Damn. He never told me this had happened, and I had no idea my quiet son and young nephew would jump to resolving a situation like this. Then again, Sullivan’s always been protective of Emmaline, and it looks like he’s teaching Ransom to do the same for his cousin. “I’m proud of you, son. Proud of both you boys. You know that, right?”
Sullivan grins crookedly. “This is what it means to be a Shay. Right, Pa?”
One of the meanings. But I’ll teach him the rest when he’s older.
“Damn right, son. This is what it means to be a Shay.”
EPILOGUE 2
Scene 1
Sullivan, Age 11
Pa toldme the bird cooing outside my window every night was a mourning dove, and I guess the name fits because the song sure is sad. I wonder if it feels like I do right now. I stare up at the ceiling from my place on the floor against the wall. There’s a perfectly good bed four feet away, but when my dreams get bad like this, I can’t sleep in it.
Bad things can happen in a clean, comfortable bed like that.
Bad things did.
Not in this bed, though. Pa worked really hard to build me a room and bed when he and Momma brought me home with them. He’s a good man. If I had to pick anyone to be my parents, I’d always choose them. But—good parents or not—the thought of sleeping in the bed right now makes my stomach hurt.
And I can’t stop thinking about what Pa told me. Me andMomma are more alike than I thought. And there’s something about her that’s so familiar, like I knew her before I met her in the cabin. Her eyes aren’t two different colors like mine, but they’re so bright and blue that I almost remember seeing them when I was younger. She feels safe. Like a home.
I wish I’d had a home like this one all the time growing up. I think I remember having parents at one point. At least a mother who cried as she kissed me and told me to be brave before handing me off to a strange man. Or maybe I’m just making it up. I don’t really know.
My earliest memories all blur together, and they all feel alike. Me standing on a wooden platform in a line of other people and seeing a crowd of men with money in their hands. People took one look at me, and they were either superstitious and afraid to buy me or they were willing to pay extra just to have the boy with witch’s eyes. There wasn’t anything in between.
It was better when my owners just wanted me for labor. But other owners wanted me for other things. Like touching me in places they shouldn’t. That’s one thing I know I’m not making up.
It’s those other ones that sometimes show up in my head when I go to sleep. Which is why I’m on the floor right now and trying to forget everything. I swallow down the sudden tightness in my throat and cover my face with an arm to block out the ugly memories that make me feel dirty.
“Sully?”
“Shit.” I jolt in alarm at the short shadow that appears in my doorway, and my knuckles scrape against the wall. When I see moonlight shimmering across Emmaline’s dark hair, I get mad. But mostly at myself for not hearing her come in. “What are you doing in here?”
“Don’t say bad words like that.” She falters, pulling the heavy blanket she dragged behind her closer. The damn blanket’s bigger than she is. “I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?”
Guess it’s just a night for dreams to be bad.
I’m not in the best mood right now, and I almost tell her to go back to bed. But she sounds so sad, and I don’t like her being sad. Maybe I can protect her sleep if she’s close by. “All right. But no laughing or singing, you hear? It’s late and I’m tired.”
I actually don’t know if I’ll be able to fall asleep for a long while yet, but if she’s not quiet, she’ll stay awake for hours making up songs and stories. That means she’ll be grumpy tomorrow because she didn’t get enough rest.
“Okay!”
I roll onto my back and have to fight to keep my frown in place. That seems like too much excitement for someone who just had a bad dream, but there’s something about her being happy that makes me happy.
Well, happier than I was before.
While she makes a bed out of her blanket, Patches shoulders the door all the way open and stands there hopefully, tail thumping against the doorframe. I sigh and crook my fingers. “You might as well come over, too.”
He tromps over and worms his way between us with a little grumble. I don’t mind, though, even if his breath does smell like sausages. He’s warm and furry and a good dog. Once they both settle, all is quiet.
For about two minutes, that is. Before a little voice starts singing about Patches chasing a squirrel.
“Emmaline.”
It’s just her name and not even a question, but sheanswers anyway in a defiant whisper. “Patches wants me to sing to him.”
