“Didn’t say he was my friend.”

Simon could have handled it, intended to. Then he heard Lana’s voice.

“I don’t mind digging graves.”

Lana’s voice, Simon thought, trying not to react, as the woman standing with the shotgun pointed at the uninvited guests looked nothing like her.

A sturdy build—not a pregnant one—short, dark hair instead of the long butterscotch-candy blond. Wearing a sneer that suited the tough, lean face.

“It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

“Now, don’t shoot them unless you have to, honey.” Putting amusement into his voice, Simon yanked the gun out of the second man’s holster. “We just painted the damn porch last spring. She’s meaner than I am,” Simon commented. “And the men upstairs, out in the barn? The ones with guns trained on you? They’re meaner than she is—that takes doing. An army you said. Yeah, we eat pretty well here. Now, we’d’ve been happy enough to give you some food to take on your way, but bad manners can’t be rewarded. Right, honey?”

“You know how I feel about it, and that one’s already bleeding on the damn porch. Maybe I’ll just shoot the other one in the leg.”

“Told you she’s mean. Now, if I were you, I’d get back in the truck and head back the way you came. Otherwise, she’s going to get irritated and shoot you. That’ll whip up the rest of them, and they’ll Bonnie and Clyde the shit out of you.”

“I’d like my gun back.”

“Consider the loss a consequence of poor manners. Get the fuck off my land or I’ll let her put a hole in you. Then I’ll sic the dogs on you.”

At the word sic, both dogs bared teeth, growled.

The men backed off the porch, got into the truck. Simon saw the move, and still waited until the scarred man jerked another gun up to the side window.

He shot him, center of the forehead, tracked his aim toward the driver. The truck reversed fast, tossing up gravel and smoke, spun around to speed up the lane. When he stopped, Simon switched handgun for rifle, then held off when the passenger door opened, and the driver shoved his dead companion out.

“Hell, looks like I’ll be digging after all.”

He waited until the truck vanished over the rise.

“You didn’t say you were a shapeshifter.”

“I’m not.” Lana lowered the shotgun, then staggered the few steps toward the porch. Dropped heavily on the step. “It’s an illusion,” she said as it faded. “Just like a … costume. I’ve never tried it before. It took a lot.

“You killed him.”

“His choice, not mine.”

She nodded. “They were in New Hope, part of the attack. His face—the dead one—I did that to his face. I don’t know how. They nearly found me awhile back.”

“I told you to go down to the root cellar.”

“And do what?” The fierceness snapped back as her head jerked up. “Tremble and wait, expect somebody to protect me and mine? I’ve been finished with that for a long time now. Feels like a lifetime ago. I thought if I let them see me—the illusion—they’d have more reason to believe you hadn’t seen me. They’d leave you alone. Then I heard what they said about taking, and knew they weren’t going to leave.”

She sat in silence when he released the dogs and sat beside her as the dogs bumped against them for attention.

“I’ll leave in the morning. I’d like to be sure he’s a good distance away first.”

He’d been careful not to touch her, not once since she’d walked into his world, but now he took her chin in his hand, turned her face to his. “You’re not going anywhere. I offered you a place to stay because you needed it. God knows you’ve earned it. I believed you believed people were after you and the kid. But I’m going to admit, I thought you were mostly being paranoid. I was wrong.”

“He could come back, bring others back.”

Shifting to scrub hands over the dogs, Simon shook his head. “That type looks for easy pickings. Now he knows we’re not. You can put your hopes on me. I can handle it.”

He rose. “Like I could’ve handled those two,” he added.

“I know. I saw that. What did you do in the army?”

He smiled. “Followed orders.”

“And gave them. Captain, you said.”

“It’s been awhile. Now I’m a farmer.” Sitting back down on the step, he looked out at the fields, the crops. “But I know how to protect my land, my home. What’s in it.”

He’d been a warrior, she thought. He had that controlled danger under the easy. She’d seen that control in Max, seen him develop it as he’d led people, had them depend on him.

Now she sat with another warrior, another leader.

“People are stronger together. I know how to defend, too.”

“I got that impression. I’ve had it since I found you in the henhouse.”

“I didn’t always. In New York—was it really only months ago?—I liked to shop, to plan dinner parties. I liked to dream about opening my own restaurant one day. I’d never held a gun, much less fired one. And my power … it was barely a whisper.”

“It seems you’ve found your voice then.”

“It’s more being found. If you hadn’t come back to help your parents, would you have stayed in the army?”

“No, it was time to get out.”

“What did you want to do?”

He realized they were having the longest and certainly the easiest conversation they’d had to date. With a dead man a few yards away. Christ, he wondered why it didn’t strike him as strange.

“I thought about starting a business maybe, in the town up the road that’s not a town anymore.”

“What kind of business?”

“Making furniture. That was kind of a hobby of my father’s, and I picked it up. A little business working with my hands, on my own time, in my own way, close to home because I’d spent so much time away.”

The light began to settle toward twilight, and he found it too easy to just sit, talk with her about old dreams as night approached.

“Anyway, I’ve got to dig a hole.”

He walked off to get a shovel.

Lana stayed where she was, crossed her hands over her belly. Despite the death, the violence, the threat, she felt safe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In the end, Lana had her way. She couldn’t go into the settlement, nor have anyone come to her. Either might put lives at risk if the Purity Warriors came back.

Her child had spoken to her, and through her. For now, she believed things were as they were meant to be.

She cooked, gardened, gathered eggs, and took comfort in the simplicity of the quiet.

As summer waned toward fall, she harvested vegetables, canned them for winter use. Made jams and jellies while Simon mowed and baled hay, cut wheat for the meal, hauled corn to the silo or the kitchen.

One day he brought back seeds he’d bartered for—three each from the fruit of dwarf orange and lemon trees. She found them as priceless as diamonds.

“Could work,” he said as they potted them for the greenhouse. “Lemonade on the porch next summer.”

“Duck à l’Orange next fall.”

“Maybe we’ll find lime. Tequila shots.”

She laughed, carefully covered a seed with soil.

“You must like tequila,” he commented. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you really laugh.”

“I’m planting orange seeds in dirt sweetened with chicken poop and imagining knocking back some tequila. It’s pretty funny.”

“My dad always said a little chicken shit’ll help grow most anything.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Curious, she went with instinct, held her hands over the pot. She let it flow through her, in her, of her, out of her.

She felt the rise, the pulse, and the power.

A tender green sprig broke through the dirt, reached toward the light.

She laughed again, a sound that began on amazement, ended on joy. Beaming with it, she looked over at Simon, found him staring at her.