Savaged

Lucas took the few steps to his bed and sat on it, the springs making a deeper creaking sound than the springs on which Harper had sat. She became even more aware of him, his knee only inches away from her own, his size seeming to increase along with the close proximity. “I don’t have any answers for you. I climbed down the canyon one day when I saw sun shine off something at the bottom. It was almost all covered with branches and leaves. When I looked in the window I . . . saw them in there. The necklace was on the seat. The trunk was open, and the only thing inside was the blue backpack. I took it with me and climbed back up. I went back sometimes, I don’t know why. Maybe because, your mother felt . . . real to me. I wanted to . . . I don’t know, Harper. I wanted to thank her. She . . . the words . . . they made me want to stay alive.”

Harper blinked, tears burning the backs of her eyes. He’d told her it was so they weren’t alone, but it was also so he wasn’t either. You’re breaking my heart, she thought with a catch of breath. “I knew I was right.”

“About what?”

“That those notes are meant to be yours.”

He smiled in that unpracticed way of his and Harper smiled back, her finger tracing one of the uncovered springs. “What did you learn from her?”

“From your mother?” He squinted out the window for a moment, obviously considering her question seriously. When he looked back at her, he asked, “Have you read it? The book your mother was teaching her class about?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo?” Harper gave him a smile. “Yes, twice, and I’ve seen the movie too.”

“There’s a movie.”

She smiled. She liked the way he posed his questions as more of a statement, as though reiterating something to himself that he’d just learned, rather than asking for confirmation. “Yes. It’s very good actually, and that’s not always true of books turned into movies. Have you . . . ever seen a movie?” She felt awkward asking it, but she wanted so badly to know about

him, and she never would if she didn’t ask the questions that came to her mind. She’d spent enough time with him to know he didn’t offer information freely.

“I’ve never seen a movie, but I heard of them when I was a kid. And I’ve seen TV.”

She nodded. “A movie is just TV, but on a bigger screen.” How strange to utter a sentence like that to a man who was approximately her age if she was assuming correctly. “Anyway, The Count of Monte Cristo is one of my favorite stories. It’s about vengeance, but more so, it’s about forgiveness.”

“I had to try to understand the story from what your mother wrote about it. And from the questions she asked. I didn’t know that word before—vengeance. It means feeling mad and then getting even. But your mother was like you. She thought the story was more about forgiveness.” Lucas paused. “Your mother thought that most humans are good. She hoped her students would think that too.”

“Do you?”

His lips tipped slightly. “Am I one of her students?”

“Of course you are. You’ve probably studied her thoughts and ideas—her values—more closely than any one of the boys or girls in her classrooms.”

That seemed to please him. “Maybe. But . . . I don’t know if I believe more people are good than bad. I don’t think I know enough about the world outside of that one book. And I haven’t even read it yet. Your mother, though, she made me feel . . .”

He looked to be searching for a word and so Harper attempted to supply it. “Hopeful?” she asked softly?

His eyes met hers. “Hopeful,” he repeated. “Yes. Your mother gave me . . . hope. She taught me that there is both good and bad in the world. Before that, I didn’t know.”

“Meaning you only thought there was bad in the world?”

“I . . . wasn’t sure. Driscoll thought so.”

“Driscoll?” She frowned. “What else did Driscoll think?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t care.”

He turned his head away. He obviously wasn’t interested in talking about Driscoll any further. After a moment though, he looked back at her and Harper tilted her head, her gaze moving over his features. He had such beautiful eyes—that blue and gold, sunset blue, and almond-shaped with long, full lashes. His eyes were a contrast to the stark masculinity of the rest of his face—his sun-darkened skin, sharp cheekbones, his square, scruff-covered jaw. And the obvious masculinity of his strong, muscular body. But she wasn’t looking at his body. She refused to do that. She was already distracted enough as it was. Shaken up. Confused. He didn’t want to talk about Driscoll, so she wouldn’t continue questioning Lucas about him. “In some ways . . . you might know my mother better than I do. Or at least . . . a different side of her,” Harper said, returning to the subject he’d seemed comfortable talking about. “But to me, she was comfort and home, and the things I haven’t had since.” She looked behind him, considering her words. “I don’t know, maybe I’m afraid that reading those”—she nodded her head toward the notes—“will dim my other memories of her somehow, and so I’m afraid to.”

He regarded her, and she couldn’t read the expression that had settled on his face. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re an honest person. I can tell. I’ve wondered . . . if I’d be able to.”

Harper didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she felt it was a compliment. Even so, he wasn’t completely right. “I’m not always honest,” she blurted. “I keep things inside sometimes.” She paused. “A lot of times.”

“You do?” He looked confused about that, and she laughed quietly. “Sometimes I talk the most when I’m avoiding a topic or keeping something to myself.”

He appeared to think about that and then smiled as though she’d cleared something up that had confused him. He was so very sweet, he really was. “Keeping your feelings to yourself is different than lies. Isn’t it?”

“I suppose. What do you keep to yourself, Lucas?”