Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(72)

“Are you sure about this?” I ask in a low voice. “What about . . .” What is Viktor—the guy who dictates what she does, what she wears, her hair color, everything—going to say about a permanent mark on her body? And without his permission.

She sets her jaw with defiance. “Yes.”

“All right, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Beans mutters. To him, it’s just another design to etch into a body. To her, it’s a decision she is making without consultation with or authorization from Viktor. A decision made by her, for her.

To me, it’s Alex making a permanent mark on her body with something that represents us, even in an indirect way. And the idea of that makes my chest swell.

After printing out the symbol and filling in all the required paperwork, Beans leads us into one of the rooms and instructs Alex to lie down. “You’ll need to roll your pants down and push your shirt up,” he says, while removing the needle from its sterile packaging.

“You sure you want that there? It’s going to hurt,” I warn her.

“I can handle it.” She eases herself up onto the table and lies down, adjusting her clothes as instructed, the dark bruises over her midsection and h*ps glaringly obvious under the bright lights.

She definitely can handle it. She’s already handled so much more. As dainty and fragile as Alex appears, she’s a lot stronger than I’ve given her credit for.

Beans turns around and falters at the sight of her bruises, shooting a glare my way.

“He didn’t do this to me,” Alex says, reaching out for me.

“None of my business. I’m just here to ink you,” Beans mumbles, transfer ready.

I hold her hand and her gaze the entire time—through every wince and every teeth clench, every smile—as Beans carves a small round symbol into her body. And when he’s done, I refuse to let go.

“I’m not taking you back to your house tonight, Alex,” I announce, blocking her entry into my Barracuda.

She frowns. “But we have to go back. You have work, and I—”

“I’m not taking you back there until I have to.”

She stares at me for a long time, and then she nods. “Okay, Jesse.”

TWENTY-SIX

Water

now

“You should go visit Amber,” Ginny suggests from her perch, a purple-and-blue quilt stretched out on her lap.

“I tried. She’s sleeping.” I’m pretty sure she has a hangover from last night at Roadside, since I saw Meredith driving in with her car, followed closely by Sheriff Gabe. “Why?”

“Because your fidgeting is giving me a headache.”

I slide my hands under my butt. “Sorry.” I’ve been torn between preparing Ginny and surprising her, knowing that neither will go over well. When Teresa phoned this morning to ask if she and Zoe could come out at two this afternoon, I decided on something in between. That’s why, when I hear the crackle of tires on loose gravel, I blurt out, “So I have something to tell you.” I’m not even looking at her as I continue. “I met a nice lady at the store. She told me that she was selling her twelve-year-old daughter’s horse because . . .” I relay the situation in a quick, planned speech that I practiced several times in the mirror. “It’s just the two of them and you don’t have to say yes, but I figured you could use the money and you could make this little girl very happy. She’s been crying over her horse for days.” When the red Honda Civic rounds the corner, I add, “This lady bought your quilt. The latest one, with the horses on it.”

I dare to glance at Ginny once before I get up to meet Teresa and her daughter, Zoe, a pretty, wide-eyed girl with wavy brown hair. The expression on her face is completely unreadable.

But she hasn’t reached for her broom yet, so I guess there’s that.

“Two hundred a month for her own stall, plus any veterinarian bills. And she has to use my veterinarian.” She lops on a spoonful of mashed potatoes—I made the real kind; not that awful boxed stuff—and then takes a helping of a pot roast that I thought I’d try out. “And it’s just her and her mother on this property. No one else. Not this useless hunk of an ex-husband, not any coaches or trainers. Just those two.”

I nod. I had already figured as much and warned Teresa. She seemed fine with it, and was impressed with the barn and the land. And Ginny, as cranky as she can be, seemed to take to Zoe right away, asking her questions about Lulu’s habits and which stable she might prefer.

I thought that I might get whacked over the head with that broom, but when I left her on the porch to make dinner and read a bit, she was unusually quiet and content. “So, can I call her after dinner and tell her? I know Zoe’s probably waiting anxiously.”

Ginny studies the meat on her fork intently as she chews a mouthful and swallows. “It was a stable hand.”

I frown.

“He was in his late twenties. A big, burly man. But soft, like a teddy bear. Earl was his name. He worked for my dad for three years, one month, one week.” She twists the fork around. A bead of gravy drips down and hits her plate. “Four days. I was about that girl’s age when I first met Earl. I was in those stables every single day, rain or snow, it didn’t matter, helping to muck out the stalls and care for the horses. We had so many back then, it was hard to keep up.” She frowns at the meat. “At first, he just said hi to me. Asked how school was. I was an odd child—wary of people, even then—so I kept my distance. Eventually, though, he became a friend. He taught me how to climb trees. That’s what won me over. He was an excellent tree climber.” She finally eats the piece of meat, her jaw moving slowly, precisely. “After . . . my daddy did most of the work around here, with my help. It was a lot for just the two of us. I’m no idiot. I know that what happened to me isn’t common and that I could have a thousand stable hands through here with no issues. It doesn’t change the fact that I can’t ever be around another one.”