“No worries, sweetheart,” he told her. “I’m just not feeling good today.”
“How about I get Mr. Blanket and we’ll watch some TV until you feel better?” she asked.
Someone rang the doorbell. “You do that. I’ll see who is at the door and then we can watch some cartoons.”
He opened the door without checking through the spyhole. On his doorstep was a very average man so nondescript that he ought to work for the CIA. The woman was small and curvy, with black hair and wraparound sunglasses so dark he couldn’t see her eyes behind them. There was an unfamiliar car—a black Mercedes—parked just outside his building. A scar-faced man who looked dangerous was leaning against the fender of the car.
Maybe this was the CIA. He thought back, a little anxiously, to his interview with the Cantrip agents. Had he said something wrong?
He’d kind of expected to be visited by Child Protective Services—it would be his third visit. Somehow the bruises always were gone before CPS came. Both her bruises and his.
“Mr. Carter,” said the man, holding out his hand. “I’m Bran Cornick. We were in town on some related business. It was suggested to me that we should stop in to help you with your problem while we were here.”
His hand was very warm.
“This is my associate, Moira.”
“Daddy?” said Iris in her not-Iris voice. “Tell them to go away.”
The woman brushed past him and into his house, her hand reaching down and closing on Iris’s wrist. She touched his daughter’s forehead and murmured a few words he didn’t catch. Iris, who’d been fighting her, suddenly stood still.
“Yes,” she said. “He was right about her, Bran. This is definitely a case of demonic possession.” She turned her head toward Trent, and for the first time he realized she was blind. “This won’t take very long. Demons have a hard time getting a good hold on innocents.”
Bran Cornick urged Trent into the house and shut the door, closing them in together. “Mr. Carter,” he said. “My associate is very good at what she does.”
“Who are you people?” he asked.
“The good guys,” said Moira. “We’re here to help.”
Anna dreamed that it was summer and she and Charles were riding in the mountains. The air was fresh and clean and the sun was warm on her back. Heylight trotted down the trail with the same enthusiasm he’d demonstrated in the arena. She turned to see how Portabella was doing and frowned at Charles.
“That’s a moose,” she told him. “Why are you riding a moose?”
“Because Portabella won’t be here until the spring,” Joseph told her. “Charles would never bring horses up from Arizona to Montana in the winter.”
“That’s right,” Anna said. “We’re bringing them up in March.”
“You should have bought Hephzibah,” Maggie told her, and laughed, but there was no malice in her laughter.
The sweet sound of it rang in Anna’s ears as she woke up. It was still dark, so it was early. Charles wasn’t in bed, which was probably what had woken her up.
She threw on socks because the floor was cold, and a robe because the house was cold, too. Then she shuffled out to the kitchen, where Charles was putting on the kettle. She shuffled right up to his back, warming herself on him.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he said.
“I dreamed of Joseph and Maggie,” she told him. “Maggie told me we should have bought Hephzibah instead of Portabella and Heylight.”
“Kage won’t part with her, not after she saved Mackie,” Charles told her.
“Hey,” she replied. “I’m just telling you what Maggie said.”
He finished what he was doing and turned around so she was plastered against his front instead of his back. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“A dangerous pastime,” she warned, and was rewarded by the happy laugh that belonged only to her.
“It was Joseph,” he said. “When he was dying, I suddenly realized all that I would have missed if I hadn’t known him.”
“I liked Joseph,” she told him. “I wish I’d had a chance to know him better.”
Charles smiled at her. “Love,” he said, “is always a risk, isn’t it? I’ve always thought that there were no certainties in life, but I was wrong. Love is a certainty. And love always gives more than it takes.” His hand was running up and down her back. “I think we should adopt. What do you think?”
Adopt? She had wanted his children. His and hers.
She thought of his face as he’d cradled Amethyst and crooned a silly children’s song, and Anna knew that any child who came to live with them would be his. His and hers.
“That would be okay,” she told him, slowly, a smile growing with the words. “That sounds right.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No book is written in isolation. My thanks to the following people who helped me to make Anna and Charles’s story real: Doug Leadley and Maegan Beaumont for their help with Scottsdale; Linda Campbell, who knows more about my books than I do; Collin Briggs, Mike Briggs, Michelle Kasper, Ann Peters, Amy J. Schneider, and Anne Sowards for editorial service above and beyond; and to Daybreak Warrior and his fascinating YouTube videos about the Navajo language and culture. As always, any mistakes are mine.