Page 125 of Price of Angels

“Come here, boy,” Wynn called to it, snapping his fingers. To Holly, he said, “This is Cassius,” the words ringing with pride. “He’s my top stud dog.”

“I can see why.”

Cassius went to his owner, snuffled his hand in greeting, and then turned his watchful black eyes on Holly.

She offered the back of her hand, as she had with Delilah, and he gave it one disinterested sniff before sitting down at his master’s feet.

“He’ll come around,” Wynn said. “Let’s go see where you can stay.”

She nodded, exhaustion tugging at her suddenly. She’d forgotten, in the adrenaline rush of fleeing the bar, packing, meeting Wynn, that she was too tired for words. Now it hit her all at once, a cruel slap.

Wynn carried her bag and led her past a very rustic kitchen up a flight of stairs to the second story. It was a long, narrow hallway at the top, and he led her all the way down it through an open door, clicking on lights as he went. It was a bedroom with rough-hewn timber walls; upstairs, sheetrock had never been installed, and these were the heavy logs of the home framing the room. The bedframe was dark wood, the bed itself made up with white pillows and a light blue quilt that looked sun-faded, threadbare in spots. A carved wooden lamp on the nightstand provided a muted amber light, just enough to give her a glimpse of the framed photos on the wall, the small collection of trophies and ribbons on top of the dresser. Through the window, she glimpsed a dim light; the security bulbs over the barn door, she saw, as she peeked out.

Wynn set her bag on the bed and surveyed the room, inhaling deeply. “It’s a bit musty. Sorry ‘bout that. He don’t visit too often.”

“This is Michael’s room,” she said, knowing it was true, warmth surging through her as she absorbed the ghostly imprint of his presence. She turned to Wynn. “You raised him, didn’t you?”

He nodded, expression becoming careful. “That’s a story for the daylight.”

She nodded in return, eyes going to the pictures on the walls, a slender boy poised with Great Danes, a dog show. She wanted to step close and press her fingertips to Michael’s former face, his child self, but she held back, not wanting to do so in front of a stranger.

“Bathroom’s across the hall,” Wynn said. “You need anything? Something to eat?”

“No.” She sank down on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. “No, thank you. I think…I think I want to try and sleep.”

“Okay, sweetheart. I’m right down the hall if you need me.”

His footsteps receded down the hall and she felt herself relaxing further, his departure releasing another unacknowledged tension. She trusted him because Michael said she could – not because she did so herself. Not yet, anyway.

She had time to figure that out, she guessed, as she stared at the black windows.

Michael had time too. And God knew what he’d figure out. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

Twenty-One

“I checked in on her before I went to the barn,” Uncle Wynn said on his end of the phone conversation, and Michael could hear the shuffling and grain-crunching of the animals in the background. “Sleeping like the dead.”

“Good,” Michael said. He was at Dartmoor, sitting on his parked bike in front of the clubhouse, watching the stars wink out one by one and shooting smoke plumes from his nostrils heavenward. The cigarette was a nub between his fingers, but he wasn’t ready to let it go yet. “She needs the rest.”

“That’s what I figured.” Sounds of latches clicking, stall doors creaking. Cletus brayed, a deafening shriek, tinny through the phone line. Then: “She’s real young, Michael. Younger than I thought she’d be.”

“She’s twenty-six,” Michael said, closing his eyes and taking that last necessary drag before the cigarette was gone and he was forced to release it.

“She’s just a girl.”

A girl who’d seen and been forced to do more than anyone should have had to endure in a lifetime.

“I’m not the worst thing that ever happened to her,” Michael said.

Wynn made a neutral sound. “You wanna tell me who’s chasing her?”

“I never said anyone was.”

A snort. “Well, either way, she’s welcome as long as she needs to be.”

“Thanks, Uncle Wynn.”

“Be careful, whatever it is you’re doing.”

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