As I stared down into the valley, something brushed the side of my face. I held very, very still as Bran Cameron tucked the strand of heather behind my ear. Its soft blossoms tickled my cheek, and the sweet, earthy fragrance filled my senses.
My lungs squeezed to half their normal size as I turned to look into his mismatched eyes.
“Uh, Bran?” His name tasted like a piece of toffee that melted too fast on my tongue. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Your eyes,” I fumbled. “They’re so strange.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Not used to making idle conversation, I take it?”
My mouth dropped open in horror. I rushed to apologize. “I didn’t, I don’t mean strange as in weird or anything. It’s just that I feel like I’ve known someone with eyes like yours, but I can’t remember who. Which is totally bizarre for me, because I have this memory thing, and . . .”
I trailed off as something fired behind his eyes. It was snuffed out so quickly, I wondered if I’d imagined it. He turned away, his gaze tracking a pair of lambs that had wandered away from the flock. “I assume it’s a family trait. Though I can’t be certain.”
“You didn’t get them from one of your parents?” I said. “Because I thought heterochromia was hereditary.”
“It’s possible.” He shrugged. “Never met the people.”
Bran’s arms went up in a lazy stretch that exposed a strip of trim, tanned stomach. I gulped and tried not to stare. Despite the casual words, a tightness formed around his eyes.
“You’re adopted?” I sat up straighter. It was disconcerting: I’d never met another adopted kid. My dad’s family—particularly my grandmother—always acted as if not having “Walton blood” was a disease. At Bran’s admission, for the first time I felt less . . . alone, somehow.
I’d never been very curious about my origins. I’d decided long ago that if my birth parents had just thrown me away like that, why should I care?
Only once, after a fierce argument, I’d stormed to my room, determined to locate my “real parents.” I knew the name of the Eastern European orphanage where she’d found me. But the only thing I could find was a grainy black-and-white photo of a charred building that had burned to the ground the year I was adopted.
“I am too,” I said to Bran. “Adopted, that is. And you know, it never bothered me until recently.”
“Why is that?”
I didn’t answer at first. Instead, I watched as the lambs’ mother nudged them back toward the rest of the group. “Not sure,” I mused. “I guess it’s being here with my mom’s family. They’re all so tight. And there are all these ancestors hanging on the walls. I swear to God they glare at me like Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
Bran snorted. “Try spending five minutes around my mother’s mum for any length of time. At least the portraits don’t tell you that to your face.” He tilted his dark head, peeking at me from the corner of his eye. “Do you remember anything? About your life before, I mean?”
“Nope,” I said. “But I was only four or so. You?”
Bran’s lips parted. The tendons in his neck tightened. His fine-boned fingers tightened into a fist.
“No.” He bit off the word. “I was but an infant. Had a stepfather for a while. Gave me his name. Nice chap, but he didn’t stick around long. Not that I blame him.”
Silence taut as a rubber band stretched between us. I could all but feel the anger boiling beneath the surface.
“So,” I said, hoping to cut the uncomfortable tension, “do you have siblings?”
His shoulders loosed, and a different smile from any I’d seen before split Bran’s face. He gave an emphatic nod. “Tony,” he said. “My brother. Oh, he’s a great lad. Sweet. And smart as a whip. I love him as much as I would if he were my own blood.” Like a cloud muting the sun, the smile faded. “I don’t see him much. He’s only twelve, and even though he’s her real son, Mother won’t often allow him to come home.”
I noted the emphasis on the word “real.”
“Why?”
Bran’s sleek black eyebrows drew down over those Crayola eyes. His mouth opened, then snapped shut as though the words he was trying to dredge came from a faraway place. “Tony’s young.” He gave a careless half-shrug. “Too young to be of much use to my mother. Not yet anyway. And she places little value on anything that isn’t useful.”
I decided I didn’t much like Bran’s mom. Not if she treated a twelve-year-old kid that way. And certainly not when talking about her made Bran’s mouth go all hard like that.
As if it could sense our change in mood, the wind shifted direction. Cold tendrils filtered through the mild evening air, bearing aloft the heavy smell of rain. In the distance, a bank of ominous clouds boiled over the top of a mountain, devouring its peak. As Bran squinted at the gray-white mass, I could see an unease lurking behind his eyes. He turned back to me and plastered on a smile. But it didn’t touch his eyes. Unlike the ones before.
“Rain’s coming. Shall we go?”