Hot Blooded (Wolf Springs Chronicles) - By Nancy Holder Page 0,56
fixing to make hot chocolate,” he said, and she felt a rush of pent-up tenderness toward him. There was no way in the world Mordecai McBride drank hot chocolate when he was alone.
“I’d love hot chocolate,” she managed, her voice cracking slightly. “Thanks, Grandpa.”
He put the gun on the table and went into the kitchen. She sank down beside her computer and powered it up. Mail from Beau. The subject header was Anything? with no message content.
She thought about Mr. Fenner. How old had he been way back then? Cordelia had told her that her father was approaching sixty, so he could have been a teenager then, or a young man. Were they his fault? Six murders. How many had there been, all told?
Nothing, she typed back. Then she shut her computer down.
Taking a breath, she walked into the kitchen. Mordecai was stirring a pot of milk and spooning cocoa mix into it, and Katelyn picked up the container and inspected it; the expiration date was five years old. Given how long hot chocolate mix kept, it was possible that he’d bought this jar before the last time she’d been there as a little girl — with her father, not long before Sean McBride had been murdered.
“You have a fight with that boy?” he asked her.
She set down the jar. “Trick?”
“The other one.” He gave the milk a stir. “Still wondering if I invited the wrong one to Little Rock.”
“No,” she said in a rush. Then she realized there was no way she wanted to talk about boys with her grandfather, and let out a heavy sigh. “I just . . .” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “I miss my parents.” Words started rushing out of her. “It was so amazing of Trick to make that bust of Mom for me, you know? But I don’t have anything of Daddy’s, except for that suitcase. It’s all gone, from the fire.” She cried harder. She just couldn’t stop herself.
Looking pained, her grandfather stirred the milk. He poured in the cocoa slowly, deliberately, then ventured, “I’ve got some stuff of your dad’s. Out in the garage. Your grandma kept it.”
She caught her breath and looked at him hopefully. “Really? Like what?”
“Probably everything he ever touched,” he said. “He was our only child. Doted on him so. You never dream you’re going to bury your own son.” A stricken expression clouded his face. Then he shook himself and reached for two cups out of the cabinet. “We’ll go through it. There’s a lot of stuff out there, but I’ll find it and bring it in for you. Don’t go in there, Katie, though — some of the boxes aren’t stacked too safe.”
“Oh, thank you, Grandpa.” She hugged him, putting her arms around his surprisingly brawny body and squeezing tightly. He patted her back, and she did the same, feeling ridges beneath the fabric of his shirt. His terrible, deep scars.
His showed. Hers didn’t.
She watched as he measured out the steaming liquid into two cups and handed one to her. She clinked cups with him, the way she and Kimi used to do, while wondering privately if they’d get sick from drinking such old stuff; but she didn’t want to spoil the mood, so she took a tiny sip.
So did he. And then he looked out the window and said, “We might have a white Thanksgiving this year. Gotta warn you. When the snow comes, we’ll be holed up.”
“Trick invited us to his place for the winter,” she said.
“Did he?” He took the spoon to the sink and rinsed it. “Is that where you want to be when the storm hits?”
She wasn’t sure what he actually was asking, and she wasn’t sure she would have known the answer anyway. “Better there than here, I guess. He’s closer to town.”
“Sokolovs own a snow plow,” he remarked. “I never got that fancy.” He put the spoon in the dish drainer. He seemed to be moving slowly, as if he was in pain.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Just tired. Do you have homework?” he asked, and she nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape to her room. She was feeling edgy again.
She crossed the kitchen and was just about to make her way to the stairs when she impulsively turned back around.
“Guess who I just met,” she said. “The Inner Wolf guy. Jack Bronson.”
Her grandfather’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. He looked as if she had hit him in the stomach. “How? Where?” he demanded.