Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(123)

He’d been careful not to touch her, not once since she’d walked into his world, but now he took her chin in his hand, turned her face to his. “You’re not going anywhere. I offered you a place to stay because you needed it. God knows you’ve earned it. I believed you believed people were after you and the kid. But I’m going to admit, I thought you were mostly being paranoid. I was wrong.”

“He could come back, bring others back.”

Shifting to scrub hands over the dogs, Simon shook his head. “That type looks for easy pickings. Now he knows we’re not. You can put your hopes on me. I can handle it.”

He rose. “Like I could’ve handled those two,” he added.

“I know. I saw that. What did you do in the army?”

He smiled. “Followed orders.”

“And gave them. Captain, you said.”

“It’s been awhile. Now I’m a farmer.” Sitting back down on the step, he looked out at the fields, the crops. “But I know how to protect my land, my home. What’s in it.”

He’d been a warrior, she thought. He had that controlled danger under the easy. She’d seen that control in Max, seen him develop it as he’d led people, had them depend on him.

Now she sat with another warrior, another leader.

“People are stronger together. I know how to defend, too.”

“I got that impression. I’ve had it since I found you in the henhouse.”

“I didn’t always. In New York—was it really only months ago?—I liked to shop, to plan dinner parties. I liked to dream about opening my own restaurant one day. I’d never held a gun, much less fired one. And my power … it was barely a whisper.”

“It seems you’ve found your voice then.”

“It’s more being found. If you hadn’t come back to help your parents, would you have stayed in the army?”

“No, it was time to get out.”

“What did you want to do?”

He realized they were having the longest and certainly the easiest conversation they’d had to date. With a dead man a few yards away. Christ, he wondered why it didn’t strike him as strange.

“I thought about starting a business maybe, in the town up the road that’s not a town anymore.”

“What kind of business?”

“Making furniture. That was kind of a hobby of my father’s, and I picked it up. A little business working with my hands, on my own time, in my own way, close to home because I’d spent so much time away.”

The light began to settle toward twilight, and he found it too easy to just sit, talk with her about old dreams as night approached.

“Anyway, I’ve got to dig a hole.”

He walked off to get a shovel.

Lana stayed where she was, crossed her hands over her belly. Despite the death, the violence, the threat, she felt safe.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In the end, Lana had her way. She couldn’t go into the settlement, nor have anyone come to her. Either might put lives at risk if the Purity Warriors came back.

Her child had spoken to her, and through her. For now, she believed things were as they were meant to be.

She cooked, gardened, gathered eggs, and took comfort in the simplicity of the quiet.

As summer waned toward fall, she harvested vegetables, canned them for winter use. Made jams and jellies while Simon mowed and baled hay, cut wheat for the meal, hauled corn to the silo or the kitchen.

One day he brought back seeds he’d bartered for—three each from the fruit of dwarf orange and lemon trees. She found them as priceless as diamonds.

“Could work,” he said as they potted them for the greenhouse. “Lemonade on the porch next summer.”

“Duck à l’Orange next fall.”

“Maybe we’ll find lime. Tequila shots.”

She laughed, carefully covered a seed with soil.

“You must like tequila,” he commented. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you really laugh.”

“I’m planting orange seeds in dirt sweetened with chicken poop and imagining knocking back some tequila. It’s pretty funny.”

“My dad always said a little chicken shit’ll help grow most anything.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Curious, she went with instinct, held her hands over the pot. She let it flow through her, in her, of her, out of her.

She felt the rise, the pulse, and the power.

A tender green sprig broke through the dirt, reached toward the light.

She laughed again, a sound that began on amazement, ended on joy. Beaming with it, she looked over at Simon, found him staring at her.

“That’s a hell of a thing,” he managed.

“If you’d rather I didn’t—”

“Do I look stupid to you?” he demanded, eyes firing green under gold. “The world is what it damn well is. As it is, I’m a farmer who’s got a witch who can give the crops a boost. Have you got a problem with what you are?”

“No, but—”

“Why should I? The way I see it, the biggest problem we’ve had, right from the get, is people pointing fingers and worse at ones who aren’t just like them. We ought to try to do better this time around. It might be our last chance to get it right.”