Savaged

“I don’t understand.”

Lucas looked at her. “He was a cheat and a liar. My life is harder now that he’s gone, but I won’t miss him.”

Oh. Harper wondered if he’d hinted at that much to Agent Gallagher, or if he was confessing that to her because he’d come to trust her a little. “If you have information that might lead to—”

“I don’t,” he said. It was clear he was done discussing Driscoll.

“If it turns out you’re not allowed to stay on this land, where will you live?”

He paused but then shrugged, though he really couldn’t be that unconcerned about the potential of being homeless. “I’ll survive.”

What did that mean though when it came to lodging? Survival alone sounded like a dismal goal. He couldn’t be planning to simply find a . . . cave or something. Could he? She couldn’t let that happen.

Harper felt on edge. She still sensed this man’s goodness and spending more time with him had only made that feeling grow, but there was no denying there were secrets in his eyes. And she would not let some sexual tension get in the way of her asking the questions she felt required answers if she was really going to be a . . . contact. She bit nervously at the inside of her cheek for a moment as she watched him stare into space, his mind obviously somewhere else. “For all evils there are two remedies—time and silence.”

His gaze shot to hers, eyes flaring with recognition as his body stilled. As quick as that, his expression shuttered dispassionately. But she’d seen it. He hadn’t been quick enough to hide from her.

“Lucas, you read more than some. You read as well as anyone.” Why had he lied about that? He was eying her warily now as though waiting for her to pounce. “I just quoted Alexandre Dumas. But I think you know that.” She paused for a heartbeat, two. “Do you have the backpack, Lucas? It was my mother’s.”

He remained still for another few seconds and then he blew out a breath, seeming to come to some internal conclusion. He stood and walked to a place near the front corner of the cabin, kneeling and lifting a board from the floor. Harper watched, confused, as he lifted something from it, the turquoise color causing her to put her hands over her mouth. I was right. She’d remembered correctly. She stood quickly, then knelt next to him, taking the backpack and hugging it to her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered. Another piece of my mother.

But as he stared at the backpack, there was a look of acute loss in his eyes . . . as though it’d been as precious to him as it was to her. “It was your mother’s. You should have it,” he said, as though convincing himself. “I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you when I gave you the necklace.”

She took in his expression, feeling as though her intention was to give to him, yet she was somehow always taking instead. She slowly opened the backpack, removing a few loose papers, and a stack of spiral-bound notebooks. Tears filled her eyes as she leafed through the notebook on top, her mother’s handwriting immediately familiar even though it’d been so long since she’d seen it.

As she took a moment to look through the pages, she noticed they were wrinkled and dog-eared as though they’d been read over and over and over. Some sentences were faded as though a finger had gone over them repetitively, underlining, memorizing maybe. In many places, there were identical lines written under her mother’s words, as though someone had sought to recreate the writing, or perhaps practice his own. There were drawings in the margins too, renderings of trees, leaves, a wolf, and other forest animals all connected, swirled together so that you had to look closely to single out the individual elements. As Harper looked through, she saw that the practice lines of text went from boyish to more polished, and the doodled artwork got better too, crisper and more realistic. He was no Picasso but there was a loveliness in the simplicity of his artwork. And she knew what she was seeing: Lucas growing up right there on the pages. Her chest felt tight.

Near the end, there were questions written in his handwriting. He had gone over and over her mother’s notes and questions and realizations about life and love, friendship, vengeance, forgiveness, and all the themes Harper knew were in her mother’s favorite literary work.

When she looked up at him and met his eyes, he was blushing, an acute look of shame in his expression. “Sorry,” he said, his tone remorseful, glancing at the place where he’d drawn a wolf howling at the moon.

She shook her head. “It’s okay. Lucas, I . . . I love them.” She tilted her head. “Was the book in here too?” she asked, peering into the empty backpack, seeing only a few pens that looked as though they’d been used until the ink ran out.

He shook his head. “No book. Just her notes and pens.”

Harper raised her eyes to Lucas again, who knelt watching her go through the pages, what had surely been a form of human connection when he was so very alone. The thing books—emotions she could relate to in other people’s stories—had been to her. Her heart twisted, half joy, half sorrow as she realized that, yes, the forest had nourished his body, but her mother’s words had nourished his soul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Get over here, you,” Rylee called, shaking out the hair salon cape quickly and tossing it over the back of the chair. “You didn’t have to come in for a cut to see me. I would have come over to your place later.”

Harper grinned, wrapping her arms around her friend and squeezing her tight. “I couldn’t wait. And I could use a trim.” Rylee raised a brow. They both knew that wasn’t true, as she’d had one right before Rylee’s wedding two weeks before. “How was Mexico? I want all the dirty details.” She sat in the salon chair at her friend’s station and met her eyes in the mirror, raising one finger. “Wait, maybe not all the dirty details.”

Rylee smiled, picking the cape up and securing it around Harper’s neck. She moved Harper’s hair aside and put her hands on her shoulders, looking at her in the mirror in front of where Harper sat. “It was dirty. In all the best ways.” She winked. “And amazing. I hardly wanted to come back.”

“When I was here waiting for you?”

“You, and about ten feet of snow.”

“Good point.” Harper smiled. “So married life is good so far?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved her hand around. “But we’ve been living together forever. It hardly feels like anything’s changed now that all the hoopla’s over with. Anyway, enough about that. I can’t believe I’m just now getting the details about finding your parents’ car.” Her eyes widened and she leaned forward slightly. “How are you, Harper? Really? I mean, I almost fell over dead when I got your text.” Rylee glanced back at Moira, the owner of the hair salon where she worked and then grabbed a comb off the counter, running it through Harper’s hair.

Harper sighed. “I’m okay. I’m good.” Better than she’d been before.

Rylee began sectioning Harper’s hair and clipping it up. “I just can’t believe it. After all these years. And how was it found? You don’t usually go out searching in the winter, do you?”

Harper paused, going quickly back over everything that had happened since Rylee left on her honeymoon. It was like life had turned upside down since then. “No, it wasn’t me who found it. I was led there.” She paused, thinking about where to start, realizing all the ways life had changed in the short time her friend had been out of town. “Did you hear about the murder in town? At the Larkspur?”