Broken Hearts (Hearts 2)

“Calm down,” I said. “I’ll get it, but you need to be still.”

“It feels like fire!” she kept yelling, tears pouring down her pink cheeks. Mom had a headache and sent us out the door, telling us not to come back until it started to get dark. Which was hours away. Zilla had been like this all day, overreacting and wild. It was a little scary. This was happening more and more; her reactions to things, always big, were now unpredictable. I didn’t ever seem to say the right thing to calm her down. Mom sent us out because Zilla exhausted her, and I hated to admit it, but Zilla scared me.

The snow was melting against the heat of her leg and my fingers, and the cold water was dripping further down her sock. She moaned and made a big deal out of it.

“Zilla! You’re overreacting.”

“No, I’m not. You just don’t know how it feels. You’ve never been hurt like this.”

“Poppy.”

“I’m trying, Zilla.”

“Poppy! Wake up!”

I shot up in bed, the sheets falling to my waist, the cold air a full body slap.

Ronan stood in the doorway, dressed in his long jacket and the dark jeans he’d worn the night I’d gotten shot. His face was hard. Cruel. He looked so much like the man from Bishop’s Landing. The man who felt nothing but pity and disdain for me.

“Ronan,” I said, refusing to lift the sheets. Refusing to cower in front of his suddenly cold gaze.

“Get up. We need to get moving.”

The sky was just turning pink and gray, and the sound outside the cottage was nothing but crashing waves, like the weather was coming in. A storm.

I splashed water on my face and my body and then dressed in the fresh leggings and long, soft, flannel shirt that had been left for me. Still no underwear. Really made a girl on the run feel extra naked.

In the main room, he stood with a cup of coffee and turned when I walked out. He looked at me slowly, taking in my hair and clothes.

“You really look different,” he said.

“I thought that was the point.”

He sucked in a deep breath as if something he hadn’t thought of just occurred to him.

“What?”

“We need to get going. Put on your boots.”

“You’re not even going to talk to me?” I asked as he walked past me to the door. “Shouldn’t I know the plan?”

“I just changed it. I’ll fill you in on the drive.” Then he was gone.

Well, fuck that guy, I thought, without a lot of heat. I’d known, of course, that he was going to do this. Retreat or whatever. That took some of the edge off his words, but not all of it.

I took my time saying goodbye to Rascal, who purred while I stroked her ears and then, true to form, attacked me.

“Ouch, okay. You damn cat,” I muttered, shaking the cat off my hand until she let go and then immediately climbed onto the highest part of the chair. She settled herself in with a good purr. “You,” I told the animal. “Are a lot like him.”

It was a tiny rebellion, and perhaps a stupid one considering the stakes of the day, but I took the time to find a mug in the way back of the cupboard and poured myself a cup of coffee. I then found a piece of paper and a pen and wrote Sinead a quick note.

Thank you. I took a mug; I’ll try and get it back to you. And the clothes. Thank you.

What a completely inadequate thank you card, but what was the etiquette for a woman who gave up her cottage so you could hide from the two families who wanted to kill you? Maybe I’d send some flowers when I got settled.

I took one last look around, grateful to this tiny place for its warmth. I’d rattled around giant homes for most of my life and never once felt at home in them. My future home would be something more like this. Small and safe and comfortable. Just for me and my sister and no one else.

Though, initially, that place would be Ronan’s, so what the hell did I know?

I went out to the car, shutting the cottage’s door behind me. The wind caught my hair and pushed me sideways until I leaned into it and opened the car’s passenger side door and climbed in.

“I took a mug,” I said. “I hate taking her mug, but I took the one with a chip in it, so I hope it’s not special.”

Silent, he started the car.

“We’re just leaving? We’re not going to say goodbye to Sinead or Father—?”

“You need to understand it’s best for everyone if they don’t know when you left or where you’re going.”

“Why?”

“So if someone comes looking for information, it can’t be beaten out of them.”