Page 40 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“No, I’m fine.”

“Nonsense. I’ll cook something for you to eat.”

She disappears back inside before I can argue. It’s taken me a few days to get used to her constant fussing, but in truth, I love being cared for by her. She seems determined to fulfil our every need, no matter how small.

Stretching my legs out, I take a deep breath of fresh forest air. It even tastes different from the raw humidity of Mexico. I didn’t mind the heat, but something about this crisp coldness feels like home.

It’s been a tiring day of introductions and explanations. Several different families from across the town have come to say hello as news of our arrival spread over the weekend. Briar Valley is more than I ever imagined.

There are so many generous people offering their counsel and support. Miranda let me look through her wardrobe and she organised more clothing for Arianna this morning, no questions asked.

The little devil has already ripped a hole in her borrowed jeans from chasing a butterfly until she tripped over. I chose the comfiest leggings she had and a loose linen shirt for my healing body. Everything is still pretty tender and sore.

Rachel appeared too, finding me buried in her sister’s wardrobe, and organised several more outfits for me to take from her own clothing stash. I had to suppress tears as they sent me packing with a stuffed bag.

“Willow!” Lola’s voice calls. “Come inside, poppet.”

“Be right there.”

As I stretch my limbs, the sun ducks behind the mountains and the few remaining people milling about disappear. I can imagine families sitting down, trading stories over platefuls of homemade food and surrounded by their smiling children.

It’s so far from the life I’ve come to know. There’s no violence here, no rules or punishments that threaten bitter consequences. Everyone is happy. Not necessarily all of the time, but they’ve found contentment. Maybe we could too.

“Thank you.” I stare up at the stars becoming visible in the rising darkness. “Thank you for getting us here. Thank you for keeping me and my baby alive long enough to escape that hell.”

The wedding band around my finger weighs heavily, strangling those first glimmers of hope. No matter how peaceful this slice of heaven is, the person Mr Sanchez made me into remains—a malleable puppet, shaped by his will and fists.

Darkness falls, and storm clouds begin to bubble on the horizon, growing heavy with thunderous intent. The weather is so volatile at this altitude, it can be blazing sunshine in one moment and a torrential downpour in the next.

The first fat raindrops hit the porch, then more follow. Fascinated, I toe off my shoes and walk barefoot down the grass. The rain is falling faster in thick sheets, soaking through my clothes and perfusing the soil to release a sweet, heady fragrance.

Overcome with emotion, I twirl in the wet grass, my head tilted back. Rain is drenching me, and the droplets burst on my tongue. It feels like some almighty force is peering down, granting me this moment of realisation amidst the growing storm.

“I’m free now,” I whisper, smiling to myself like a madwoman. “We’re safe. We never have to go back.”

The screaming wind answers me—howling in its own celebration. Even something as simple as standing fully clothed amidst a rainstorm is proof of the precious freedom I’ve gained. Never again will I take such a small luxury for granted.

Footsteps slap through the rain, interrupting my peace. I crash back into my body, realising how insane I must look. A figure has emerged from the nearby trees, shivering as he tightens his coat against the rain.

He’s heading straight for me, his face concealed by the hood of his black puffer jacket. Short, stocky and built with hard-earned lines of muscle that bulge through his loose, blue jeans, his heavy gait betrays him.

I nearly collapse with relief when he comes close enough for me to recognise his light-brown hair, unshaved stubble and gentle, rounded features softened by two perfect dimples that match his moss-green eyes.

“Zach? What are you doing?”

His eyes dart about furtively. There’s something about him that’s different. Rather than the flirtatious confidence that usually accompanies his presence, now he seems strangely timid and afraid to even make eye contact.

“I’m not Zach,” his treacle-like voice explains, rasping with disuse. “Wrong brother.”

We stare at each other in the middle of the rainfall. I realise that his caramel hair is actually a bit longer, curling around the base of his skull and ears. Instead of smiling with open curiosity and warmth, the look on his face is one of apprehension.

Even his clothes are different now that I’m paying attention. His blue jeans are straight cut, and his t-shirt is splattered with paint. There’s also a shining silver ring pierced through his strong nose, matching his rougher, edgier persona.

“You’re not?”

“I’m Micah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “We haven’t met.”

“Micah?”

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