Page 11 of Sheltering You

If only Jasmine had Leila’s boldness. If Leila were in charge, she’d be halfway to Washington already. She’d have a plan, and it would all work out, as things always did for Leila.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Peggy added spices to a thick, meaty stew she’d called chili. “You seem distracted.”

“I am fine.”

The older woman set her spoon down and faced her, leaning her hip on the counter. She studied her with narrowed eyes, and Jasmine’s face warmed. Rarely did anybody pay that much attention to her. Well, except for her sister and Derrick.

He’d become such a good friend.

He’d know what to do.

Why hadn’t she thought of him immediately? Of course Derrick would help her.

Peggy’s eyebrows lifted. “What are you thinking?”

“How happy I am to be here.”

The older woman’s brows lowered, her lips pressing closed. “Mmm-hmm. I’m sure that’s true, but that’s not what you were thinking.”

Shame—a familiar emotion—rolled over Jasmine. “I am sorry. I do not mean… Please forgive me.”

Peggy rested her hand on Jasmine’s arm, the contact warm and comforting and making her miss her own mother in a way she hadn’t in a long time. Peggy reminded her of Mama and all the things Mama had been and could have been. And hadn’t been.

Like protective.

Like loving. Toward Jasmine, anyway.

So unlike this woman, who seemed to love completely and without reservation.

“You don’t owe me an apology or an explanation, sweetheart,” Peggy said. “I’m a friend. If you ever want to talk about anything, you can trust me.” She flicked her gaze behind her, as though to include everyone who filled the house. “You can trust us all. We’re your family now. You know that, right?”

Peggy meant the words kindly, but Jasmine stepped back, feeling her smile tighten.

Family meant bonds. For most people, bonds meant security and comfort and provision. For the people in this house—even Leila—bonds were good things.

But for people like Jasmine, bonds were shackles.

She’d been a slave to her father, then to her husband.

If Jasmine didn’t intervene, her friend Basma would become a slave to her brother.

The last thing Jasmine wanted was to be part of another family. At least here in the States, she was autonomous.

Peggy’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She transferred the grated cheese to a bowl and rinsed the grater in the sink. “What else can I do?”

“We’re pretty much done here. Why don’t you go visit⁠—?”

“I prefer to work.”

Peggy watched her for a long moment. “If you’re sure.”

Jasmine was thankful to be given a task. As long as she offered to help—as long as it was her choice—then she wasn’t a slave.

She would never be a slave again, and if she could help it, neither would Basma.

When the meal was ready, the patriarch, Roger, called the Wright family to the kitchen. They came in laughing, joking, and jostling. The sisters-in-law and girlfriends were as different as the brothers were alike. The men were all tall and handsome, though none as handsome as Derrick, the youngest. His shoulder-length hair was curlier and messier than normal after a day of snowmobiling. His cheeks were red from the sun, and his ready smile widened when he caught Jasmine’s eyes.