The Stillwater Girls(17)

At least I’m still alive.

But the thing that sticks out the most to me about that time in my life is that Brant easily could have left me back then, he could have handed me back to my parents and washed his hands of me—but he didn’t.

He stayed.

And he took care of me.

He loved me through it all. Through the crying fits and the empty stroller dreams, through the mood swings and lethargy.

“It’s been a long time since that happened,” I remind him. That first winter was brutal, and I’m still not convinced it wasn’t triggered by a hormonal imbalance from the procedure, but I’m not the one with the Harvard medical diploma hanging on my wall, so my suggestions were always shot down.

“Right. Because you always go to Cate’s for the winter.” He hasn’t turned away from me since the moment this conversation started, and now he’s resting a hand on his hip. His frustration is an inch thick and building. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

Glancing back at him, I ask with a chuckle, “Why? Is this going to mess up your winter plans or something?”

“Nic.” His expression falls, and he doesn’t laugh. Apparently he doesn’t appreciate that I’m not taking his concerns seriously. “I’m trying to have an earnest discussion here, and this is an issue that’s extremely important to me.”

My stomach sinks, and I’m convinced this is double-talk. His concern isn’t me so much as it is preventing me from finding out about whatever it is he’s hiding.

“Please don’t make this into a thing,” I say. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’ve been on antidepressants for a decade now, and I want to see if I can make it through a winter up here. If it gets too hard, I promise you can put me on the next plane to Miami, and I won’t put up a fight. Just . . . let me see if I can do this. I’d at least like to try.”

His green eyes soften, and he reaches for my hand, lifting it to deposit a kiss. “I love you so much, Nic. I’m sorry. I just . . . I worry.”

“Too much,” I say, head tilted and lips curled so he thinks I find this more endearing than unnerving.

“Too much,” he echoes, pressing his lips against my fingers before giving me a soundless kiss. “I just want you to be happy. And I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”





CHAPTER 13

WREN

Sage stirs at the sound of the stranger shuffling around our cabin just as the sun peeks through the curtains above the kitchen sink.

I haven’t slept.

Wrapping my arm around her to keep her from startling, I watch as the man rummages through our cupboards, tossing measuring cups to the floor and shoving dishes aside.

“We don’t have much food,” I say, sitting up, “if that’s what you’re looking for.”

He chuffs. “You have to have something. Can’t imagine you’re living off water and air.”

The man turns away from me and glances through the kitchen window toward our goat corral. I can’t let him kill them. They’re not for meat—they’re for milk, which we use for cooking, baking, and making the artisanal cheeses and butters and soaps Mama would have the supply man sell at the market every few months, all of them tied with colored twine and blessed with a prayer.

The goats are our livelihood.

We can’t afford to lose a single one.

“We have some potatoes in the root cellar,” I say, sliding out of bed.

After I make my way across the room, I begin to step into my boots when I sense his presence over me in the form of a shadow.

“Wait,” he says.

I say nothing, averting my eyes. Looking into his beady squint makes the burning bile in my stomach rise into my throat.

He offers a slight chuckle, his hands resting on his hips. “You girls don’t need to be so scared of me.”

Said the wolf to the lamb . . .

“You two haven’t stopped shaking since I got here. Makes me think you’re going to try to do something stupid if I let you out of here,” he says. “I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

“Then why are you here?” I force myself to look at him, and my stiff muscles quake.

“Right now I want some damn breakfast,” he says, shuffling away. “Long as you come right back, I’ll let you go to the henhouse.”

It’s then that I remember there are only two hens left, which means there’ll only be two eggs for the day. I’m sure the stranger will eat them both.

“Go.” He points at me. “And I want you back in two minutes.”

He looks to my sister, then back at me—a threat perhaps? And a second later, he moves Mama’s bed away from the door.

I throw on my jacket and lace my boots before grabbing the basket by the door and braving the cold. Unforgiving wind whips my hair across my face as I trudge across the sod. Once inside, I find the two Leghorns still clucking, and I locate two warm eggs to take back.

Stopping at the root cellar on my way back, I grab three small potatoes and some goat’s-milk butter for frying.

As soon as I’m back in the cabin, I find the man washing up over our basin, helping himself to Mama’s pink toothbrush and sullying our clean water with the filth from his hands and face. I’ll have to make a trip to the well later this morning—that is, if he lets me.