Mollie climbedout from between the branches of the pine tree Mike helped her climb into before he went to cook the squirrel and rabbit he captured. The scent of the pine and the thick needles kept her hidden from anyone who happened by—no one did.
Her mouth watered as the scent of the cooked creatures drifted to her, but more than that, she focused on the cup of water he handed to her like it was the lifeline it was. In his other hand, he held a pot full of more tempting water, and tied together by a strip of fur, the rabbit and squirrel dangled over his shoulder.
She restrained herself from snatching the water from him and gulping it down. She’d make herself sick if she did, especially on her empty stomach, and vomiting would not help her dehydration. Lifting the cup to her mouth, she took a couple of small sips of the hot water.
She swished it in her mouth before swallowing. Reluctantly setting the cup aside, she grasped the squirrel and rabbit he offered her. She was so hungry she didn’t bother to think about how cute they were when they still had fur.
“Where did you learn to shoot a rifle?” Mike asked when she tossed the squirrel remains aside.
Mollie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before replying. “My mom rarely came back to visit her family in Canada after she left because it was so far away, but she grew up around hunters, and though she didn’t like hunting, she enjoyed shooting. She believed her daughters should know about guns too, and when each of us turned thirteen, she took us to a firing range and started teaching us.”
“Can you use other guns too?”
“Yes. I’m no sharpshooter, but I hit my target more often than I miss it.”
“That’s good.” She may be weak in her mortality, but at least she had this advantage over the Savages stalking them.
“Yeah,” Mollie said before turning her attention to the rabbit.
“What about your dad?” he asked.
Mollie’s fingers froze on the rabbit before she lifted her head to look at him. “What about him?”
She willingly spoke of her mother, but hostility shimmered in her eyes and her shoulders stiffened at the mention of her father. Mike was eager to learn more about her, but her father appeared to be a touchy subject. Uncertain of how to proceed, he decidedcarefullywas his best option.
“You’ve never mentioned him,” he said.
“Why would I? He was barely a part of my life. When I was seven, he walked out the door and never looked back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?He’sthe asshole, not you.”
Well, at least she didn’t consider him an asshole; Mike supposed that was a bonus.
“He was thoughtful enough to send us a card after our mom died. Though, he did spell my name with a y instead of an ie.” Bitterness laced her voice as she ducked her head. “But I guess you forget how to spell your daughter’s name when the last card you sent her was for her eleventh birthday. For years, I waited for another card with its five-dollar bill to show up. And then, on the day I turned seventeen, I realized it was never going to happen, and I stopped waiting.”
Mike couldn’t tell if she was angrier at herself or her father for those years of waiting, but he suspected it was more her.
“Aida doesn’t remember him. She didn’t realize who the condolence card was from until I told her, but I remember him, and I especially remember him leaving. I believed everything was perfect before that day; I was wrong.”
Chapter Eighteen
When Mollie grew silent,Mike hoped if he remained quiet, she would continue speaking, and after a few minutes, it worked.
“The man is the biggest cliché there is,” she muttered. “He hit forty, had a midlife crisis, banged his twenty-something-year-old secretary, left his family for her, and moved to California. As far as I know, they’re still together. I may have other siblings, but I never intend to find out how his life is going. He did put his number on the card and wrote he hoped we could talk, but I think it’s better if I leave that door on my life closed.”
Mollie saw Mike’s gaze fall on her Rolex. “My grandpop’s watch,” she said. “He died ten years ago. After my father left, he assumed a more fatherly role in our lives.”
Mollie’s fingers brushed lovingly over the watch face as she recalled her grandpop’s warm smile, the way he called her his Mollie-bug, taught her to fish, and would regale her with the stories of the fantasy worlds he created. Every one of his hugs was a bearhug where he lifted her off the ground and spun her around.
He’d helped with her homework; grocery shopped for her mom when she started working two jobs, cleaned their house, cooked them dinner, and loved them all until the day he died of a heart attack when she was thirteen.
She’d felt so out of control, lost, and broken after his passing. Back then, she’d still been foolish enough to believe her dad might want something to do with her again. She could never harbor such secret hopes about her grandpop coming back.
“His son is an asshole, but my grandpop was a good man who loved all of us very much. My father didn’t bother to come back for his funeral.”
Mike decided not to question her further about her father, but he did wonder if she’d kept the card or his number. “What do you do in Rhode Island?”
