In His Hands Read online

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  Copyright © 2017 by Adriana Anders

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © g-stockstudio/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410

  (630) 961–3900

  Fax: (630) 961–2168

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  An Excerpt from Under Her Skin

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To big A: You are my real life hero. I’ll love you, always.

  To little A: You are my heart.

  1

  The chain-link fence was the only thing standing between Abby Merkley and freedom.

  She picked up the bolt cutters with trembling hands and hacked away at the metal. Judging from the way the sun cleaved through the bare trees, casting long skeletons of shadow, it was close to noon.

  Which meant she had to hurry.

  Peeling back the chain link wasn’t easy the way she was shaking, but she managed to do it without cutting herself. Thank the Lord, else Isaiah would wonder what she’d gotten into and send someone after her.

  In order to get through the hole, Abby had to remove her wool coat and carefully avoid the gleaming edges of fresh-cut metal. She paused, out of breath. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she undid the ties at her chin and shoved her bonnet back through the hole before standing up.

  “Good heavens,” she whispered, shocked by how close everything looked without the chain link’s honeycomb filter—how clear and bright and full of possibility. She clutched at the metal behind her, needing it to counteract this dizzying wave of hope.

  After a moment, she set off through the vines, gazing at row upon row of bare branches. Would Grape Man have work for her without grapes on his plants?

  He had to. He had to.

  What if he wasn’t here? He could easily have left in the half hour it took her to walk here from the Center. The thought had her racing messily between the army of dry, brittle-looking plants, crucified on the mountainside.

  The smell of woodsmoke was the first sign that he wasn’t far. He was home, at least, thank goodness.

  Past a woodshed and through the open picket gate she went. She climbed the three porch steps, breathless, sopping hem hugging her calves uncomfortably. Before she had time to stop herself—because if she stopped, if she thought this through, she wouldn’t do it—her knuckles rapped the door.

  Out of breath, face prickly hot and the rest of her body chilled, Abby waited.

  Nothing. No shuffling, no footsteps, no sound at all besides the creaking floorboards beneath her feet. I’ve made it this far, she told herself. Keep going. Keep going.

  She turned and scanned the buildings: the henhouse with its little yard full of chickens, two older sheds, and that big, refurbished barn to crown it all. Was he all the way up there?

  Abby tromped back down the sagging steps with a renewed sense of purpose, ignoring the chafe of shoes that had seen better days—shoes that weren’t made for running.

  Ladies aren’t meant to run, Hamish used to say. She swallowed back the memory. He’d been gone for weeks now. And a good thing, too. Nobody deserved the pain he’d endured in those last days.

  Nerves buzzing, she circled the cabin—which looked a lot worse up close—went through the back gate, and up the steep slope to the barn. Everything felt strangely off, like stepping through a mirror and seeing things the wrong way around.

  The barn, it appeared, was the only building Grape Man had worked on since taking over—the only thing, besides the vines, that he seemed to care about. It was enormous and built right into the boulders that crowned the mountain, with fresh boards and a perfectly straight door that hung slightly ajar. Tentatively, Abby knocked on the thick wood. Too quiet. He wouldn’t hear a thing from inside, but she felt hesitant, weighted. What if he doesn’t give me a job?

  Just a few months ago, while Hamish was dying, the place had been a hive of activity. She’d barely had time to glance outside, much less spy on the neighbor.

  This place, so silent now that she desperately needed help, intimidated her. But nothing would be worse than going back without accomplishing her goal.

  “Hello?” She hated how small she sounded.

  “Anyone here? Mr…” Halfway through the door, she stopped. Mr. Grape Man, she’d been about to say, but that would be strange, wouldn’t it? It was time to adjust to the way people spoke outside. “Hello?” she called louder, urging herself to move farther in. One step, then a second brought her through a dark vestibule hung with metal equipment. Tall boots lined one wall, and across from her stood a door, which proved to be locked.

  This roadblock gave the turmoil in her belly nothing to do, nowhere to go. Weighted by hopelessness, she turned and walked back outside.

  All the while, precious time passed. When would they send someone after her? Not for a couple hours at least.

  From this height, everything splayed out beneath her looked like toys. The cabin reminded her of something she’d played with as a child, the chickens as artificial as the squat, happy animals from that same foldaway barnyard. Oh, gracious, there he was. She stood frozen for a few seconds, eyes fixed on the man who looked nothing like the plastic farmer from that long-ago toy. I’m doing this. This is real. He’s real.

  Her stomach twisted as she finally forced herself to move and scrambled down the rocky slope, half-excited,
half-nervous.

  She was close when the man finally noticed her. Close enough to feel tiny in comparison to his towering, long-limbed frame. Close enough to see how graceful his movements were, despite his imposing size. Close enough to see his eyes widen in surprise and his high forehead crease into a scowl. From the top of his unruly hair and unshaven face, over faded work clothes—which strained immodestly on his shoulders and arms—to the tip of his muddy boots, everything about this man loomed as darkly foreboding as the mountain.

  She took him in for a beat or two, waiting for some sign of welcome from this man whose size did nothing to allay the fears she’d plowed through to get here. The hope she’d depended on to counter the many, many risks.

  He offered no kindness at all, no neighborly hello or hand raised in greeting. Abby almost stepped back, intimidated. But there was no choice. There’d be no leaving here without a job. Judging from the entrenched look of his frown, she’d have bet those immobile lips hadn’t twisted into anything resembling a smile in years. As she forced herself to step forward into his shadow, the lines around his eyes deepened. Make that decades.

  “Good morning, sir,” she forced in her friendliest voice. Surely he’d hear the cracks beneath the surface, that edge of desperation. He opened his mouth, but before he had a chance to say a word, she soldiered right through. “My apologies for disturbing you on this…” She glanced at the lowering clouds, as broody and gray as his frigid eyes, and blubbered on. “I’m Abigail Merkley. Abby, I mean. Abby Merkley. I’m looking for work, sir.”

  He squinted at her outstretched hand in a way that was decidedly unfriendly, and for a good few seconds, it appeared he might not accept. Her first handshake ever, rebuffed.

  Breathe, Abby. Breathe.

  He relented after a bit, carefully setting down the tool he used to prune the vines and sliding his palm against hers.

  She remembered the fish man at the market, the way he shook hands with his best customers. He’d told her it meant something. A connection, a promise. A covenant. Setting out this morning on the half-hour walk to the fence line, she’d planned this shake. Firm, businesslike. Secure. Confident.

  The reality was nothing of the sort. It was… Well, goodness, the handshake wasn’t a meeting of equals, the way she’d pictured it. It was consumption, one hand swallowed by the other. And it did things to her. Made her feel the difference in stature quite keenly. There was also the matter of how alone she was out here on this mountain. No one knew where she was—not a solitary soul—and here she’d gone and put her hand into an ogre’s. Walked right up to him and offered it up.

  He didn’t scare her nearly as much as what lay on the other side of the fence, though. He should have, but…what was it about his face? Not the unexpected translucence of those eyes nor their chilly distance. He didn’t trust this, she could tell. He was angry, maybe, at her intrusion, but there was something else. Something sad or hopeless, apparent in the purposeful squaring of those wide shoulders—an effort, she thought.

  “Work?” He uttered his first word as his other hand rose to hers, chafing it in a way she’d have bet was subconscious. The word sounded off, chewed away at the r. His voice, deep and growling, was not what she’d expected. It made her want to clear her throat for him. “What work?”

  She was ready for this question. She’d watched him, after all. Cutting and moving, cutting and moving. She’d watched and imagined a different sort of life. “I could help out here,” she said brightly.

  “Here?” He dropped her hand like a burning coal and shifted away.

  “I’ve seen you pruning. Last year, you hired people. I figured—”

  “I do it myself,” he cut in. This time, she heard it: an accent. Not that thick, but different from any she knew. The words stayed close to the front of his mouth, pushing his lips out into a pout. As he spoke, she finally understood those deep-cut parentheses framing them.

  “Oh.” Disappointment tightened her chest, a sense of urgency making it hard to breathe. “I can learn,” she said. When his expression didn’t budge, she begged. “I’ll do it for less than you paid the others.”

  His eyes lowered before meeting hers. “Where’s your coat?”

  Why on earth did he sound so accusatory?

  “I don’t…” She glanced back up the mountain, to where she’d left it in a pile by the fence, and pictured slipping it back on over shoulders bowed by defeat.

  He wasn’t going to do it, was he? He wasn’t going to give her the job that might save Sammy’s life. This wasn’t the man. It wasn’t the day. It wasn’t the mountain. Quite possibly not the lifetime. Was there any point?

  She ignored him and turned back, taking in the view—different from the one on the other side—Church land, with its westward-facing vista. It was rockier here, steeper and more interesting. The sky in this direction pulled out all the stops, its high-contrast clouds cut off right over the seam of the mountains, saving their drama for these richer folks.

  This side had begun to represent a way out, a better life for Sammy. Today, it had lost its glow—soured by anguish and despair and the almost audible ticking of the clock. Get Sammy out, get him out, get him out, it chanted in time with the panicked beating of her heart.

  Sucking in a big, icy breath, Abby looked right into that unforgiving face and said, “I would do most anything, sir.”

  She meant it, too.

  * * *

  Luc Stanek blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating this woman. The wind buffeted her dress, long hair coming loose from her braid, and the crisp winter light hardened her edges. All of it turned her into a statue. Or a painting, stark and stiff, washed with amber like something by one of those Wyeths or Whistler or whoever.

  Those words—I would do most anything—accompanied by the memory of her hand between his set off a faint prickle that was almost desperate. It moved something inside him. A part of him he hadn’t acknowledged in a while.

  The woman turned away, shielded her eyes against the sun, and squinted back up the mountain. Toward where she’d clearly come from: that sect with their old-world skirts and aprons and those white things on their heads. Strange, strange people with all that razor wire surrounding their little world. It was like a prison, or one of those military testing facilities you’d sometimes see in American films. Was it fear of discovery that sent her gaze back in that direction?

  Her dark-red hair, uncovered, snaked over one shoulder in a single braid, ending at her waist. It looked thick and strong compared to her slender form. He should have known she was real—he’d never have created a redhead for himself.

  And mon Dieu, she appeared starved. Her cheekbones were painfully sharp, dark bruises etched under her eyes, and the eyes themselves…

  Luc’s brain stuttered to a halt, caught in their light. They were whiskey brown, too big for her pale, freckled face. Someone needed to feed this woman a big plate of steak frites.

  He shook himself. Don’t get involved, his brain told him. But his tongue, so unused to opportunities like this, escaped him. “They sent you?”

  She blinked, near-translucent moon-shaped lids covering those eyes before focusing back on him so hard he had to look away.

  “Who?”

  “Those people. From over there. Your dress and shoes. The Church of the…”

  “Apocalyptic Faith,” she finished for him. Her brow lowered and her mouth hardened, gossamer softness turning rigid and defensive.

  “Did they send you to me?” he asked. He reached back to find a vine, his fingers shifting from cordon to brittle canes—not one of his family’s. No, this vine was his alone. With a proprietary stroke, he removed his hand and forced his attention to stay on the woman.

  “I need money. I knew you’d hired those men last year and—”

  “No. Too many…questions.” The workers had been a nightmare. More exhausting
than the work itself. He couldn’t get around hiring them for harvest and crush, but pruning he would do alone. Leave the big-time personnel management to hot shots like his half brother, Olivier.

  “Oh,” she said, and he hadn’t realized how lively her face had been until her features sank even further. “I could learn,” she said again. Her chin lifted with the words, baring a long neck, pale and slender and covered in gooseflesh.

  “You need the money to buy a coat?” Where were these questions coming from? He didn’t want to know. Shoving the curiosity down, he turned back to his half-pruned vine. He let his hands lead from spur to spur, snipping before moving on to the next. If he ignored her, maybe she’d leave.

  “One of those shiny, puffy ones,” she said with a smile he tried hard not to see. “They look real warm.”

  Was she being serious? He couldn’t tell. She sounded too nervous to be joking.

  As his body worked and his brain did its best to pretend the woman wasn’t there, Luc’s mouth continued of its own volition, asking questions without his consent. “Your coats don’t warm you?” he asked.

  It took a few cuts for the secateurs to become an extension of his arm again, sharing in his warmth, giving it back. He almost never wore gloves for pruning. At least, he hadn’t back home. Here in this frigid place, he probably should. But gloves cut him off from his plants, dulled the connection he felt when cutting away each cane. Shaking his arms to relieve them of their numbness, he moved on to the next vine, cradling its trunk with one hand. He ran his fingers up the head, along the closest cordon to the first spur, and snipped, leaving two buds and adding another crisp, dry sound to a crisp, dry day.

  Without answering, the woman followed his progress.

  He slid one bare finger along the arm to the next spur, small and pitiful. The brittle sound of it succumbing to the secateurs confirmed that it wasn’t meant to be. He gave the cane a quick, affectionate squeeze before pulling it out of the wires, throwing it down onto the ground, and moving on. His gaze caught the space on his hand where a ring finger used to be. Even weak, useless appendages deserved respect in their final moments.