The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(76)

After a mile or so, just as before, the road began to climb through thick forest before leveling out again.

It was only then that it occurred to me Simon might not be awake by the time we reached his cabin. That he was surely in bed by now and sound asleep. Why wouldn’t he be? He started work early. It was already past midnight.

I reined Nastas to a halt.

I pictured myself on Simon’s porch, pounding on his door in the dark, Pal raising a ruckus. Then Simon blinking at me from the doorway, groggy and confused.

And then what? Asking him if this was a nice time for a chat?

Just ahead and still out of sight was the clearing where I knew his cabin sat, with the new corral and the orchard behind, the smokehouse and the little stable. An hour ago, this had seemed like a good idea. No—a necessity. Now it felt more like lunacy.

Nastas stamped hard, shifting to the side. He yanked his head, trying to turn us both around. He wanted to be back in the barn, in his warm stall. At that moment, there seemed no sensible reason why he shouldn’t.

I patted his neck. “Sorry, boy.”

I started to rein around, glancing one last time at the road ahead.

Wait . . . Had that glow been there before?

It was faint and seemed to be coming from the clearing on the left. I nudged Nastas forward.

As we neared, the glow grew more distinct. Brighter.

Then, as the trees began to clear, brighter still.

We broke the tree line into the clearing, and there was Simon’s cabin. And there I could see where the light was coming from.

The oil lantern on the porch was lit, casting flickering shadows over the table and chairs there.

Something stirred in one of those chairs. A slim figure rose, moved to the porch steps and paused at the top.

My heart leapt. Had Simon been expecting me?

I didn’t have to guide Nastas to the porch—he moved in all on his own. I jumped down, looped the reins around the saddle horn and let him loose. I knew he wouldn’t wander far.

Nearer the steps, I could make out Pal sitting at the bottom, gazing calmly in my direction as if seeing me ride up in the middle of the night was nothing out of the ordinary. I moved past him and up the stairs. Simon was still waiting at the top, now with his hand outstretched. When I was close enough, I took it.

Then I burst into tears.

I couldn’t tell how long I stood there, gathered in his arms, leaning into him, my face buried in his shoulder, shaking with sobs that I was both embarrassed and relieved for him to see. He didn’t ask why I was there, or why I was crying. He just kept murmuring that everything was going to be all right, his lips now warm against my temple, now brushing my cheek.

It felt so safe, so lulling, I didn’t want to pull away, even after the tears had subsided. If I could have pulled some lever then, releasing us both from time and space, I would have.

When I finally did pull back, wiping at my eyes and nose, the only thing I could say was, “You’re not wearing a coat.”

He shrugged. “I’ve got a fire going inside.”

He paused as if considering what he’d just said. Then we both laughed.

“Come on in,” he said.

This time there was no hesitation. The cabin had a great room with fireplaces on either side, one of them already lit and crackling before a deep sofa. On the opposite side was a dining table and chairs. In between was a stairway to the second floor.

Simon led me to the sofa, only the slightest hitch in his step from his fall a few days ago on the Mountain. An end table was set with a bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses.

“I was about to have a drink,” he said. “Like one?”

I don’t usually drink hard liquor and was about to tell him so. Then I realized that whiskey sounded exactly like what I needed. I pulled off my jacket and threw it over the back of the sofa before taking a seat.

“A small one.”

He poured them both out, handed me the smaller, then settled in beside me.

“How’s your leg?” I asked.

“Nearly good as new. How’s Laurel?”

I sipped the whiskey carefully; it was bracing, not burning. “I’ve never seen her happier.”

“You don’t look happy about that.”

It was an invitation to open up. All I had to do was take it: No, not happy. Not happy at all. Here’s why . . .

“Why are you up so late?” I asked.

He gestured in the general direction of the meadow out back. “Checking up on Pegasus. He was restless tonight.” His voice was low and familiar, perfectly pitched for firelight. “He isn’t the only one.”