She felt tears through her shirt. “Are you okay?”
He squeezed harder, and Elizabeth checked the park for parents or cops. No one looked at them twice. “Let’s take a walk.” She caught his hand, and he fell in beside her. “You’ve grown.” He smeared a forearm across his face, and she knew he was embarrassed. “Are they feeding you well?”
“I guess.”
It was a start. She squeezed his hand. “How’s your father?”
“Homeless. Still drunk.”
“I’m sorry, Gideon. I would fix him if I could.”
“It’s been seven months.” He pulled his hand free. “You said you would come for me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I wanted you to have a chance.”
“To do what?”
“Decide.” She sat on a bench. She wanted his hands again, but they were shoved deep in his pockets. “I’m here, now.”
His eyes were bloodshot and bright, but different, too. Older. More guarded. Behind him, the sun was setting. “Decide what?”
“If you wanted to stay here or come with me. It’s a big decision. I wanted you to be ready for it.”
He looked down the street. “I was in the hospital for three weeks.”
“I know.”
“Everyone I had was dead or gone. My father only visited once.” Anger. Shiny eyes.
“People were looking for us. Police. FBI. They may still be looking.”
He weighed her words, and she hated the distance between them.
“Do you like your foster parents?”
“Your father is the one that did it.” He wiped his nose again, intent. “In the church. He killed my mother.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“What if I’d killed Mr. Wall?”
“You didn’t.”
The boy looked down the street, and Elizabeth realized he was looking at his foster parents’ house. “He lives with you now, doesn’t he?”
“He does, yes.”
“Does he hate me?”
“Of course not.”
“Is he nice?”
“Yes, he’s nice. He’s also smart and patient and knows everything about horses and cattle and the desert. He loved your mother very much. I think he’ll love you, too.”
“If I come?”
“If you come, yes.” He stared at the dirt. “That’s my truck.” She pointed. “It’s a three-day drive. Just you and me.”
He looked at the truck. It was dusty and travel-streaked. “What about my stuff? You know…?”
“I’ll let your foster parents know you’re safe. Your father, too, if you like. People might look for you, but we can handle that, if need be. As for your stuff, we’ll get new stuff. Clothes. Toys. A new name if you want it. Channing is with us, too. She hopes you’ll come.”
He looked at the house again, and at the near-empty park. “Is it nice where you live?”
“Very.”
He tried to be tough, to be grown up about it. But, his face crumpled as she watched. “I’ve really missed you.” He leaned into her.
She hugged him until it was time to stop. “Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“Can you tell me which way is west?”
He pointed at the yellow sky.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Very.”
*
The drive back was slower, gentler; and they talked a lot as she drove, about cactus and tarantulas and a dapple-gray mare with a brother for sale two valleys south. The days were warm for March, and long; and the boy stared often through the window. Elizabeth wondered at his thoughts and guessed they were of a father he might never see, and of a girl who might just make a sister. He grew quieter as the green fell away, and rivers dwindled. But, there was nothing wrong with silence, and he was wise to know as much so young. So, she left him to the fullness of his thoughts and led him into the desert. It was another day, another life, and family waited beyond the mountain.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHN HART is the author of four New York Times bestsellers, The King of Lies, Down River, The Last Child, and Iron House. The only author in history to win the Edgar Award for Best Novel consecutively, John has also won the Barry Award, the Southern Independent Bookseller’s Award for Fiction, the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award, and the North Carolina Award for Literature. His novels have been translated into thirty languages and can be found in more than seventy countries. You can sign up for email updates here.