John hired a lawyer on my behalf—just in case the state decided to go ahead with prosecuting me for Della’s disappearance, and I did my best to repay him by preparing the fields for a good rest over winter for a bumper crop come summer.
John and Cassie asked questions that first afternoon, but Della and I didn’t know how to answer them.
Our minds were still messed up from what we’d seen. Images of dirt-smeared bones, time-tattered clothing, and the bay of cadaver dogs replayed on a loop inside my head.
What happened back at Mclary’s had affected both of us.
Della more so than me.
She’d learned she hadn’t, by some miracle, chosen to belong to me by crawling into the backpack, after all. She’d been placed there by her homicidal mother.
I finally had answers to my how and why of how I ended up with a baby.
And she’d learned she’d been unwanted in a sea of mistakes and, despite her rage when we were at the farm watching police exhume such horror, a heavy shame and thick depression cloaked her.
She withdrew into herself, and there was nothing I could do about it.
The day we travelled the eight hours back to Cherry River, we barely talked. The day after, she didn’t want to discuss it. The day after that, she snapped at Cassie to leave it alone.
For a week, I let her stew and put up with her half-hearted smiles and weak assurances.
But she couldn’t hide from me because I understood more than she knew.
I understood she was searching.
Searching deep inside herself for a hint that she might be what her mother said.
A devil.
A monster.
Just like them.
And how could she not after seeing what they’d done?
But I also knew she’d find no trace of evilness because she was as pure and as perfect as they were vile and villainous.
On the eighth day of her despondency, I packed up the tent and sleeping bags and told John we’d be back in a night or two. Cassie was staying in town with Chip and her daughter, and Della fought me a little on leaving John on his own, but we needed to reconnect, and I needed to remind her of something.
As we walked, just the two of us, over the fields toward the treeline we knew so well, I clutched her hand hard. The fake sapphire I’d bought her had gone smoky with age and chipped from wear, but she still wore it religiously, just like I wore my leather band with its metal letters with a single diamante remaining.
As we walked, I struggled not to cough.
I was fully aware how Della flinched whenever I did. It was an annoying sound, I agreed, but that was all it was—an annoyance.
I felt okay in myself. Nothing stopped me from living a life of physical activity and labour.
Her worry was a tad frustrating, but I could understand, just as I could understand her quietness now. They were circumstances outside her control, yet they affected her wholeheartedly.
Hopefully, I’d be able to reassure her on both accounts.
Once in the forest and far enough away from the farm, I pitched the tent, gathered her close, and made love to her like old times beneath the glittering stars.
At first, she resisted, claiming a headache. Then she lied and said she wasn’t interested.
Her refusal didn’t annoy me because yet again, I understood. “Della…”
She refused to meet my eyes, staring into the fire I’d built and coaxed into a warm blaze.
“Nothing has changed, Little Ribbon.”
Tears she’d bottled up cascaded down her cheeks as I went to her and cuddled her close. “Let me help…please?” Kissing her, I guided her onto the sleeping bag I’d spread on the ground, slowly undressing her, not making any sudden movements in case she ran.
My voice didn’t speak, but my body did.
It assured her that she was still who she believed and I was still who she knew. It convinced her, slowly, gently, that what we had outweighed any pain or terror from the past.
Hesitantly, she responded to my kisses, purred into my touch, and when she spread her legs and I slipped inside her, her gasp was full of sorrow.
We moved together, hands always touching, lips always kissing, our bodies thrusting in affirmation of life and love.
The cool air didn’t stop us. The owl hoots didn’t scare us. I didn’t care it was late in the season and snow seasoned the air. I didn’t care we shivered as we moved together, chasing an orgasm that wasn’t just about pleasure, but a declaration that we might have been touched by evil, but it hadn’t claimed us.
We’d chosen our own path, and we always would.
Afterward, with my body still in Della’s, I smoothed back her hair and cupped her cheeks. Lying over her with her trapped beneath me, I murmured, “You have never been, nor will you ever be like them, Della Ribbon.”
She flinched, the fire dancing in her eyes with golden spirals. For a second, a flash of ire said she wouldn’t talk to me. Then torment drenched her voice. “But how do you know? How do you know I won’t snap one day and—”
“I know because I raised you.”
“What if that filth can’t be changed? What if I’m lying to you and myself? What if I’m not a good person and could kill—”
“You are a good person.”
“But how do you know? Truly know?” Her gaze searched mine, desperate for an answer. “I’m so afraid I have no control. That I am what they made—not what you guided. That I have no choice.”
“You do have a choice. We all have a choice.”
“But genetics—”
“Have nothing to do with it.” I stared deep into her, needing her to believe me. “I know you are good and sweet and kind because I know you. I’ve known you your entire life.”
She squirmed beneath me. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is. It’s the best one. I’ve seen you grow, Della. I’ve seen you uncensored and undisciplined and uncivilised. I’ve seen you in every mood there is, and not once did you hurt anyone or anything. You weren’t malicious. You weren’t cruel. You were—”
“I was, though, don’t you see? I was cruel to you.”
I chuckled, hiding yet another cough. “You were never cruel to me.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Running a thumb over her pink lips, I whispered, “They had you for a year, Della. I’ve had you for almost twenty. Whatever they taught you or said to you is drowned out by the endless conversations and love we’ve shared.”
She frowned, running her tongue over my thumb. “Did you ever look at me like she did? Did you ever think I could be like them?”
“Never.”
“Not even when you didn’t want me?”
“Not even then.” Kissing her softly, I added, “And not wanting you lasted for a heartbeat before I became yours.”
“I’m sorry, Ren.”
“Nothing to apologise for.”
“I know…but I need to. Seeing that place. Seeing those bodies. Seeing how real it all was.”
I pushed those memories aside, just as I always shoved memories of that farmhouse away. “I accept your apology if it makes you feel better, but only if you accept mine.”
She frowned. “Why are you apologising?”
“Because I always blamed you for making my running all that much harder. I cursed you for being in my bag when all along, I should’ve been thanking you.” Pressing my forehead to hers, I hardened inside her, comforted by her body heat and already desperate for more. “Without you, I would’ve been shot before I ever crept back into the house to collect my supplies. My escape was all down to you being in that bag. You are the reason I’m alive, Della. Not the other way around.”
Her eyes softened, and the shadows that had lurked inside her dissolved. “Kiss me, Ren Shaw. I’m sick of apologies.”
I raised an eyebrow, my lips thinning in reproof. “Ask me again with the correct name.”
She smiled. “Kiss me, Ren Wild. Make love to me
. Promise me you’ll never let me go.”
So I did.
And I promised.
And I never let go.
* * * * *
Another week passed, slipping us back into routine.
Della spent more time with Cassie discussing horses and Cassie’s future dream of one day opening an equine business, and I returned to my odd jobs around the farm.
The air was cooler now, making the frustrating ache in my chest three times worse.
Some days, I barely noticed it.
But then some days, like today, I felt as if lunch lodged in my throat and wouldn’t swallow. I willingly coughed, trying to eradicate the obstruction, forcing deeper coughs and longer barks, begging for a reprieve from the pressure.
It was there, while I hung onto a stable door, bent over trying to clear the weight in my lungs, that John found me.
I thought I was on my own.
I refused to cough so badly in people’s presence because I knew how annoying the noise could be.
But as John stomped toward me in his dirty overalls and a rusty tool kit to lend a hand, I’d destroyed any hope of stopping, thanks to willingly encouraging a coughing fit.
His eyes tightened as I held up my hand, swallowing back wracking heaves, clamping my other hand over my mouth and doing my best to stop.
“Ren?” John placed his tool kit on the cobblestones, coming to put a hand on my back as I rode out the final waves of affliction. “Take it easy.” His gaze travelled to the hose in the corner, his body swaying in its direction. “Want some water? Choking on something?”
I shook my head, smothering yet another cough and standing up with a gasp. “I’m—” A couple more coughs caught me unaware, lashing my chest with pain. Finally, when I could breathe again, I said, “I’m fine.” Smiling with watery eyes, I inhaled deep, fighting the tickle to cough again. “Just hay dust.”
Turning, I reached for the nails that I’d been using to fix a loose hinge only for John to fist my wrist.
“What is that?” His fingers latched tight, cutting off my arteries.
“Don’t touch me.” I tugged, feeling a residual thread of panic from being held against my will. No matter how many years passed, I doubted I’d fully have control over my attacks.
“Goddammit, Ren. What the hell is this?” He held up my palm, shoving it under my nose.
Red.
Liquid.
Blood.
My blood.
Fuck.
I froze, running my tongue over my lip and tasting the nasty flavour of copper. My eyes met his, and I broke beneath the love there. The love he had for me. And the worry. Shit, the worry.
“It’s okay, John.” I yanked my hand free, wiping the blood on my jeans. “Don’t—”
Fisting his keys from his overalls pocket, he grabbed my bicep, once again layering me with a fissure of fear. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
“Leaving? To go where?” He pulled me from the stable.
So many parts of me wanted to shove him to the ground for manhandling me, but I understood his violence came from panic just like my panic came from violence.
“Doctor.” His eyes welled with fury and impatience. “You’ve been coughing ever since you got back home. I’m not putting up with it anymore.”
“But what about Della?” I twisted my arm free, raising my eyebrow when he tried to hold on to me. “Let go, John. I won’t ask again.” My gritted teeth and feral tone hinted I wasn’t coping.
He dropped his hand but didn’t stop his fast pace to the barn doors. “She’s with Cassie. They popped into town to see Chip at work. We have time.”
“I-I can’t make her worry.”
He stopped, turning to face me. “And you can’t make me worry, Ren. I’m not losing you like I lost Patricia. I love you like a son, but if you don’t see a doctor, I will kick you out of my house, so help me God.”
I smirked. “Winter is close. You wouldn’t dare.”
He didn’t smile back. “Try me. Now get your ass in the truck.”
* * * * *
It was as if my lungs knew they had an audience because I hadn’t been able to ignore the tickle and wheeze since John drove me above normal speed limits to his local practitioner.
There was no discussion over identifications or money.
No discussions period as his regular doctor called his name ten minutes after we arrived, and we were ushered into a small white office with posters of body parts and skeletons on the wall.
To start with, I resented John for dragging me down here.
I worried if Della was safe and what time she’d be home.
What would she do if she found scattered tools and no workmen to use them?
What the hell would I tell her about John’s kidnapping and the blood stain on my jeans?
But then those questions switched to others that made my heart pound a little bit harder.
What if I’m in trouble?
What if…it’s serious?
“How long have you been coughing, Ren?” The elderly doctor with jowls from losing weight clicked his pen, waiting for me to reply.
“Two and a bit years, give or take.”
“And this is the first time you’ve coughed up blood?”
“Yes.” I rubbed at the red stain on my clothes, then placed my hand over it as if I could stop it from being real. I didn’t want to reveal my ever-growing fear, but I couldn’t stop my question. “Is that bad?”
“Well…” The doctor stroked his jaw. “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. If you were coughing a lot, you could’ve just irritated the lining of your throat and burst a few blood vessels. However, if the blood came from your lungs, it’s a different matter.”
“Oh.” My heart skipped a beat.
“First, before we go down scary roads like that, let’s just see how your health is in general, okay?” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you exercise? Eat well?”
“I’m active and try my best.”
“Okay, have you ever been on medications or dealt with long-term illnesses?”
“No.” I massaged the back of my neck. “Never.”
“Any heart palpitations? Lack of appetite? Abdominal pain? Chest pain? Shortness of breath?”
Shit, I’d had all of those on and off over the past few years.
I glanced at John who sat beside me.
Just like there hadn’t been any discussion about money or I.Ds, there’d been no discussion if he would accompany me into the appointment.
“Go on, Ren. Answer the man.” He scowled, angry with me but also afraid. I understood his fear came from Patricia dying—that he’d leap onto anyone ill because he’d lost someone. But just because I understood didn’t mean I liked being smothered or being told what to do.
The doctor probed me again. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-ish.”
“You don’t know your date of birth?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know your family history and if lung issues are common?”
“No.” I crossed my arms. “Can’t you just give me some antibiotics and clear it up? I probably should’ve had some a couple of years ago when I got the flu. It turned into a chest infection.”
His eyes narrowed as if I’d given him a clue. “Do you often get chest infections?”
“He had pneumonia when he was a lad. Fifteen, I think,” John said gruffly. “Occasionally, he’d get a cold, and they’d stick on his chest for a while, but he was healthy apart from that.”
I threw him a look. “Didn’t know you were keeping such close tabs on me.”
He smiled sternly. “I notice when all my kids are ill.”
I swallowed hard. I knew John loved me like his other sons. Hell, he’d often called me son and treated me no differently.
But to have his concern overflow, to have him bristle beside me and force me into this all because he was worried, made me feel warm and cared for—despite my temper.
Tapping
his pen against his lips, the doctor re-read his notes, the wrinkles on his forehead growing deeper. His blue eyes met mine with an intensity I didn’t like. “Have you ever been around asbestos?”
“The building stuff?”
“Correct. Sometimes it’s blue, brown, green…white.”
“Not that I recall.” I snapped my fingers. “No, wait, that’s not true. The police said there was asbestos at the farm I visited last week.”
“Did you inhale any of it?”
I shook my head. “No, we weren’t close enough.”
John went dangerously still. “He lived there. When he was a boy.”
“Ah.” The doctor nodded, his face falling. “How long did you live there?”
My insides went cold and still. “Two years.”
“How long ago?”
I bit my lip, begging my brain to do simple math. “Um, twenty years ago, I guess.”
His pen scratched on paper, wrenching hope from my achy chest. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, studying me as if he had X-ray vision and could see my lungs and the secrets they hid.
Finally, he glanced at John before asking me, “And in that time, did you play with any building supplies or have contact with such things?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. Play? There was no play. I’d been beaten with a piece of lumber, had wall debris smashed over my head, and a hot brand driven into my skin.
If that was play, I didn’t want to know what abuse was.
The doctor, whose name hadn’t been provided, pursed his lips. “Something funny?”
Swallowing a twisted chuckle, I said, “Sorry. No. I didn’t play, but I did use the tractor to break apart an old shed that Mcla—the farmer didn’t want. I buried it.”
“And have you done any other work around suspect buildings?”
I went to shake my head, only a horrible thought appeared. “I did. In 2015 when I got a job as a menial labourer. I was paid cash to dismantle unwanted structures at night. It seemed…shady, and no one else wanted to do it.”
Fuck.
I’d been so happy to take the extra cash.
I didn’t have a clue back then about contaminations or that man-made materials could be so deadly.