The Faithful (41 page)

AFTER

My throat was raw from speaking. The day had dimmed toward evening. The trees were spiny shadows against the gray snow.

She was tucked in beside me as we lay in the snow. Her bony limbs were emitting gentle heat, so my left side was much warmer than my right.

“Is that the end?” she asked, shifting within the blankets.

“I’d rather think of it as the beginning.”

“How can you say that?”

“We’re here, aren’t we?”

She shrugged, clearly unconvinced.

“Ashlyn, you need to eat.”

“I had some beef jerky.”

“When? For breakfast?”

She shrugged again. I pushed aside the blankets, letting the bitter cold assault us, and hauled myself upright.

“Come on.” I held out my right hand, and after a moment she conceded. I helped her to her feet and then gathered up the blankets. I bundled them against my chest as we made our way toward the house slowly, the snow crunching under our feet.

We came around the last snowdrift and paused, caught by the dim glow coming from the kitchen window. Sumner stood near a large pot on the stove, waving a spatula wildly as he talked. Ora was standing by the sink, laughing. Keaton and Josh were seated at the kitchen table with steaming mugs of tea, clearly amused by Sumner’s antics.

Like a heat-seeking missile, I locked onto him. His hair was long, his beard bushy and thick. He must have sensed my gaze on him. He turned toward the window, his smile fading.

“Are you coming?” Ashlyn asked.

“In a bit,” I said, turning back toward the trees. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer. I moved away before she could argue.

He found me on the swing in the side yard, as I knew he would. For a moment, I was brought back to an earlier time when we had sat on its bench together, swinging and wondering at what horror might be coming our way.

He was limping badly, tea sloshing over the sides of the mug he carried. I doubted either of our breaks would heal cleanly. He handed me the mug, and I drained it in three gulps. It was barely warm, but it was wet and bitter and delicious.

“Thanks.” I opened the blanket, just as Ashlyn had done for me many hours before. He sat and wrapped the end around him.

“Mmm. You’re toasty,” he said gratefully.

“Feel my cheeks; I’m an icicle,” I responded, and he did just that. His fingers were so cold I doubted he could feel my cheeks at all. He tucked his hands inside the blanket and we started to swing.

“How did it go?” he asked, and I shrugged inside our cocoon.

“I told her everything. I hope it helps her understand.”

“Yeah,” he said, and we continued to swing.

“It’s funny,” I said. “It’s deafening inside. There are always people talking or arguing or something and it’s enough to drive you nuts. So you come outside to get away from it for a little while, but the silence outside is worse. I’m always glad to go back in.”

His hand found mine inside the blankets, and our fingers entwined.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Sumner,” Josh observed.

“He’s a good friend.”

“Is that all he is?”

I glanced sideways at him. His cheeks were like red apples, round and bitable. His jaw was clenched, his eyelid twitching. I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re a real chickenshit, Agent Metcalf.”

He turned to me, his mouth dropping open. “What?”

“You heard me. Can I give you a bit of advice?”

“S-sure,” he stammered.

“Women like to be chased. It’s sexy when a man knows what he wants, and he goes for it. Now, you’re pretty tough. You could probably take down the entire Ranch single-handed. But when it comes to women? You, sir, are a Grade A chicken.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” he protested.

I turned to him, gazing solemnly into his big blue eyes. “Bawk.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Bawk. Bawk!”

He grinned. “What are you, seven?”

“At least I’m no chicken. I can admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That I’m in love with you.” I stared at him defiantly.

“You’re in . . .
love
with me?”

“Well, duh. I would have thought that was pretty obvious by now.” I waited. The world around us was so still.

“But I’m so much older than you.”

“Thirteen years. I did the math.”

“And I was friends with your
mom
, and—”

“Hey, king of the up-sell, stop while you’re ahead.”

He clamped his mouth shut, but his lips were curling up at the corners.

“And you love me, too,” I coaxed. My heart was thundering against my rib cage. “Don’t you?”

“I do, Ryanne,” he admitted. “Oh, so much.”

“See?” I said. “Was that so har—”

He leaned in, cutting me off. His beard tickled my cheeks and chin. His lips were chapped and cold, but his kiss was warm.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Thank you so much for taking this journey. I hope you enjoyed your time with Ryanne, Josh, Sumner, and the rest of the
I Fidele
family.

The Faithful
was inspired by the meteorite that exploded over Russia in February 2013, and a news article about Spaceguard that got me wondering about the meteorite-hunting profession. It somehow grew to encompass psychic children, kidnappings, and a really twisted organization. It’s a strange game of association that, looking back, makes me wonder just a wee bit about my sanity.

I don’t think this story is done quite yet. Ryanne and Josh still have things to say. Sumner, too—he doesn’t always know when to shut up. Assuming I don’t get struck down by a meteorite first, I hope to bring you a continuation of
The Faithful
sometime soon.

In the meantime, you can visit my website and blog at
www.smfreedman.com
, or “like” me on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/smfreedmanauthor
. I’d love to hear from you!

Until we meet again,

S.M. Freedman

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am eternally grateful to the amazing people at Thomas & Mercer for giving me and my work such a wonderful home. Thanks to Tegan Tigani for her developmental edit, brilliant suggestions, and tons of laughs along the way; to Rachel Moorhead for her eagle-eyed copyediting skills and ability to catch mistakes and plot holes, both big and small, and to Dave Valencia for helping with the copyedit as well; to Nick Allison for superb proof-reading skills; to Tiffany Pokorny for guiding me through all the twists and turns of author life; to Jacque Ben-Zekry for her brilliant marketing of
The Faithful
; to Mike Morris and Patrick Magee for finding ways to answer my questions without making me feel like a dummy; and most of all, a huge thank-you to Kjersti Egerdahl, who found and read
The Faithful
and liked it enough to want to republish it. Thank you for reaching out, for building up, and for making better. None of this would have happened without you.

With eternal love and gratitude to Jon Freedman, Sheryl Walker, Joyce Macey, and Joy Rosengarten, for reading
The Faithful
during its infancy and giving such valuable advice.

A huge thank-you to June Hutton, author extraordinaire, for sharing your wealth of knowledge. Without you, this writer would still be chewing dust. I am humbled by your greatness.

My deepest appreciation to the members of the WorldWiseWriters group: Jacky Gray, J.D. Faulkner, Andrea Domanski, and Hannah Sullivan, for your never-ending support, guidance, and friendship. You guys rock like a . . . well, you know the rest.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2015 S.M. Freedman

S.M. Freedman studied acting at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York and has worked as a private investigator and business owner. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with her husband and two children.

The Faithful
, a quarter finalist for the 2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, is her debut novel. For more information, please visit
www.smfreedman.com
.