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A glance around confirmed that no one was paying them the least bit of attention. The relative dark had saved them. They’d gotten away with it, but only because of luck. Ruth was right—that had gone too far, too quickly.

  They’d barely kissed, and it had been enough to drive him out of his mind.

  “I think we’re okay,” he told her. He didn’t rush forward to comfort her, although it was all he wanted to do. “The burned-out light bulb did us a few favors.”

  She looked up and sighed with relief. Her coloring turned more normal, but she still looked flushed. “Thank goodness,” she said. “If Arnold heard about that, he would definitely tell my father.”

  Arnold? The unpleasant man she’d arrived with, Henry assumed.

  He didn’t want to ask the question for fear of the answer, but he did it anyway. “Arnold. Is he your—” The words were harder to find than he expected. “Are you two going steady?”

  Ruth caught his eye, taken aback. “What? No. I mean, I’ve always sort of assumed that one day we would, but my dad has never said anything, and ….” She shook her head as if to rid herself of that train of thought. “He’s more of my bodyguard tonight, to make sure there’s no trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble could you get into at a charity function?”

  Ruth gave him a look that clearly said, Are you serious? He had to bite back a laugh. Necking in dark corners was not exactly how he had planned his evening to go, either, but he was glad for this turn of events.

  “Okay, good point. But why are you assuming I’m trouble?”

  Something in Ruth’s face lost its playfulness. She seemed more guarded. “I ought to be getting home, actually. I need to find Arnold.”

  Had he offended her? Henry took a step forward; she took one back.

  “Wait, Ruth—”

  “It’s been nice to speak to you, Dr. Porter.”

  He was awash in confusion. What had caused this change—everything between them had seemed so easy, so natural. Why was she pulling away?

  There was a sudden sense of clarity: her dad. She was worried about her home life. Henry had caused her trouble in the past, after all. Everything with her father suddenly felt present between them, hanging there, cluttering the space that had felt so free and simple. He couldn’t let her walk away like this—he wasn’t capable of it.

  “Please, hold on.” He reached out to touch her shoulder but brought his hand back quickly. He didn’t want her to feel like he was one of those men bent on hauling her around.

  She paused, and Henry bit back a sigh of relief.

  “I want to help you,” he said, the words coming out of him quickly. He had to say it all before he lost his nerve or she changed her mind. “If this is about your father, there are things we can do. We can go to the police chief, get you away from him—”

  Ruth’s face turned stormy and she put a good two feet between them, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t need to get away from my father. He’s my father!”

  “He slapped you in front of the entire store. That’s not normal behavior, Ruth!”

  As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. She went ashen and her lips formed a grim line. “You don’t know me nearly as well as you seem to think.”

  He bowed his head. “You’re right. I know that, I do. I just—how can I let you walk away, knowing what you’re walking into?”

  Something in Ruth loosened. Her shoulders went round, her face softened. She stared at her feet. “I’m not your responsibility. And it’s fine, it really is. I’m fine.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I love my father.”

  She meant it, but he couldn’t help but wonder why. What was keeping her there, in a place where she was not treated as she ought to be?

  “If you ever need anything—anything—please come to me. Can you promise me that?”

  Without looking away, Ruth took a few steps backward. She shook her head, her short hair moving gently around her shoulders. She was beautiful, even when she was turning him down.

  “I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” she told him.

  Then she turned and was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ruth

  The next morning, Ruth was at the table bent over a stack of paper with her good fountain pen. She was supposed to be writing out programs, but was instead dwelling on Dr. Henry Porter. His lips, and his eyes—the way they’d seemed a deeper blue when caught in the shadows of the basement ….

  Focus, she reminded herself sternly. Now was not the time. Sunday was still days away, but a new group of people from the east side of town had come by very early to ask her father about his services. That brought the congregation to nearly fifty, which was five times the size it had been before the fight.

  It was good, of course, but it did mean that Ruth needed to start this particular chore several days in advance so her hand did not cramp up. Whenever that happened, her cursive turned sloppy, and Edward would never abide that.

  She was halfway through the date at the top of the page before she realized she’d written the wrong number—not only on this program, but the other three she had thought completed. Ruth groaned. Her brain was anywhere but on her task list for the morning, and it was Dr. Porter’s fault.

  He had kissed her—and not just a simple peck on the mouth, either.

  And what was more, she had kissed him back in kind.

  She could still feel the touch of his tongue against hers, the way his strong hands wrapped around her body to draw her against him, the plane of his chest pushing against her own subtle curves.

  She’d liked it so much, and she’d never felt guiltier for anything.

  She’d been waiting for something new and different to happen to her for so long—blandly anticipating her marriage while serving out her daily chores to her father and to the church. It had been fine, or so she’d thought. Her life had been nothing exceptional, maybe, but it had been the life of a dutiful daughter. She’d started to lose sight of that girl a while ago, and last night’s events only served to show how all vestiges of that person were completely obscure to her.

  The powers were the punishment for that distance, that longing for something more than what her father had given her—or so she’d assumed. She’d stayed up half the night, worrying herself silly over the next penalty. What more could happen, how much further could she fall?

  She’d been so sure that some kind of retribution would come. She’d lusted and broken promises and lied and even ditched Arnold just so that she wouldn’t have to hear him comment on her hair. She’d done so many things wrong. How could she be so sinful and not be punished? That was what her father had always taught her: People sinned, and God wreaked his vengeance upon them.

  But she’d awoken after passing out from exhaustion to find her same room, her same single bed, her same wooden chest, and her same ugly brown carpet. Nothing was different.

  Was this forgiveness or further distance from all that she’d been raised to believe? Was it possible to be good and kind and to want Dr. Porter like she did? To have the powers that she had? To lie as often as she had in the past few weeks? She wanted to be better, and she was trying, but circumstances couldn’t let her be both herself and honest.

  Was it even possible to be both, anymore?

  Her head was a jumbled mess, full up with fear of who she was and of how much she’d liked the feel of Dr. Porter against her.

  Huffing out a sigh, Ruth pushed the incorrect programs to the side. She’d re-use them as scrap paper later. She set out a fresh sheet and stared at the blank page before her.

  His lips had been firm, hot against her own, and so tender. And when he’d touched her face, she’d felt so treasured, so precious to him.

  The fountain pen dropped a blob of ink onto the paper, and she glared at the offending spot. She needed to focus. It didn’t do any good to dwell on Henry—on Dr. Porter. They might never speak again, as far as she knew. He had probably kissed loads of girls
in his life. It was possible that what the two of them had shared meant nothing to him.

  Even as she thought the words, she knew they were lies. It was impossible for him to have been there, to have experienced that, and to not know what she knew—that it was special, and important, and rare. And his offer to help her, however misguided, was sweet.

  She didn’t need his help. She could navigate this on her own. She would find a way to be herself and true to her religion, to make peace with her father.

  The thought didn’t focus her as much as she would have liked, but she managed to get through another few programs without any more mistakes.

  It was two hours to dinner time when Edward suddenly came into the kitchen. She’d dreaded his appearance all day. When she’d gotten up that morning, he’d already locked himself inside of his office—probably to sort through the donation boxes that had been dropped off by one of the local kids just after nine that morning. She’d peeked through her window and had seen him carrying a heavy-looking box through the open front doors of the church.

  She shouldn’t have left Arnold waiting for her the evening before. Even as she’d done it, she’d known it was a bad idea. There was no way he would keep her disappearance to himself. She’d had to force herself not to watch out the window all morning, knowing that he would appear and ruin everything.

  Edward was bound to know that Ruth had disobeyed him, and acted recklessly, and then there was the small matter of her hair ….

  “Seven new people coming on Sunday, besides the ones I already told you about. Make sure to add that in to your count for the bulletin,” Edward said gruffly as he appeared in the doorway. He headed straight for the pantry, picking out a Colorado peach and biting straight through the fuzzy skin. “Including two people from Highledge. Also had an interesting visit from Arnold this morning.”

  She lifted her chin and caught his eye. Cowering wouldn’t make this mess any easier to clean up, and, well, Ruth liked her hair. It was light, and having it short had helped to cool her down. The extra wave was nice. She still remembered the feeling of looking at it in the mirror for the first time, the way her stomach had flipped to see that that was her ….

  Edward stared at her, eyes narrowed, and Ruth fought the urge to shrink under his gaze.

  “What have you done to yourself?” Edward snarled. He crossed the room quickly until he was standing before her and grasping her hair at the root. Ruth’s head went sideways as he pulled, and she winced but did not cry out. “Have you no shame, girl? No respect?”

  Her blood rushed hot in her veins, and anger twisted inside her chest. She hardly thought, just blurted out, “It was an accident, at the drive, but I—I like it.”

  Hissing through his teeth, Edward let go of her head. It snapped back up, the motion giving her a headache. The glare her father gave her was not helping. He looked down his long nose at her, his eyes like two slits. “Oh, you like it, do you?”

  She regretted mentioning it. Why was she being so willful, so defiant? What was happening inside of her?

  “It’s not so bad,” she said, suddenly hesitant. Maybe she had not been as prepared for this fight as she’d thought. “And it was the only way to salvage it. There was—gum.” The lie felt weak, and she shrunk further into her too-hot cardigan. “Someone was blowing a bubble, and I walked by, and it was the only way.”

  He seemed to pause, considering her story, and Ruth rushed forward into it, unthinking. “I was embarrassed of how I looked, so I avoided Arnold to walk home alone. I’m sorry, it was stupid of me.”

  At that, he sneered. “Don’t you lie to me. Don’t you even try.” He leaned over her work, taking in the ten neat programs and the three mistaken ones on the right. “And wasting your time and my paper on these mistakes?” He picked up the perfect copies.

  Ruth bit back a whine as he ripped them in quarters and tossed them. It had taken her two hours to copy them in her neatest hand. The pieces fluttered down around her. Each time one hit the floor, she felt her temperature climb higher and higher. She was angry. She was very angry. She wanted to shout, to scream—hours of work wasted because of his temper, and for what, a hair cut?

  She did none of what she wanted, choosing instead to stay quiet and still, letting the rage pass. No amount of anger was enough to make her forget common sense. Her father was furious, and she knew better than to engage him in this state. She’d done it once, when she was younger. The memory of Edward locking her inside her bedroom for three days, only allowed out for meals and the bathroom, was enough to never talk back again.

  Her lack of reaction seemed to enrage him just as much as anything else, and he picked up the fountain pen, flinging it to the floor. It burst, black ink oozing across the linoleum.

  Edward cupped the back of Ruth’s neck and threw her off the chair, next to the growing pool of ink. Her knees hit the ground first, and her teeth jarred with the force. Hot anger coursed through her, and she was ready to give in to it—when her hands started to glow a faint red.

  Not now, she thought. The fear washed away her rage.

  “Clean that up,” Edward ordered, stalking out of the room.

  Ruth watched his retreating figure until he prowled out the front door and slammed it behind him. Where was this fiery passion coming from? She hadn’t raised her voice to her father once in her life, but she had felt the raw urge to stand up and scream. She’d nearly given into it.

  Who was she—and more important, who was she becoming?

  Ruth inspected the damage to her knees later that evening. The bruises there flared bright purple.

  The ink had stained the flooring, and no amount of scrubbing or lemon juice had gotten it out. It was still there, a faded black reminder, and during dinner, she swore her father stared at it the entire time.

  Dinner had taken precedence after she’d scrubbed the kitchen as hard as she could, and then after she had cleaned up the meal, stored the leftovers, and washed the dishes, she’d made sure to redo all the programs that had been ruined. It had taken extra time, since her hand was already tired, but she’d gotten them done.

  It was late, now, and as tired as Ruth felt in her body, her mind would not stop racing. Maybe she had been right. Maybe all of this was a punishment.

  She thought of Henry’s mouth on hers. Maybe it had been worth it.

  Ruth rooted around under her bed for a minute, pulling out a small container of arnica. Her father had no idea it was there. She hadn’t reason to use it very often, but it’d happened enough times that she felt better keeping the jar close.

  Fathers weren’t supposed to hit their daughters until they bruised—not as children, and especially not when their daughters were grown women. In the privacy of her bedroom after a miserably long day, Ruth could admit that. It wasn’t right, but ….

  For as long as she could remember, she’d turned to her father for spiritual guidance. There had never been a woman in her life to whom she could go. Her mother had left only months after she’d been born, and her father had never dated again. He’d made sacrifices to keep her, to raise her. All he’d ever wanted was for her to lead the sort of Christian life he approved of. She’d always trusted that he would not take her astray, and that his tactics, however harsh they felt in the moment, were sound.

  She loved him. It had probably been hard for him, raising a daughter on his own with nothing but God to keep him company. Maybe he had even done his best. But her scalp still hurt from where he’d pulled her head to the side, and Ruth was tired—tired all the way down to her bones.

  Henry had offered to get her away. Was it turning her back on her beliefs if she went to him and asked for help?

  Ruth slipped into her nightgown, shaking away the thoughts. These were not the kinds of decisions she ought to be making late at night after a long day. Her head wasn’t clear. And thinking of Henry as she slipped beneath the sheets of her single bed—well, that wasn’t a good way to calm down, either.

  It took hours bef
ore Ruth fell into an uneasy sleep.

  There were hands on her stomach, tracing her navel and dipping to her sides, holding her there. Lips followed the same path, and Ruth squirmed. It felt strange, to have someone kissing her stomach, but not bad. In fact, the longer it happened, the more those lips started to wander south, and everything felt good.

  Fingers lightly brushed at the folds between her legs, and Ruth keened. It was a gentle tease, not enough, not nearly enough—she wanted pressure and friction and more. The fingers slid inside, teased the nub at the front of her sex. Ruth clutched at her sheets. She’d never felt anything like this, like she was falling apart in the most wonderful way possible. Her muscles contracted, all tied up in delicious pressure, and she gasped, throwing her head back.

  “Henry,” she whimpered, and then the dam inside her broke again and again and again.

  Ruth blinked her eyes open, panting. Her skin was misted in sweat, and her stomach felt tingly and strange and wonderful. She groaned, pressing her hand against it. What had happened? Had she—?

  She went bright red at the thought.

  Ruth pushed herself up, head still muddled and floating. She pushed back her covers.

  Her stomach turned to lead. All the pleasant after-effects disappeared.

  Her sheets were scorched in the outline of her body.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Henry

  Henry stared at the files before him, tapping his fingers idly on the top of his wood desk.

  That morning, he’d awoken to find himself with a distracting problem waiting for him in his pajama pants and a mind full of Ruth Baker. He’d tried to brush it off, ignore it—but the thought of her lips, the feel of her small, pert breasts against his chest … it had been too much. He’d had to take care of himself in the shower, feeling like a teenager the entire time.

  She’d walked away the night before, and it had taken all of Henry’s willpower not to chase after her and kiss her until she agreed to run away from her horrible home life to ….

  To what?