Amber sat on the back porch and watched as the moon slid lazily over the Olympic Mountains and hovered at the peak of Mount Constance. The night was cool and quiet; she could almost hear the wind under the eagle's wings as he glided like a dark shadow over the glimmering waters of Hood Canal.
Meg and Twojoe had gone to bed hours ago, but Amber couldn't sleep. She was still too full of amazement and wonder at what this day had brought. In one brief moment, in the blink of an eye, everything had changed. Everything.
Amber had work—real work, bringing in real money. Twojoe wouldn't have to sell the llamas . . . or the farm . . . or his soul. They could all stay together, right here, where they belonged.
Maybe Susan was right—maybe God did answer prayers. Just not in the way we expected. And without a moment to spare, Amber admitted wryly. But no one seemed inclined to quibble over the timing.
They had all gone out to dinner to celebrate. Amber and Twojoe and Meg, Vernon and Emmaline Houston and little Sam—even the Reverend Doctor Susan Quentin—had piled into two cars and driven into Port Ludlow to have seafood at a restaurant overlooking Paradise Bay.
For two hours they had laughed and joked and hammered crabs and thrown shells at each other. Sam had circled the table gathering a box full of scraps to take home to Pocahontas. Meg and Susan marveled over the Miracle, as they called Amber's commission. Twojoe sat beside her, gazing at her, his expression filled with pride and wonder. The anxiety of the past few weeks was gone, replaced with joy and tranquillity. And at the head and foot of the restaurant table, Vernon and Emmaline Houston beamed over all of them like the proud parents of a slightly rowdy brood.
As Amber recalled the scene in her mind, a creeping awareness trickled through her veins and into her heart. For the first time in years, she had trusted—or at least she had tried to trust. And a response had come. But the wonder of it was that the answer turned out to be a gift much more valuable than simply the money they needed to save the farm.
A phrase floated to the surface of her mind, a verse Susan had quoted to her a couple times, something like "Lord, I believe, help my unbelief." She had looked it up later, that Bible story, and it seemed that Jesus had honored that honest prayer—just as Amber's feeble attempts had been honored. But as usual, God had done something different—and deeper—than anyone had expected. God had reached into the hidden places of Amber Chaney's soul and answered a need even she had not been able—or willing—to articulate.
God had given her back a family. Not kindred of blood, but of spirit. A protecting father. A doting mother. A sister who loved her. A mentor who challenged her to grow. A little brother who made her laugh and swelled her heart with delight. A big brother who—
Her heart accelerated as she recalled the look on Twojoe's face, his brown eyes dancing with candlelight. A look of pride. Of tenderness. Of . . . love.
He had been willing to sacrifice everything—the land, the llamas, his dreams—for Meg, and, somehow in a deeper way, for her.
For her.
God loved her. Twojoe loved her. And with a clarity that startled her, Amber realized that nothing inside her, no buried secret, no insecurity, would be terrible enough to undermine that love.
Almost physically, she could feel the change. At the epicenter of her spirit, in a place she had never been able to reach, that cold dark something, that lump of black ice, began to melt. As if the sun had started to reappear after a total eclipse, her bones began to warm from the inside out, her lungs exhaled a pent-up breath she had held for years.
Amber Chaney surrendered. And the cleansing tears came.
Heavy clouds had shrouded the moon, and the night had grown cold and damp. An owl hooted in the distance.
Amber didn't know how long she had sat there weeping. She only knew that she didn't feel depleted and exhausted, the way she usually did when she cried, but somehow filled and rested and energized—as if she had just arisen from a perfect night's sleep. Her heart overflowed, and her mind raced with ideas. She wanted to wake Twojoe, but it was late; she would talk to him in the morning. But since she was awake—perhaps more awake than she had ever been—she would go to her studio in the barn and do some preliminary sketches, to get some of these ideas down in more concrete form.
A small boy and a llama, Andrew Jorgensen had said. That's what the customer—probably one of those rich estate owners who kept llamas as pets—wanted. A life-sized sculpture, cast in bronze.
Life-sized. When Amber had first heard the request, her heart had quailed with fear, even though she knew she had to accept the commission. They needed the money. It was their way out.
Now, barely twelve hours later, she had a different perspective on the job. It was her way in. Into her own soul, into a place of joy, into an expression of everything that now filled her heart.
Amber could see it all, like a photograph burned into her brain, just the way she would sculpt it. She would use Lloser and Sam as her models—the enormous packer and the adoring little boy. Lloser lying with his feet folded under him, his long neck stretched upward, his gentle face looking down at the innocent child who slept with his head on the llama's thick woolen coat. She would capture the expression of love on the llama's guileless countenance, the implicit trust in the relaxed form of the boy, warm and protected, smiling in his sleep. She would call it the Guardian.
By the time she got to the barn, Amber could feel the creative impulse flowing through her veins like wine. She didn't bother with the overhead lights, but went directly to her sculpting table, turned on the big lamp over her work area, and pulled out a sketch pad from the bin underneath.
Then she smelled something—a strong, pungent odor. Recognizable. What was that stench? It was almost like . . . gasoline.
Amber rose from her stool, intending to find the source of the odor, but before she had a chance to follow it, she eyed something in the corner and stopped. In the farthest corner of the enormous old barn, where she should have been able to see nothing but blackness, her eyes discerned a faint, flickering light. A spreading light. A distant crackling noise came to her ears. Another smell—
Smoke.
The barn was on fire!
Panicked, Amber looked around. There was a fire extinguisher hanging in here somewhere, but where? On the front wall, maybe. The lamp over her sculpting table cast a little light in that direction, but not nearly enough to help her find it. She ran to the wall and groped around, knocking down a rake and a pitchfork before her hands grasped the cylinder and pulled it from its bracket.
There was no time to go for help. The barn was old, and the dry walls were like tinder. Hay was scattered about over most of the floor. By the time she would get back to the house, it would be too late.
Pulling the nozzle out and extending the hose as she ran, Amber dashed toward the back corner of the barn where the flames were already as high as her head, and spreading quickly. She pointed the hose at the base of the fire and felt a rush of relief as foam poured out and smothered the blaze.
But her relief was short-lived.
When Amber turned, she saw a line of fire snaking across the floor, flaring up against the south wall, slithering toward the door.
And a few yards from the doorway stood a dark figure holding something bulky in one hand.
Spraying foam as she went, Amber lunged in his direction. The fire blazed up around her, and just before she hit him, she caught a glimpse of a face and a big red gasoline can.
The heavy cylinder found its mark, striking the man in the head and sending him reeling. But Amber was trapped now, with the fire behind her and the man between her and the door. He regained his feet and staggered in her direction, blood rushing from a crescent-shaped cut above his right eye. If she could just get past him—
She hesitated a fraction of a second too long.
As she tried to make a run for it, the metal gas can came crashing into the back of her skull. Amber felt herself falling, falling, into a bottomless pit. The stench of gasoline overpowered her. An eternity away, she heard bumping noises, like feet running.
And then the darkness closed in.
Under the dark, heavy clouds, in the dense trees at the edge of the property Shiv hunkered down, watching. He could see flames coming out of the door of the hayloft and up through one portion of the roof.
He cursed under his breath. If it hadn't been for the woman, this job would have gone perfectly.
Blood trickled down from the cut on his head, and he touched it gingerly with one finger. He hadn't had time to set the fire properly, hadn't spread nearly enough gasoline around. If only the woman hadn't surprised him. Now she was in there, and if he hadn't killed her with the gas can, the fire would most likely get her. It was too late to go back.
He swore again, clenching his fist and banging it against one knee. Underwood told him the woman should be lost, should disappear. He had made it very clear that killing her was not an option. Now everything was going wrong.
Shiv hadn't signed on for murder. He wasn't going back upstate for the rest of his life on somebody else's ticket. And if the woman was dead, prison would be the least of his worries.
She shouldn't have been out there in the middle of the night, anyway. He couldn't have known she would show up. It was an accident, that's all.
He heard a rustling sound above him. It was beginning to rain—that slow, steady kind of drizzle that could go on all night. Blast! Well, he'd just have to sit tight and see it through. It might be a long night, but he wasn't going anywhere until the job was over and done with.
What he needed was a drink to steady his nerves. He reached into his jacket and retrieved a small flask. He took a long pull, relaxing as the burning liquid slid down his throat and warmed his belly. Then a second one, just a little one for good measure.
That was better. He felt calmer now, more in control. He shook a cigarette out of a mashed pack and reached for his lighter. It was his favorite—a sleek, silver one with his initials engraved on one side. Where was it? He knew he had it. He had used it just a little while ago . . .
In the barn.
Frantically he stood up patting down all his pockets—his jacket, his pants, even his shirt.
But the lighter wasn't there.