Clay’s heart broke at the anguish reflected in Luke’s face. He could relate.
He’d tortured himself with those same guilty lies too many times to count.
“You were just a kid, Luke. You didn’t fall and break your arm on purpose, and you didn’t have a choice when the rangers took you away. Please believe me when I say it’s not your fault.”
Now, if only Clay would take his own advice to heart.
Luke’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Do…do you think we’re going to find her?”
The younger man trembled under the night sky, scared and hopeful and looking to Clay for reassurance. More than anything, Clay wanted to wrap his arms around Luke and hold him close. The exact way he’d hugged Caraleigh when she was on the verge of tears.
His experience with his sister also taught him that unsolicited touch could make things worse, though, so Clay opened his arms and let Luke decide.
Luke’s face crumpled as he surged forward, slamming into Clay’s chest with enough force to rock him back on his heels. Unashamed, his throat thickened as he stood in the parking lot, embracing the other man while gazing at the dim outline of the mountains in the distance.
Hope stirred in his chest. If Caraleigh had survived those mountains, she could survive anything.
“Yes, I think we can find her. One thing is sure, I know we’re damned well going to try.”
25
“Now, go ahead. Hop into bed.”
Bethany followed my instructions without complaint, climbing into bed with the listless energy of a worn-out, one-hundred-year-old woman. Along with the wan complexion, the purple half-moons beneath her eyes, sharp cheekbones, and waiflike frame reminded me of one of those pictures of starving children that good Samaritans used to guilt people into monthly donations.
The only thing she lacked to pose as a poster child for one of those campaigns was the hollow-eyed, beaten stare. Even now, Katarina’s daughter overcame her weakened, calorie-deficient state long enough to glare defiance at me from the pillow.
Pride curved my lips as I gazed into that tenacious little face. Over the course of my life so far, I’d experienced the pleasure of knowing several strong-willed women. Bethany topped that impressive list. The eight-year-old was demonstrating herself to be more stubborn than Letitia, Morrigan, or her disappointment of a mother. Pure, brazen fire crackled within the depths of that young body and mind.
The flames shined bright in her eyes. Dimming such a bright flame as I wore her down into submission would prove exquisitely rewarding.
Delicious warmth coiled in my gut at the prospect of her inevitable defeat. Easy victories were hollow and unworthy of my efforts, but I did so enjoy a good challenge.
The mattress sank when I perched on the edge. Bethany scrabbled to the far side of the bed. “You did quite well with your training today. I’m very proud of you. I appreciate that all of this must be very confusing. I merely want the best for you, my sweet girl. The reason I push so hard is because I can sense how very special you are. There’s so much potential in you, even more than I saw in your mother when she was around your age.”
That remark grabbed her attention. She peered at me from beneath her lashes, chewing on her inner cheek as if debating whether or not to engage. Curiosity won out. “You knew my mama back then?”
“I did indeed. She looked a lot like you.” I allowed a benevolent smile to soften my face.
A brief hesitation. “Was she…was Mama brave when she was a little girl?”
Aha. As I watched her bony fingers pluck at the blanket, satisfaction unfurled inside me like a cat sunning itself on a warm deck. To her daughter’s naive young mind, Katarina’s brash courage was aspirational. Precisely the tool I needed to facilitate winning her trust. “Your mama was quite brave, yes. But here’s a little secret between you and me.” I lowered my voice and leaned in, delighted when she didn’t shrink away. “I think if we work together, you’ll turn out to be so much braver and stronger than even your mama was. But we must never tell her that. Katarina was always very competitive and has a tendency to get upset if she believes someone is outdoing her.”
Bethany drank all of that in, her eyes wide and owllike in her gaunt face.
“Now, would you like me to tell you a story?”
No response. Better than the screams I’d received earlier in the week, but still not as gratifying as a yes.
My gaze wandered over her pajama top, to the mangled collar full of gouges. Teeth marks, from where she’d gnawed on the material in a losing battle to hold hunger at bay. Every day she grew a little weaker, and in turn, closer to complete capitulation. Fighter or not, Katarina’s brat would eventually accept the difficult lesson that all the other stubborn women in my life had learned, some more painfully than others. Attempts to thwart me were futile.
No, I possessed nary a doubt that in the end, Bethany would yield to me as the master of her destiny.
For now, I would savor the process.
“Good girls who listen to stories get a snack.”
Bethany’s breathing hitched on a tiny, hopeful intake of air, and she licked her lips. Likely fearing another trick, she hid any other signs of excitement well. That little demonstration of self-control was better than women double, even triple her age, a reality that tickled my pride once again.
While weakness bored me, I did so appreciate a quick learner.
I reached into my pocket and extracted a plastic-wrapped granola bar. As I dangled the prize in the air, her features sharpened with hunger and turned her appearance almost feral. An atavistic gleam entered her eyes, like the promise of food had summoned some long dormant beast from hibernation.
Gaze glued to the bar, her breathing rate quickened. She offered me a
