Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(32)

“You’re adopted?” I sat up straighter. It was disconcerting: I’d never met another adopted kid. My dad’s family—particularly my grandmother—always acted as if not having “Walton blood” was a disease. At Bran’s admission, for the first time I felt less . . . alone, somehow.

I’d never been very curious about my origins. I’d decided long ago that if my birth parents had just thrown me away like that, why should I care?

Only once, after a fierce argument, I’d stormed to my room, determined to locate my “real parents.” I knew the name of the Eastern European orphanage where she’d found me. But the only thing I could find was a grainy black-and-white photo of a charred building that had burned to the ground the year I was adopted.

“I am too,” I said to Bran. “Adopted, that is. And you know, it never bothered me until recently.”

“Why is that?”

I didn’t answer at first. Instead, I watched as the lambs’ mother nudged them back toward the rest of the group. “Not sure,” I mused. “I guess it’s being here with my mom’s family. They’re all so tight. And there are all these ancestors hanging on the walls. I swear to God they glare at me like Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

Bran snorted. “Try spending five minutes around my mother’s mum for any length of time. At least the portraits don’t tell you that to your face.” He tilted his dark head, peeking at me from the corner of his eye. “Do you remember anything? About your life before, I mean?”

“Nope,” I said. “But I was only four or so. You?”

Bran’s lips parted. The tendons in his neck tightened. His fine-boned fingers tightened into a fist.

“No.” He bit off the word. “I was but an infant. Had a stepfather for a while. Gave me his name. Nice chap, but he didn’t stick around long. Not that I blame him.”

Silence taut as a rubber band stretched between us. I could all but feel the anger boiling beneath the surface.

“So,” I said, hoping to cut the uncomfortable tension, “do you have siblings?”

His shoulders loosed, and a different smile from any I’d seen before split Bran’s face. He gave an emphatic nod. “Tony,” he said. “My brother. Oh, he’s a great lad. Sweet. And smart as a whip. I love him as much as I would if he were my own blood.” Like a cloud muting the sun, the smile faded. “I don’t see him much. He’s only twelve, and even though he’s her real son, Mother won’t often allow him to come home.”

I noted the emphasis on the word “real.”

“Why?”

Bran’s sleek black eyebrows drew down over those Crayola eyes. His mouth opened, then snapped shut as though the words he was trying to dredge came from a faraway place. “Tony’s young.” He gave a careless half-shrug. “Too young to be of much use to my mother. Not yet anyway. And she places little value on anything that isn’t useful.”

I decided I didn’t much like Bran’s mom. Not if she treated a twelve-year-old kid that way. And certainly not when talking about her made Bran’s mouth go all hard like that.

As if it could sense our change in mood, the wind shifted direction. Cold tendrils filtered through the mild evening air, bearing aloft the heavy smell of rain. In the distance, a bank of ominous clouds boiled over the top of a mountain, devouring its peak. As Bran squinted at the gray-white mass, I could see an unease lurking behind his eyes. He turned back to me and plastered on a smile. But it didn’t touch his eyes. Unlike the ones before.

“Rain’s coming. Shall we go?”

Standing, he dusted off his palms. I grabbed the offered hand. He pulled me to my feet, but as I stood, I realized one of my legs had gone to sleep. Bran steadied me as it crumpled.

I’d never been this close to a boy before and I wanted to freeze the moment. To bank it against the frightening, unknown void that my life had so recently become.

I memorized the rasp of his calloused palm on my bare skin. The bleating of sheep and the rush of wind as it curled around us. When I breathed in, I could smell him. Bran Cameron. Clean cotton and fresh-cut wood. Saddle oil and sun-warmed skin that somehow reminded me of toasted marshmallows that dissolved melty and delicious on your tongue.

“Hope.” Bran’s voice sounded oddly husky as I opened my eyes and looked up into his. “I want you to know that I—I’ve truly enjoyed today. It . . . This . . . was real. For me at least. Don’t forget that.”

Me? Ever forget this day? Unlikely.

Before I could utterly embarrass myself and beg to stay just a little longer, a crackling came from the underbrush behind us. Our heads whipped toward the sound as a large, rust-colored deer tiptoed out. A gangly, spotted fawn followed, nosing under his mother’s belly.

Bran’s grip tightened on my wrists. Bound together, we didn’t move a hair as the doe raised a slender head and blinked at us with lashes so lovely, they seemed fake. Eventually, sensing we were no threat, her velvety ears twitched. She bent to nibble at the tough grass. The baby shifted with his mother’s movements, struggling to stay attached. Spellbound, we watched him totter on spindly, impossibly thin legs.

Bran turned to me with a joyous grin. At the motion, the doe’s head shot up. In a flicker of white tails, both animals were gone.