The Passing Storm(85)

Never before had Rae witnessed his tears—his ability to display strength and vulnerability, all in the same instant. It was moving, heartening. The sensation of safety spilled through her.

Leaning fully against him, she closed her eyes.

They stood holding each other for long minutes. After Griffin had brought his emotions under control, he brushed his cheek against the crown of her head, asking, “Does Mik know he was Lark’s father?”

“I’m not sure.”

Sensing the evasion, he tightened his hold. But his tone remained level.

“You don’t know for certain.”

“Griffin, I think Mik suspects Lark was his child.”

“Based on . . . ?”

“When I was seven months pregnant, I saw him on Chardon Square. He made a wisecrack.”

“What did he say?”

“I can’t recall. Something about my condition. I had a major baby bump by then, swollen ankles—the works. The way he looked at me . . . I knew he’d put it all together.” On Griffin’s sturdy back, Rae let her hands cling fiercely. She dispelled the memory. “Don’t ask me to dredge up the details. I can’t.”

“Forgive me.” He tipped up her chin, rubbed his nose against hers. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter.” Then his eyes widened. “Quinn is Lark’s half brother.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re—”

“Raising Quinn now. He’s eighteen, Griffin, but he’s missed a lot. Kids raised in negligent homes rarely mature on time. I plan to remedy that. This may sound strange, but I feel closer to my daughter now. Knowing I’m giving her half brother safe harbor. Knowing I’m giving Quinn a chance to develop and mature, because he’s a great kid. He’s becoming such a sweet young man—I’m so grateful he’s come into my life.” Rae’s eyes were misty, her nose runny. Without thinking, she dried her nose on Griffin’s shirt. Which was gross, but the gesture put soft lights in his eyes. Then she added, “On the outside, Quinn seems incredibly different from my daughter. On the inside? There are lots of similarities. The patience with complicated tasks. The ability to focus on one thing with single-minded purpose. Lark used that focus to create art and do complicated puzzles. Quinn can follow a detailed French recipe without missing a beat.”

“Mik has the same focus,” Griffin conceded, “but manifested in a different way. He can tear apart a vintage car’s engine and put it back together again. The other mechanics at the dealership stand in awe of him. I suppose Mik’s an artist, in his own way.”

“He is.”

Griffin tensed. “Pity the rest of his character is less admirable.”

“We’re all children of light and darkness,” she said. “It’s up to us to choose which side wins out.”

The comment relaxed Griffin the slightest degree. Then he dipped his face into her hair.

“Rae,” he murmured, “you’re growing a mystical side.”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“Kind of like you’re growing a second brain. One nothing like the original. Who knew?” Playfully, he nipped at her ear as he steered the conversation in a new direction. “Your parents’ cow in the way-back-then. Didn’t Butter have two stomachs?”

“A cow has four stomachs.”

“Maybe you’ll grow four brains. It’ll be interesting to watch.”

“Ha-ha.”

Usually she dominated in the teasing department. It was nice that Griffin was catching up. Maybe he was growing new aspects to his personality too.

After a moment, she said, “I’ve been through some hard times. They either tear you up, or compel you to find a deeper meaning.”

“Good point.”

Griffin seemed about to kiss her. Instead, he smoothed the hair from her brow. Setting her aside, he strode out of the room.

“Where are you going?” She felt adrift without the warmth of his arms.

The feeling dropped away when he returned.

He placed a handgun on the table. A semiautomatic. It would fire one shot each time the trigger was pulled.

“Griffin, why do you have a gun? You hate guns.”

“As much as you do,” he agreed. “If Mik comes to the farm looking for Quinn, it takes time to call the police. I’ll sleep better knowing you have protection.”

“He won’t go that far,” she said, aware she wasn’t sure. Would Mik dare?

Griffin asked, “Do you remember the basics? Don’t load a weapon until you’re ready to use it. Wash your hands afterward—bullets contain lead. Keep the ammo separate from the firearm.”

“Stop. I remember the basics—mostly of using a rifle. Your father only gave me a few lessons with handguns. They weren’t Everett’s preferred weapon to pick off wildlife.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, adding, “I hardly remember those lessons.”

“We’ll visit a shooting range next week, for practice.”

A strip of ribbon encased the bullets. “Is this a gift from Everett?”

“Presented to me at my housewarming party.”

Meaning the weapon had been stuffed in a drawer for the last two years. “What did Winnie give you?” she asked, picking it up.