Brant's Return

“Is either one unlocked?” I asked, raising my face to his.

“I don’t know,” Brant said, his voice rising to be heard over the rain. “We’ll break a window if we have to.”

I settled back into his chest as we rode the last couple of hundred feet to the door of one of the buildings, where Brant dismounted. I breathed out a sigh of relief when he pushed the front door and it creaked open. Brant looked back at me and grinned, and my heart did a somersault in my chest. He was my hero. Maybe not tomorrow, not forever, and that was okay. But for tonight, for now, that’s exactly what he was. And it felt so good—so vital—to have one . . . even for a moment. And moments were all I asked for anymore.

“There’s a big overhang on the back of the building. Let’s get the horses dry and then we’ll go inside.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath and dismounting Newton. We led all three horses to the back of the building. Brant had remembered well—again—as there was a large overhang that gave the horses plenty of dry area where they could move around.

Brant removed his jacket and though the outside was soaked, he used the inside to rub Starshine down vigorously. Her trembling ceased after a few minutes and I was sure the warm milk was helping as she latched on to her mother, finding safety and comfort.

I took off my jacket as well and rubbed it over Mona Lisa and Newton, getting most of the water off them. Now sheltered, their body heat would dry them the rest of the way.

There was grass just beyond the roofline and we left plenty of tether on their tied-up reins—and the rope Brant removed from his saddle to tether Starshine—so they could graze and drink from the large puddles directly under the overhang. By the time we were done, I was trembling so hard, my teeth were chattering, but my heart felt calm, soothed.

We entered through the front door again, our footsteps echoing in the mostly empty building.

“There’s a room my grandfather used as an office once upon a time,” Brant said, taking my hand and leading me through the dark building, the only illumination the moonlight shining through the windows high up on the wall. Our footsteps echoed and I gripped Brant’s hand, again trusting him to lead me to safety.

He pushed open a metal door, the hinges squeaking loudly. Brant took his phone from his pocket and used the flashlight to shine around the space. It was a smallish room, a large fireplace on one wall, and a wooden desk off to one side. There were file cabinets against the opposite wall and a few other odds and ends. I was still shivering, but at least we had shelter. “There’s wood in the fireplace,” Brant said. “And if we’re lucky . . .” He reached into a canister on top of the stone structure and produced a bundle of matches.

I laughed with happiness. “Oh sweet Jesus. We can light a fire.”

He set his phone on the mantel and his grin flashed white in the semi-illuminated room. I sat in front of the fireplace and watched as Brant crumpled some old newspaper on the hearth, placed it under the wood, and lit it. Within minutes, the wood was glowing red and warmth was flowing toward me. I groaned with pleasure, moving closer, reaching out my hands as a deep shiver ran through me, the cold seeping from my bones and leaving my body.

Brant opened a chest of some sort against the wall and brought out what looked like old fabric tarps. He used one to wrap around my shoulders, and though it smelled sort of musty, it felt too good to have something dry against my skin. I wasn’t about to complain.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he said. “I’m going to text Mick and let him know we’re safe and that we’ll head back in the morning.”

I nodded and when he turned I used the rough fabric as a shield and removed my shoes, socks, saturated jeans, and T-shirt. My bra and underwear were damp too, but I only removed my bra. My cotton underwear was a small piece of fabric. It would dry quickly with the heat of the fire.

When I turned around with the tarp held around me once more, Brant was stoking the fire, his phone back on the mantel. “Did they text back?” I’d heard a soft ding as I’d been removing my clothes.

“Yeah. He said my father was throwing a tantrum, but they all agreed it was too risky to ride home. And apparently the dirt road that leads here from the other direction was not only closed years ago, but it’s washed out. They agreed since we were safe and warm . . .”

I nodded. I could imagine Harry’s face well. The idea of him huffing and puffing in anger made me feel strangely comforted—it meant he was feeling his old, fiery self. “You should get out of your wet clothes too, Brant. Is there another tarp in there?”

“Yeah. I will in a minute.”

I pulled what looked like an old trunk of some sort in front of the fire and sat. I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment, reveling in the feeling of being dry and warm. Safe.

“Who’d you lose, Belle?” His voice was soft, his tone solemn, and I appreciated his obvious grasp of the gravity his question posed.

The question echoed inside me, the one I’d known was coming. I opened my eyes to see Brant still stoking the fire, though he was now looking at me, his eyes deep and fathomless in the dim light of the room. Shadows danced and retreated on the walls, as if they were trapped souls waiting to be set free. “My daughter,” I answered, the word slipping from my lips.

Brant continued stoking the flames, the poker moving rhythmically, the fire dancing. I felt sort of hypnotized by the twisting, turning light and the warmth penetrating my skin. But I also felt chilled, seeing terrified, lifeless eyes against pallid skin. Then there was this weird calm, as if I felt . . . safe. With Brant. “Will you tell me?” he asked, his voice throaty.

I was quiet for a moment, picturing wispy blonde angel hair, eyes as pale blue as a springtime sky. “It was a home invasion.” I pulled the tarp more tightly around my naked skin, my fingers clasped at my neck, the fabric squeezed in my grip. “We were sitting down to dinner when he . . .” I paused, waiting for the terror, the memory of that horrifying moment, to steal my words. But it didn’t. I continued to watch the flames, strangely lulled. I needed to talk about this, didn’t I? Isn’t that what the grief counselor had told me? I hadn’t been able to . . . then. The horses had helped. The horses had been my lifeline when the words were locked inside. Or maybe . . . maybe there just hadn’t been words. Until now.

“He kicked in the kitchen door. It hadn’t even been locked, truth be told. But . . . he kicked it in. He led us to the basement. He tied our hands. My husband, me, and my . . . my little girl. She was only four years old.” Grief clogged my throat then, but still the words flowed past it, through it

. “I couldn’t reach for her. I couldn’t . . .” I clenched my eyes closed, but there were no tears. Sometimes I swore I’d cried myself dry. Until earlier tonight when I’d cried for Mona Lisa’s lost baby. My lost baby. I knew that. I knew I’d made it about me. I wasn’t blind—and yet the need to reunite them when I had been denied that possibility had been too strong to ignore. An overwhelming need to provide a mother with what I had begged God for and never received. Provide a baby comfort, the thing I’d pleaded for my daughter to be given. I opened my mouth and spoke the words, “He shot us. One.” Bang. “Two.” Bang. “Three.” Bang. “Three merciless, inhumane shots. Inexplicable cruelty. I was the only one who . . . survived.”

“Belle . . .” Brant rasped, setting the poker down and moving toward me. He took me in his arms and I let him, burrowing into his chest, willingly taking the comfort he offered.

CHAPTER TEN

Brant