Текст книги "Charming The Highlander"
Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
He intended to ride back down the mountain with the warrior and his woman. It was time he spent a few days a bit closer to civilization, getting to know Grace Sutter.
Chapter Thirteen
The snowcat stopped in front of what Grace could only describe as a castle. It was built completely of stone, four stories high, and it was the darkest, ugliest structure she had ever laid eyes on.
It had to cover nearly four acres in footprint, with towers marking each of the four corners and slits for windows rising up each rounded turret in a diagonal procession, as if following the rise of stairs. The stones that made up the walls were black and gray speckled granite. But arched over the doorway and each window the stones were pure black, only slightly less rough than the walls.
The architect they’d hired must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven, being able to design such a huge, modern-day castle. He also must have been drunk.
There was even a moat. Sort of. Grace stared at the bridge that ran over a wild, frothing brook roaring past the castle’s foundation.
So this was Gu Bràth.
Grace wondered if Grey thought she would marry him and actually live here. Talk about regressing. The man she’d fallen in love with lived in a castle, for crying out loud.
Ian came out the front door and across the bridge, hurrying over to help Father Daar out of the snowcat.
He handed the old priest over to Callum, who had followed him outside, and then Ian descended on Grace.
“Well? Did ya find what you needed up there?” he asked.
She stared at him blankly. No, she had found heartache, and she hadn’t needed that at all. She suddenly blushed as his words sank in. She hadn’t even seen the ski-lift shed on the summit.
“Ah…I…” She darted a look at Grey, who had walked up beside her.
“She’ll fix the lift,” he told Ian, taking her by the arm and leading her toward his home. “After we do a small chore first, she’ll save the damn ski lift for us.”
Grace let him lead her away without protest. Truth be told, she wanted his support to walk across the narrow, high, slippery-looking bridge that ran over the churning brook.
She walked ahead of him the minute she saw the inside of the castle. Having expected the worst—a dank, dark, chilling interior to match the outside—Grace was amazed at what she found inside.
It was magnificent. Beautiful. The foyer was larger than her house and ran the full four stories up to an oak-beamed ceiling. A stairway as wide as a train ran up the right wall, curving onto an open balcony railed with hand-hewn timber. She walked to the center of the room and turned around, trying to take it all in.
It was so bright inside it hurt her eyes. Lights—tens of dozens of bulbs—shone into every nook and cranny, glistening off the black stone that shined like the ebony keys of a piano. Grace recognized the rock. It was from the mountain. TarStone got its name from fissures of black rock that ran like rivers through the granite. Instead of absorbing the light, the rock had been polished to reflect it.
The effect was so magical it made her dizzy.
She closed her eyes and lowered her head to get her bearings, only to open them up to see five men watching her with grins on their faces.
“You’re not the first to have such a reaction,” Morgan told her. “Stunning, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful. I never would have guessed, looking at it from the out-” Grace snapped her mouth shut before she finished insulting their home and quickly walked through the archway opposite the entrance.
She found herself in a very large, tastefully and comfortably furnished living room. There was a big-screened television in the corner, three leather couches arranged into a sitting area facing it, and a desk in the other corner that held a computer.
She breathed a sigh of relief. She had been entertaining visions of Greylen MacKeage walking up and telling her, “Oh, by the way, I came through time with MacBain.” Grey certainly seemed medieval to her sometimes, what with his talk of women being weaker, her belonging to him now, and his general alpha-male attitude. And he did live in a castle.
“Well,” she said to the men staring at her. “This is a very nice home you have.”
They just kept staring. Grace looked at Grey, her eyes pleading with him to do something. With a laconic smile contradicting the harsh planes of his face, he stepped forward to move beside her. “Father Daar,”
he said. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
The old priest hadn’t really waited for the invitation. He was already making his way to a big chair by the fireplace that stood in the center of the far wall. He shut off the television on his way by, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.
Seeing that he was settled, Grey turned back to the three remaining men. Grace thought about running for the door before the fireworks began, but then she remembered the bridge. She started to inch her way toward Father Daar instead. Grey stopped her, taking her by the hand and pulling her beside him.
“Grace has a favor she wants from us before she gets the ice off the gondola lift,” he said, ignoring her nails biting into his palm.
“What would that be, lass?” Ian asked, squinting at her. “It won’t take long, will it? The weather’s lifted a bit, but it could start raining again soon.”
Grace stared at the three men all staring back at her and dug her nails deeper into the hand imprisoning hers.
Grey sighed in resignation. “We’re to set up our snow-making equipment,” he answered for her, “at the Bigelow Christmas Tree Farm.”
The fireworks went off right on schedule, and they were just as loud and far more colorful than she expected. Ian was the worst of the lot, turning as red as his hair and waving his fist in the air.
“That bastard’s not getting any help from us!” he shouted, glaring at her while he did.
“Ya canna mean it, man!” Callum said, taking a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides.
Morgan stared in open-mouthed shock, then spit on the floor. “He’ll rot in hell before we help him!” he said, his face contorted with rage.
The blast of hatred made Grace take a step back. Grey stood tall and calm beside her, weathering the human storm. She stared up at him, wondering what he was thinking.
She wasn’t afraid of the three men still ranting and raving and scorching the air with their curses. She knew to the soles of her feet that Grey would never let them hurt her.
“Grey!” Ian hissed. “What has gotten into ya?” Ian pointed a finger at Grace. “It’s her, isn’t it? She’s softened ya to where you’re willing to help an enemy.”
“That’s enough,” Grey said, his expression still calm, his voice whisper soft.
The litany of curses suddenly stopped. The rage, however, continued to emanate from the three men in icy-cold waves. A silence more deafening than the storm that had preceded it settled like lead over the room.
“That’s the deal, if you want to save our ski lift. We set up our equipment at MacBain’s, and Grace gets the ice off the cable. Or both of our businesses can go to hell along with this accursed storm. Which will it be?”
Ian shook his head in disbelief. “That’s blackmail, is what it is.” He looked at her, the loathing clear in his eyes. “How do we know she can do as she claims?”
“She can,” Grey said succinctly.
“Do you even understand what you’re asking of us?” Callum asked her.
“No, actually, I don’t,” she returned, lifting her chin as she tried to move closer to them. Grey checked her step, keeping her beside him. “Why don’t you explain it to me?” she said to Callum.
Clearly surprised to get an answer to his obviously rhetorical question, Callum looked at Grey. So did Grace. She saw him nod curtly.
“Michael MacBain,” Callum said, sounding as if just saying the name was painful, “fancied himself in love with the MacKeage’s betrothed,” he told her. “And he lured her to his bed. Maura was only a naive lass at the time, and she had a romantic notion that they were star-crossed lovers. She lay with MacBain and soon discovered she was carrying his child,” he explained, the distaste for his story obvious in every harsh line on his face.
“Who is Maura?”
“She was Ian’s daughter.”
“Was?” Grace asked, darting a look at Ian.
“She killed herself when she realized she’d disgraced her family and that the bastard MacBain would not have her,” Callum continued, drawing her attention again.
Grace snapped her gaze back to Ian. He was standing stone still, his features harsh, his muted-green eyes glazed with pain. She looked back at Callum. “If Michael loved Maura, why wouldn’t he have her?” she asked him.
It was Morgan who snorted. “You’re as naive as she was. MacBain didn’t love her. He just wanted to ruin her for the MacKeage.”
“Who is ‘the MacKeage’ you keep talking about?” Grace asked. “And where is he now?”
Morgan looked at her with a nasty smirk lifting one side of his angered face. “He’s standing beside you,”
he said, nodding at Grey. “Holding your hand.”
Grace pulled her hand away as if it were scorched. She turned and stared up at Grey. “You were engaged to this Maura? Ian’s daughter?” She looked at Ian, trying to judge his age. “How old was she?”
“My girl was sixteen at the time,” Ian told her. “She was supposed to be wed on her seventeenth birthday. Only she never reached it.”
Grace closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. No wonder these men wanted Michael’s head on a platter. If, that is, what they were saying was true, that Michael had rejected Maura when he found out she was pregnant. A thought crossed her mind, and she turned to Grey.
“How old were you?”
He finally looked at her, and, unlike Ian’s, his eyes were completely devoid of emotion. “I was twenty-eight.”
Grace walked out of the room. There wasn’t a damn thing she had to say to any of them. She crossed the foyer and opened the front door, only to be confronted by the treacherous bridge. She grabbed both sides of the rails and closed her eyes and walked across it.
Damn Grey. The man had been engaged to a child!
Damn every one of them. They were all such…such…men, including Michael MacBain. They deserved to hate each other all the way to hell and back, for all she cared. She was going to the Bigelows’ and getting Baby, then she was going home, locking her door, and not letting any of them on her property again. And just as soon as this ice storm was over, she was getting into Mary’s old beatup truck and driving herself and Baby back to Virginia.
“Are ya not going after her?” Callum asked, looking at the still humming door that Grace had slammed on her way out.
“So I can bring her back to face your anger again?” Grey asked all three of them. “So you can further berate her for being a woman, with a woman’s heart that only wants to help all of her neighbors?”
He turned to the silent priest sitting by the hearth. “What do you think, old man? Should I go after her?”
Daar shook his head, looking tired from the battle he had just witnessed. “Not if you’re not ready to let go of your hatred for MacBain,” he said. “The girl feels a powerful duty to her sister, and your little tale has finally made her realize that she can’t be loyal to you without being disloyal to Mary.”
Grey stared at him for another minute, then turned to look at his men. How was he supposed to put into words what he wasn’t sure of himself? How could he tell a father that they were all to blame for Maura’s death, and not just MacBain, but Grey, Ian himself, and the very society they had lived in back then?
“Your daughter had no desire to marry your laird, Ian,” he began, picking his words carefully but putting the power of his title behind them. “I was twelve years older than she, and I scared her to death. Maura had been in love with MacBain since the summer festival the year before.”
“That’s not true,” Ian protested. “I would have known of such a thing.”
Grey shook his head at the suddenly desperate-looking man. “She was too afraid to tell you or her mother because she didn’t want to disappoint you. She knew how proud you were that your daughter was chosen to marry your laird,” he told him gently.
“That still doesn’t justify what he done, going behind my back like a jackal and seeing Maura without her father’s permission,” Ian said, his expression pained. “She killed herself because she was pregnant and MacBain tossed her away like rubbish.”
“Did he?” Grey asked. “Do we know that as fact, or has that been a convenient excuse all these years, to justify our own arrogance and neglect? Were we all not guilty back then, as men, for forgetting to ask our daughters what they wanted? How many marriages were arranged without their consent?”
“Dammit. That was how it was done then,” Callum said. “It was our duty to guide them and to protect them from their own soft hearts.”
“Why?” Grey asked all three of them. “When you see women like Mary and Grace Sutter, do you consider them inferior? Unable to think for themselves? Can you see any man today arranging a marriage for either one of them that she had no say in?”
“Of course not,” Callum said, frowning. “But that’s different. This is now, not eight hundred years ago.”
“Were our mothers and wives and daughters any less intelligent than Mary and Grace Sutter? Less capable? Less strong?” Grey asked.
“Dammit. MacBain ruined my little girl, and now she’s dead!” Ian shouted hoarsely, wiping at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He wasn’t liking what he was hearing, and Grey hated to see the old warrior in such a state. But this had needed saying for seven years now.
Grey wished he could go back, now that he saw things differently. The MacKeage clan would have been the most powerful in all the Highlands, because they would have had the strength of hundreds of strong, intelligent women behind them.
Ian looked up and glared at Grey. “I’ve kept from killing MacBain myself because that was your duty,”
he said, pointing at Grey, obviously still not willing to let go of his old beliefs. “One you refused to honor.”
“Ian’s right,” Callum interjected. “It doesn’t matter who is to blame, MacBain is still the most responsible for Maura’s death. It was his seed she was carrying that caused her to walk onto the rotten ice of Loc Firth. And now you’re asking us to help the man.”
“I’m not asking,” Grey told them softly. “I’m telling you that I am setting up that equipment tonight, and the choice is yours to help me or not.”
“Ya cannot mean to do it,” Morgan said.
Grey looked around the room. “I don’t see anyone with the authority to stop me. I’m still the laird of what’s left of this clan, and my word still carries the weight it used to.”
“But it’s wrong, what you’re asking of us. No warrior worth his salt aids his enemy,” Ian insisted.
“No, it’s you who are wrong. You’re wanting to continue a war that’s eight hundred years dead. None of it matters anymore. We live here now, the four of us and MacBain. We live in a world where disputes are settled by courts of law. We must adapt to this change in our circumstances and live like the Americans we’ve become. And that means helping out a neighbor, no matter who he is, when we can.”
“It’s Grace Sutter putting these thoughts in your head,” Ian complained, still refusing to let go of his anger.
“Ya want her, and she’s twisted your thinking into a knot.”
Grey shook his head at his disheartened warrior. “Have you not wondered why I never retaliated for MacBain’s role in this?” he asked him. “Not the three years we were still living at home?”
“I thought ya were waiting for a better means of revenge than merely killing him,” Ian said. “I thought ya were waiting for him to take a wife.”
Grey took a step back, appalled at the insult just given him. “You thought I would use a woman for revenge?” he asked in a hushed tone. “Some innocent like Mary Sutter, maybe? Should I have caused her such terror to get even with MacBain? Taken her by force? Or should I have killed her with my bare hands to rob MacBain of her love?” he ended harshly.
Ian actually flinched.
“Dammit, Grey,” Callum interjected. “None of us would have allowed any harm to come to Mary.”
Grey looked at each of his men in turn, letting them see his anger. “Four years ago none of you would have given a thought to the woman, whoever she was. So tell me, what’s changed?”
“Dammit to hell, we have!” Ian shouted. “We’ve softened like porridge.”
“No,” Grey told him softly. “We haven’t softened. We’ve had our eyes opened. Society has changed in eight hundred years, and if we don’t adapt to it now, we will perish.”
“We have adapted,” Morgan said. “Hell, we fly in planes, drive automobiles, and are running a ski resort.”
Grey shook his head. “It’s not enough simply to embrace the material things. It’s here,” he said, thumping his chest, “that we have to change. And I intend to begin tonight, for Grace.”
The three men simply stared at him, unmoving, not believing what they were hearing.
“You’ll be helping MacBain,” Ian insisted. “You’re forgetting that he stole your woman and caused her death.”
“I’m not,” Grey growled with waning patience.
“Michael MacBain has nothing to do with this.” He ran his hands over his face, hoping to wipe away his frustration with his clansmen—and with himself. He hadn’t softened. He was simply looking at things through Grace’s eyes this once.
“I hate the bastard as much as any of you,” he assured them. “But are you willing to let that hatred stand in the way of saving your ski lift?”
“You said it yourself, man,” Ian said. “She’ll not let it come to that. Her heart’s too soft. She’ll help us.”
“And just where does that leave us with Grace, when this is over and MacBain’s future is ruined and ours is not?” Grey asked.
Three sets of frowns faced the floor as the men pictured that problem. “She’ll come around once she realizes what a bastard MacBain truly is,” Callum said. “She’ll eventually see things our way. If not, do ya truly want the woman if she’s determined to be nice to our enemies?”
“She’s mine,” Grey told them, a growl in his voice. “It’s already done,” he said, walking away, having decided he’d had enough of the company of his men.
He made his way up to his room on tired feet, thinking they could all give lessons in stubbornness to Grace. They’d been through a lot these last four years, and Grey admired his men’s stamina and their spirit to survive. But they still had some changing to do. Himself included.
He undressed slowly, thinking about Grace and the horrified look on her face when she had learned he had planned to marry a girl almost twelve years his junior. Or maybe it was the fact that the tug-of-war between him and MacBain, with her and Baby in the middle, had simply been too much.
Whatever had been in her head, he would have to fix it somehow—and quickly.
Naked now, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stopped at the sight of himself in the mirror. His gaze was drawn to the blood on his thigh.
Grace’s blood. The gift of her virginity that she had been saving for her husband but had given to him instead.
Why? Why had she asked him to make love to her?
From the moment he saw her in the airport, Grey had known he would have Grace Sutter. He just hadn’t realized at the time exactly what having her meant.
He had thought it was lust; only it wasn’t, and it never had been. He thought he’d at least be dealing with an experienced woman, but Grace had been a virgin. And he had always thought he could take a wife to build back his clan yet not touch his heart when he did. He knew now that was impossible.
More than a simple mating had occurred on TarStone today.
Something. A feeling. An awareness had come to him when he had possessed Grace completely. The room had filled with a brightness so sharp the very air in the summit house had appeared white, like a new-fallen winter snow reflecting full sunshine.
This journey they were on, was somehow tied to Grace Sutter. Grey had felt her strength after the plane crash, when she had fought beside him to survive. He had felt it standing in the freezing rain outside her kitchen door, when she had stood there telling him not to return if he went to Michael MacBain. And this afternoon, in the summit house, the feeling of rightness had been nearly overwhelming.
The swirl of fog filled the bathroom, blocking out Grey’s view of himself in the mirror. He stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over his head and face and down his body. He was sorry to be washing away the essence of Grace, but he had to get changed for the night’s work ahead. He might find himself laying the pipe in the field by himself next to MacBain, but, by God, he intended to save the man’s crop of trees.
Then he would get the ice off his damn ski lift.
And then he would get down to the business of explaining to Grace Sutter that she was never returning to Virginia.
Chapter Fourteen
Her eyes burning with angry tears, Grace completely misjudged the curve in the road and drove straight into a snowbank. The force of the impact threw her against the seat belt, pushing an involuntary scream from her lungs. Ice chunks the size of dinner plates shot into the air and crashed over the hood and windshield of the truck, sending cracks spidering through the glass and making Grace instinctively raise her arms to cover her face.
The rear tires of the suddenly halted truck continued to spin on the slippery road, causing the entire vehicle to strain against the snowbank. Grace slowly lowered her arms and reached a shaking hand out to shut off the engine. The old pickup turned silent but for the angry hiss of steam from the hot engine now packed with snow.
Trembling from her nose to her knees, Grace brushed the hair from her face and took a calming breath while she assessed the damage. She seemed to be relatively intact; she wasn’t bleeding anywhere, and nothing felt broken. Her truck had not fared quite so well. It was wedged into the snowbank all the way past her door, the nose stuck up in the air and covered with debris.
Well, her body still worked. Would the truck?
Grace pushed on the brake and clutch peddles, restarted the engine, and wrestled the gear shift into reverse. She slowly let out the clutch and pushed on the gas. The rear tires spun; the truck bucked in place, then jerked sideways instead of backward. Grace crammed the clutch down, shifted into first, and gave the engine more gas. The engine revved, the tires spun, and the truck shot forward several inches.
She repeated the process, in reverse this time, but only felt the vehicle settle deeper into the snow just before it coughed and chugged to a stall.
Grace slapped the steering wheel with an angry curse, buried her face in her hands, and broke into tears.
Dammit. She should have stayed in bed this morning, watching Baby sleep. She sure as hell had no business trying to help her neighbors. All she’d received for her efforts was heartache.
Michael MacBain was mad at her for even suggesting the MacKeages could help save his trees. Morgan and Callum and Ian were beyond angry for the same reason. And Grey?
Well, on what should have been the most glorious day of her life, the day she had finally decided to make love with a man, she had made a monumental mess of the entire affair.
Grey was also mad at her, and Grace worried that his anger might be based on the fact that she had foolishly preceded their lovemaking with an ultimatum that he help Michael. Even from her own point of view, she looked like a woman willing to bargain with her body.
Hell. What a mess she’d made of this day, with her arrogant intentions and reckless actions. Every damn male she knew was mad at her.
Except Baby.
Grace angrily wiped away her tears, unfastened her seat belt, and started to get out of the truck. Only the door wouldn’t budge. She peered out the window to find that the snowbank had trapped her inside, so she rolled down the window, crawled out of the truck, and waded onto the road.
She bent at the waist and looked under the bumper. The frame of the truck was perched high and dry on the snowbank, the front tires suspended in the air and the back tires sunk in a hole the spinning tires had burned in the ice.
Grace straightened and looked in both directions. She had just turned down the road to the Christmas tree farm, but she was still closer to the ski resort than to the Bigelows’. But was she willing to hike back to the resort and ask for the MacKeages’s help?
Grace snorted to herself. Not after storming out and slamming the door on their collective rage. She pivoted on her heel and started walking to the Bigelow Christmas farm.
She fell twice and nearly pulled a back muscle trying to stay upright on the slippery road. It took her nearly an hour to travel about two miles, and in that time Grace wondered what she could do to get her life back under control. How could she have gone from an intelligent, dedicated scientist with a sharply focused future to a love-sick, addlebrained puddle of mush in only four days?
When she walked into the Bigelows’ yard, Grace was able to answer her own question. She stopped in the middle of the driveway and stared at Michael MacBain chopping wood as if the demons of hell possessed his body.
Michael. Baby. And Mary.
Grace’s heart dropped to her knees. Michael’s pain, his anger, his very obvious hurt, emanated toward her in nearly palpable waves. She had lost her sister and been given a nephew to love; Michael had nothing but emptiness.
He turned suddenly to face her, the axe hanging loosely in his large hand at his side. Grace continued into the yard, and Michael walked up to meet her.
His eyes roamed over her body, his expression concerned. “Where’s your truck?” he asked, darting a look behind her as if he expected it to be following her. He reached out and took hold of her arm. “Were you in an accident? Are ya hurt?”
Grace shrugged. “I just slid off the road,” she told him, and smiled to assure him that she was okay. “But the truck is stuck in a snowbank. I need help to pull it out.”
Michael let the axe fall to the ground and put both hands on her shoulders, giving her another, more critical inspection, as if he didn’t believe she was okay. He turned, took her by the hand, and began leading her toward the house.
“Come inside and get warm,” he said before she could protest. “Tell me where the truck is, and I’ll go get it.”
Grace planted her feet to stop them both but skidded a good three yards on the ice before Michael realized she wasn’t following meekly. He turned and frowned at her.
Grace smiled back. “I want to go with you,” she told him. “It’s a two-person job, and I don’t want John to know about the accident. He’ll feel obliged to help, and he might fall and break a hip or something.”
“I’ll just tow the truck back,” Michael countered, tugging on her sleeve to urge her toward the house.
Grace wiggled her arm free of his grasp and shook her head. “No. I want to go with you.”
Michael gave her a good glare before he blew out a resigned sigh. “Okay. But you’re sitting in the truck and staying out of my way,” he said, leading her toward the barn where she could see his truck was parked.
As concessions went, he could have been more gracious, but Grace decided to believe his dictate was from concern for her welfare, not from condescension. She was just thankful he hadn’t gotten stubborn himself and that she was able to go with him.
Now was her chance to get to know the man her sister loved.
Grace climbed into the passenger seat of the shiny new truck, folded her hands on her lap, and thought of how to broach the subject of time travel to a person who claimed he had firsthand knowledge of the phenomenon.
“You’ve been crying,” Michael said as soon as he climbed in beside her.
“Not from the accident,” she assured him as they backed out of the barn.
He stopped the truck and looked at her. “MacKeage made ya cry?” he asked in a growl.
This time Grace’s smile was sad. “Not directly. I made myself cry.” She brushed the hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I’m tired, I think. A lot’s happened in the last week. The last six weeks,”
she softly amended.
“I’ve heard new mothers get weepy sometimes,” he said gently, finally heading the truck out the driveway.
“Yeah. I’ve heard that, too. Michael, why did you tell my sister you traveled through time?” Grace asked, deciding that she really was too tired to beat around the bush.
Silence answered her. Grace turned in her seat to face the man who was such a contradiction to her perception of sanity. He acted more normal than most males she’d met, yet he didn’t rush to deny her accusation.
She studied his profile. Michael was a large man, handsome in a rugged sort of way, and as solid-looking as the mountains surrounding Pine Creek. His usually weather-tanned complexion had paled suddenly, except for the flag of red on the cheekbone facing her. Small beads of sweat still lingered near his hairline from his wood-chopping frenzy, his jaw was clenched, and his knuckles gripping the steering wheel were white with tension.
“I want you to talk to me, Michael. I want to understand.”
He looked at her, his eyes two swirling pools of deep, molten gray. “Why? What’s the point?” he asked softly. “Mary’s dead, lass. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does.”
“That’s not true, Michael,” Grace whispered. “You’re the man my sister loved. For all but the lack of a ceremony, you and I are related now. And it was Mary’s dying wish that we become friends.”
He looked back at the road, silent again. Grace decided to approach the problem more directly. “Mary told me that you didn’t travel through time alone. That some of your…clansmen came with you. Is that true?”
His complexion darkened, and he nodded curtly. Well, he wasn’t talking, but he was responding.
“Where are they now?”
“Dead.”
“How…how did they die, Michael?”
“In lightning storms, mostly.”
“Is that how you got here? In a storm?”
He nodded again, then brought the truck to a stop. Before Grace realized they’d arrived at her pickup, Michael was out the door and headed to her truck.
