The Stillwater Girls(8)

Brant wraps his arms around me, the warmth of his body and heaviness of his hold equally comforting and suffocating.

“If you don’t mind,” I say, my voice muffled against his pristine suit jacket, “I’m going to catch a cab back to the hotel. I think I’m coming down with something.”

He pulls away, and his eyes rest on mine. Again, he doesn’t believe me, but at this point I don’t care. All I can think about is peeling myself out of this dress, yanking the bobby pins from my hair, and washing the makeup from my face before tears have a chance to ruin it.

Everything else I can deal with another time, when I haven’t had three glasses of champagne and unraveled myself all because a beautiful woman was staring at my photo for too long and then my husband greeted her with his signature dimpled smile and sparkling-green gaze.

Brant peers over my shoulder toward a set of oncoming headlights and lifts his arm to hail the taxi.

“Get some rest,” he says, gathering the train of my dress and helping me in. Closing the door, he motions for me to lower the window. “I’ll have my phone on if you need anything.”

I appreciate his concern, but I can’t deny the tiniest voice in the back of my head telling me how strange it is for him to send me off without a second thought.

Taking my hand from his, I give him a small wave, catching the glint of his eyes as they reflect in the full moon above. Once upon a time, those eyes felt like home every time I looked into them.

Now all I see is that little girl.





CHAPTER 5

WREN

“Wren, it snowed.” Sage wakes me with an eager squeal, and I pull my covers back over my head. “Can we make snow candy?”

I don’t have the energy to tell her we need molasses for snow candy and we don’t have molasses.

Nor do we have sugar.

We don’t have anything besides eggs and goat’s milk; one last bag of flour; some canned beans; and a few potatoes, onions, and garlic in the root cellar.

I took inventory yesterday, something I’d been dreading for weeks. But it had to be done.

Getting out of bed and stepping into my boots, I tighten the laces before grabbing my winter coat from the back of the door and the egg basket by the front door. I need to check on the hens to make sure they made it through last night’s cold snap.

“I’ll be back,” I tell Sage.

Trudging through the snow, which almost covers the top of my boots, I’m halfway to the henhouse when my tired eyes are pulled to a set of tracks cutting across the front yard and leading around the house.

Stopping, I hunch down to examine them closer.

Boots.

They’re boot prints. And they’re huge.

Dropping the basket, I sprint back to the cabin, slipping through melting slush the entire way, and once inside, I slam the door, unable to lock it fast enough.

“Wren? What’s wrong?” Sage comes to my side, but I hurry across the room and grab a chair, bringing it back to the door.

Climbing on the seat, I reach for the shotgun perched above the door.

“Wren.” Sage says my name harder this time, her chest rising and falling almost faster than my own. “What are you doing? You’re scaring me.”

“Footprints,” I say, breathless and light-headed as the room around me spins. “There were footprints outside.”

“Coyote? Bear? What?” she asks.

“Boots. Big boots.”

Sage goes to the window by the door, drawing back the curtain a few inches and peeking outside, but I pull her away.

Mama told us it’s every man for themselves out there, and we all have to do what we all have to do in order to survive. She assured us we were safe here, calling our home a fortress, which I always thought was silly because all it took was a good hailstorm or some strong winds, and water and wind would find their way in.

If the elements could get in, so could anyone or anything else.

Racking the shotgun, I rest it on my shoulder and reach for the doorknob.

“What are you doing?” Sage asks. Her glassy eyes shine like two polished marbles.

“I’m going to follow the tracks.” I ignore the hard knot in my throat that makes it difficult to swallow and the tremble in my hands as I grip the gun. I’ll inspect the perimeter of the homestead, but I suspect the man’s gone now, and I expect his tracks to lead into the forest, where I’ll have to stop.

But if he’s out there, hiding, and he sees me with a gun, maybe he won’t come back again.

Heading outside with my heart in my teeth and the butt of my shotgun tucked tight beneath my arm, I follow the boot prints in the snow, the crunch of my own boots and the bleats of our goats filling my ears.

I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but I won’t hide like a coward.

I won’t be a sitting duck.





CHAPTER 6

NICOLETTE

The child in the grocery cart in front of me kicks his mother, and I watch as she reaches for his legs, gripping them and holding them down. He squirms. She whispers something in his ear. He pouts. She carries on, pushing her cart toward the end of the aisle.

I’m sure this scene plays out in every grocery store across America, but I’m caught in this moment, watching the two of them in real time and inserting myself in her place.