time to chat every Saturday, without fail. A relationship Abby had been made to understand she shouldn’t be forming. No talking to the clients, even though that was ridiculous. They’d liked her. Part of the reason some of those people bought from them had been Abby’s gregariousness. She’d been sure of it.

  When they’d taken her off market duty, she’d wondered which of the women had told on her. Who out of the other three had decided she needed to be reported? Brigid, no doubt.

  It didn’t matter.

  “I’m ready,” she said with a cold breath in.

  At the car, the doctor performed introductions. “Abby, this is Clay. Clay, meet Abby. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”

  Abby opened her mouth to protest then shut it, eyes focused on the man who was indeed intimidating, but not nearly as frightening as Dr. Hadley had implied. He was handsome, the snow a perfect contrast to his dark good looks.

  He nodded at her but didn’t offer to shake, which made her think he was giving her space.

  After a short drive, they pulled up in front of an old farmhouse, cozily blanketed in white. All that was missing was a curl of smoke from the chimney.

  Inside, the doctor said, “Let’s get you some clothes, okay?” She turned to Clay. “Would you mind putting together a snack before you go back out?”

  “’Course.” He glanced at Abby. “Anything you don’t like?”

  “Oh.” She considered. She ate whatever was put in front of her. Like had never been an issue before. “I guess not. Thank you.”

  Taking her arm, Dr. Hadley led Abby to the stairs. “Come on, we’ll get you set up in the guest room.”

  Everything about the house was beautiful. Old and glowy warm with lots of color and layers of fabric. A memory slid out from the depths of her mind: Little Women, a book. She remembered characters sitting around in their house, talking and loving one another. A house like this one. Did I read that? she wondered, with a vague recollection of another lifetime. A child named Abby. Maybe she’d seen a movie.

  The bedrooms upstairs were inviting, her bed not only made, but also turned down. Waiting for a guest. The bathroom was clean and white. Everything smelled good. Like herbs and pie.

  The woman brought her clothing.

  “Dr. Hadley, I—”

  “It’s George. Please call me George.”

  Abby nodded.

  “Here,” George continued. “This should be comfortable, but I’m happy to get you a dress, if it’s more to your—”

  “No!” Abby cut in, breathless. “Trousers are perfect.”

  “Trousers it is,” George said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’re taller than me, so they’ll be short, but maybe this weekend, we can get you some stuff.”

  “I’ll repay you, Doctor. Thank you.”

  “George. Please. And you don’t have to—”

  “I want to, George. I want to get a job. I have to repay you.” She fought to keep her attention away from the mountain looming behind the house. “I want to repay Luc, too.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s not—” George interrupted herself, clamped her lips shut, and nodded. “I understand.”

  “Thank you,” said Abby. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Oh, Luc gave me this for you.” George reached into a pocket and held out a bundle of paper. An envelope with a curlicued Abby scrawled on the front, filled with cash.

  Alone in the room, Abby set the envelope down and took off the blanket and the scrubs. She pulled on a pair of clean, white underwear—snug and soft and so different from what she usually wore—and the trousers. They were loose but short. An oval mirror stood on a stand in the corner of the room. She should go look at her reflection.

  In just a second.

  She ran a hand along her body, from waist to thigh. This was it. She’d joked with Luc about the jeans and the boots and the puffy coat, but really, they were all part of that shell that she’d craved for so long. A uniform of normality. No, of…what? What was it these clothes represented?

  Not quite ready to face the future, she spun toward the bed and caught sight of Luc’s crinkled envelope.

  The money for her days of work. He’d thought to bring it, had left it for her.

  With a sob she just barely managed to contain, Abby sank to the bed, the envelope clutched in one hand and Luc’s blanket in the other. After a few deep inhales, she couldn’t contain the tears any longer and pressed the fabric to her face, sucking in the smell of his home and wishing it were him.

  * * *

  Someone is here.

  Luc stepped into the living room, breathing hard, head shifting from one side to the other. Nothing had changed, really, nothing immediately discernible, but… He sniffed. There was something in the air that shouldn’t be. A presence, now gone.

  Although he hoped not. A confrontation was exactly what he needed.

  Rifle in hand, he searched his house, one room at a time, Le Dog at attention beside him.

  In the bathroom, right there in the rubbish bin, was a wad of bloody cotton and gauze pads from Abby’s back. If Isaiah and his men had been here, there was no way they’d missed that.

  But what about the brown-stained floral of Abby’s torn nightgown? Though he looked everywhere, he couldn’t find it. Had Abby somehow gotten rid of it without him knowing? Burned it, maybe? Or had they taken it? The ghosts of intruders he felt sure had been here.

  Upstairs, he almost expected some hellish gift. A horse head in his bed or whatever it was cultists left as calling cards, but there was nothing out of place. Nothing at all.

  Maybe he was imagining it, their presence in his home.

  But he didn’t think so. And neither did Le Dog, who seemed as agitated as Luc felt.

  A wave of anger rose up—against those people for trying to intimidate him, against himself for getting caught up in someone else’s business, against Abby for dragging him into it.

  But that last part was a lie. He wasn’t mad at Abby for coming to him or for bringing these assholes into his life. He just couldn’t handle the hollow feeling she’d left behind.

  Which made no sense at all, since he’d wanted her to leave and never come back. To be safe.

  Get Sammy to her and she can go.

  He was overcome by a strange mix of fear and anticipation as he considered just how he’d do that. Why hadn’t he asked Abby about the layout over there and where Sammy might be?

  The day was getting dark and cold, the shapes taking on an eerie blue hue that reminded him of a dream. Surreal and unpleasant, especially with the sensation of eyes everywhere. Were they watching him? He felt alone and surrounded at the same time. Angry and afraid.

  Settling in was impossible. Nothing beckoned. Not the kitchen for dinner, though he’d need to eat before heading back up to light the fire in the barn. God, what was this ache?

  After packing up some food, he grabbed what he’d need to bed down in the barn, whistled for the dog, and headed out into the night, rifle over his arm, hating this feeling even more now that he’d figure
d out what it was.

  “I need a drink,” he mumbled, going back in for the hard stuff and wishing, for once, that he could have stayed in town, gone to the bar, maybe met someone and let them take him home. Someone he could fuck who would obliterate the tenderness he’d built up with Abby over these past few days, the want and need. Someone to help bandage his raw parts, which, though invisible, chafed immensely.

  Not that he did that, of course.

  Not that he’d want to, even if he could. Not with memories of Abby in his brain and his body.

  It was a relief, he realized, that he wouldn’t have to sleep in his own bed tonight, which was thoroughly steeped in her essence.

  On his way up to the winery, he checked on the chickens. They were ruffled and angry at being cooped up, but nonetheless happy to see him, Lady Godiva doing that stomping dance that told him just how irritated she was. He went to the barn next, where he looked in on his barrels. The barn, at least, had remained locked and felt untouched, the temperature only slightly lower than usual. Nobody could get through those doors without a key. They’d have to burn it down to get inside.

  After building a big fire, he headed straight for the interior room, where he checked the temperature and topped up the barrels.

  Odd how he couldn’t muster up the usual feelings of ownership at the sight of all that oak.

  Back in the tasting room, he waited. For what?

  “What am I waiting for?” he asked Le Dog.

  For her.

  For the first time in his life, Luc Stanek felt lonely.

  He paced the room, agitated. Paced and paced as Le Dog hunkered by the fire, brows twitching as his eyes followed Luc’s movements. Finally, after a useless ten minutes of this, Luc grabbed the rifle and went outside. He’d just head over to the fence, check out the spot where Abby had come through, maybe cut through and investigate the other side under cover of darkness.

  Adrenaline coursed through him, pushing him close to running as he went, his feet crunching loudly on the snow. It wasn’t until he neared the fence that he heard it—another set of footsteps. He stopped cold, feet sinking in, and waited.

  Probably close to a minute passed, his heart beating in his ears the only sound in the frozen night. And then it started again: the crunching. Steady, slow steps, from across the fence. He followed the steps with his eyes until he saw a shadow against the snow, and a glint of reflected moonlight. They’d put up a guard to keep him away.

  Or to look out for Abby.

  Either way, he knew better than to face off against them. Not like this, raw and spitting rage. The chilling reality was that they could do anything they wanted…unless he sought help.

  No cops and no going in alone. Those were the promises he’d made. Merde.

  Slowly, more carefully and quietly this time, he returned to the barn and locked himself in.

  He grabbed the bottle and glass before forcing himself to settle down in front of the huge window, with Le Dog pressed to his side and Blackwood nothing but a sprinkling of fairy lights below. The first pour was big, enough to burn on its way down, enough to shove back this chaos burning inside him. Another pour to follow the first—only as he lifted the glass to his lips, it caught the light from the flames. He froze in place, gaze riveted to the liquid within.

  Firelight through Virginia bourbon. The exact color of Abby Merkley’s eyes. He slugged it back and doled out another.

  Hours later, something woke him up. The cold, he thought at first, seeing that the fire had burned down to a handful of embers. But when Le Dog leaned into his body and growled, Luc knew that wasn’t it.

  Just as he rose from his makeshift bed, a noise came to him, piercing through the usual middle-of-the-night silence. An animal sound, spectral and strange, brought another growl from the dog, whose fur was standing on end.

  “What is it, boy?”

  With the next noise, he knew exactly what was happening. Something—or someone—had gotten into the henhouse.

  With a curse, he struggled to get his boots on, took way too long to throw on his coat and grab his rifle and stride out into the night. There was nothing to see below. When he stopped to listen, breathing hard in the cold night, adrenaline pumping through tight muscles, he thought he might have imagined everything. Until from the direction of the henhouse, he heard it again—that unearthly sound.

  He didn’t consider what he might be getting himself into by running right into it. He thought only of the animals, but by the time he got there—not even a flashlight in his hand—it was too late.

  Whatever it was had gotten in and done its dirty work. Was it a fox? How could a fox have—

  He ran his fingers over the latch. Bent backward, which meant this was no animal attack.

  Although it wasn’t something he could prove, was it? That those fuckers had come here and killed his chickens. Gagging from the smell of blood, he stumbled back a step, then a second.

  The air stank of death and rage.

  “Fuck!” he said under his breath, then louder, “Fuck!” Lifting the rifle, he fired a shot into the air before bellowing again. “Don’t you fuck with me, you hear?” The gunshot’s echo muffled his words. It didn’t matter anyway, because he couldn’t see a goddamned thing, but they were out there. He could feel them watching.

  And he understood the message loud and clear: His closest neighbors had just declared war.

  23

  “Anything to prove it was them?” asked Clay Navarro when Luc called him the next morning.

  After a sigh, Luc asked, “The armed guard along the perimeter? The threat?”

  “Thought they didn’t threaten you.”

  “Right. Of course not.” He let out a dry, unhappy half laugh. “They want her back.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not talking about it. And George will do me bodily harm if I mention anything to Abby, which—”

  “She has to get better,” Luc cut in.

  “Everybody agrees on that point. Problem is, while she’s healing here, you’ve got Armageddon on that mountain.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Stanek. There are dozens of ’em, for Christ’s sake.”

  Breathing out a hard huff of frustration, Luc looked out over his vineyard, wondering what the hell to do next.

  After a pause, Navarro asked, “You considered coming back into town? Camping out here till things blow over? It’ll give me time to put together a team that can actually handle the kind of clusterfuck you’ve got brewing up there.”

  “And return to a devastated vineyard? No. No, I’ll stay here and make sure they don’t do any more damage.”

  “How you planning on handling that?”

  “I’ll stand guard every fucking night if I have to. I’ll sleep out here and—”

  “Look, I’ll pay ’em a visit, all right?” Navarro cursed under his breath and went on. “Nothing confrontational, ’cause I can’t prove a thing, but it’ll at least tell them you’ve been in touch. Got the law on your side.”

  Luc barely held back a cynical laugh.

  “But you stay put,” Navarro continued. “Don’t go over there. Don’t talk to ’em. Do not engage. You got that?”

  After a pause, Luc answered. “Yes. Fine. No engaging.”

  “Anything happens, you give me a call. I’ll be right up. Top of my list. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Sheriff.”

  “Call me Clay.”

  “All right. Thank you, Clay.”

  “Not everyone would have done what you did for her.”

  This time, a small, choked laugh came out. Nothing he’d done had felt like it was for her, he thought before ending the call. Everything had felt selfish.

  All day, Luc thought of those people, his anger not dissipating, although after hours of watching over
his vineyard, weapon close by at all times, he wondered if perhaps they’d done their worst.

  And he thought of Abby. In his house, in the barn, while clearing the newest patch of land. He thought of her in the evening while he carved his hunk of wood into what turned out to be her arm and neck and her back, the skin perfectly clear of brands.

  During that second long, lonely night, he thought of her in his arms. He could feel her there, even with the power back on and the sheets washed and the smell of her gone.

  She was safe at least, if not gone for good.

  And whose fault was that? She’d be long gone if he hadn’t handed Sammy back to the cult.

  Over and over again, he beat himself up about returning that kid to that hell. Sammy. Poor Sammy.

  After another uneventful day, he even started to wonder if he’d dreamed it all—the night watch and the threats, and maybe the chickens had fallen victim to a fox after all. Or coyotes. Were there wolves around here?

  After everything that had happened, how could he possibly go back to his wine and vines and dog-eared issues of Vigneron magazine by the fire? With the tension tight in his neck, he spent every waking hour working hard, wishing thoughts of her and the fucking neighbors out of his brain and out of his life.

  The craziest thing of all was how bored he was. Bored, for Christ’s sake. Today, after working himself raw clearing the new vineyard, he set off for his cabin, where the choices of activities were limited—something that had never bothered him before. Because boredom just wasn’t part of his makeup. Before Abby, he’d been content to sink his hands into soil and just exist. He’d been happy when his back ached and his body was sore, happy to think about nothing but the weather conditions, always alone.

  I miss her.

  The phone in his pocket rang. He grabbed it, checked the number, and as usual, let out a disappointed sigh. French mobile number, not Blackwood or some other place farther afield. Not Abby calling to… What? To check on him or chat or tell him she was coming back? That it was time for them to go in and get Sammy?