Burn It Up(100)

“Early,” she replied, sounding shell-shocked. “Seven o’clock, maybe?”

“And did he expect the repairs to take several hours?”

“I couldn’t say. It depends on how much work the thing needed. But I haven’t seen him . . .” Her normally capable, athletic frame looked frail and breakable, arms hugged tight around her middle.

She’s talking about Don. He’d been going to look at some John Deere thing or other. Could that have caused the fire? A mechanical issue?

Then she remembered the mystery creep, and all at once it felt much too convenient for comfort. She’d stopped on the porch, staring now, and Christine reached out to touch her arm, steer her gently in the direction of the front door. So she wouldn’t overhear anything more? Or simple permission to get inside, away from all the chaos?

Either way, she obeyed.

The phone was ringing from its stand on the hutch as she entered the house, and she had no doubt it would continue to do so for the rest of the afternoon as the news spread far and wide. The second it quieted, she heard the electronic trill of the office phone beckoning from past the den.

She’d been holding Mercy to her hip for ages now, the sling just a canvas tangle around her arm, too much to bother with in the height of the panic. All at once, in the eerie calm and silence of the house, she felt the strain in her back and neck and elbows, and set the baby in the car seat Casey had left by the door. She lugged it into the kitchen, downed a glass of water, then another. She considered camping out in here, torn between curiosity about what could be going on and fear of the same.

What if Don . . . She shivered, unwilling to think it. He would have gotten out, surely. And that person who’d been creeping around, they’d just been some potential burglar, or a pervert after a glimpse at the ranch hands undressing or something gross like that, not . . .

The kitchen felt too cold. Too cavernous. She heated a bottle of formula for Mercy and carried her upstairs, though she left the bedroom door open, wanting updates even as she dreaded them.

Mercy managed half the bottle before conking out, no doubt exhausted from the crying and the rattled energy of all the grown-ups.

Abilene stood over the crib for long minutes, watching her daughter’s face, feeling out-of-body. Sounds from downstairs snapped her from the trance—men’s voices.

She hurried to the door, thinking at first she’d heard Don speaking, but no, only Miah. She recognized the other voice as well. Vince. She couldn’t catch more than the odd snatch of what they were saying, but Miah sounded frantic and shaky, Vince cool and somber. The voices faded, the men seeming to have gone into the kitchen. Sure enough, she could make out the faint sound of water running.

Poor Miah. Part of her wanted to go downstairs, to see if she could do anything, but it was in that moment that she realized that she really didn’t know the man. Not well enough to try to comfort him at such an uncertain time, anyhow.

She turned away, and her gaze caught on a flash of red on the dresser—the wadded tissue that Casey had given her. A present she’d not dared to open last night. Just now, her heartache paled to nothing beside Miah and Christine’s, and she could stand the distraction. She picked it up and took a seat on the bed.

It was so light she’d probably have tossed it in the trash if she’d come upon it, assuming it was empty. It was secured with a piece of tape, and she peeled that free, beginning to unwind the tissue. After four or five turns, the paper parted, and pooled in its center was silver—a box chain, shiny as only sterling silver could be, brand-new. Something else poked from the tiny pile of links—a slim and delicate shape. She knew what it was in an instant, and a smile caught somewhere between affection and heartbreak twisted her lips.

The little cross was almost identical to the one she’d worn for more than ten years. A half-inch tall, plain, no body of Christ. The chain was different, shorter than the one she’d lost, and nicer as well. She eased a loose knot from it and centered the cross opposite the clasp, letting it swing from her fingers.

She didn’t know quite what to make of it.

Had their soul-bearing conversation gone well, it would have been a more than welcome gift. A gift that told her she’d found herself a man who paid attention, who listened, and who thought of her in moments when they weren’t together. She couldn’t guess where in Fortuity he’d found this, either, so he’d gone on a mission for it. For her.

She closed it in her hand, felt the metal warming there.

Can I keep this? It wasn’t a locket or some other pointed token of romance. It was a symbol of her misplaced beliefs, of her lost faith once again returning to her in the wake of all those desperate, squandered years. It was a gift chosen by a lover . . . but bestowed by a friend.

I’ll wear it, she decided. Not yet, but eventually. To put it on now would be too mixed a signal to send Casey, and too much to ask of her own heart, besides. But in time, once their brief but blazing romance had mellowed to a fond memory, their friendship hopefully planted on solid ground once again, she’d put it on. And she’d wear it gratefully, with humility and hope.

The house gave a rattle, the subtle clatter of doors resettling and telling her someone had just come in from outside. The murmur of conversation in the kitchen flared for a moment, then went sedate once again. She heard Christine now, and also Casey. She debated going down, pursing her lips, legs trying to commit to standing or not. But then footsteps froze her, growing louder as they reached the den, then the stairs. She knew the sound of those shoes well, and she hastily closed the necklace in its tissue and slid it under a pillow.