The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope - By Rhonda Riley Page 0,24

had breasts, and he called my name without opening his mouth. Blood banged in my chest and ears.

I pulled the long johns away from his stomach. He was a woman for sure: small breasts, curve of hips, and nothing at all coming out from the patch of light red pubic hair.

Blood rose to my face, a flush of embarrassment, not for his nakedness but for my own. I was in deep waters, drowning in innocence, betrayed in some new way I had no name for.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “It’s okay.” He wiped a tear from my chin, and I realized that I still held his pants open, still stared down.

Again, I heard my name as I turned to the mirror on the wardrobe. Just for a second, I saw the two of us, facing the mirror, identical. He had my face. I took a deep breath. My diaphragm locked. Then he turned from me, toward the voice that I suddenly understood was coming from outdoors. My name again, small under the pelting rain, “Evelyn! Help, Evelyn!”

It took great effort to breathe, to pull myself away from him, from the reflection of us in the mirror. A voice outside called and the stranger was a woman now and looked just like me. Anything was possible. Anything, anyone could have been outside calling my name. I had to go and be ready. I wanted, suddenly, to get away from him. I stopped only to put my boots and coat on, and I ran to the voice that continued to call to me.

Sharp, icy rain slashed at me. I clenched my jaw and willed myself not to shiver. Cold was easier to take than what I had just seen. Rain pecked my face, so I could barely see. There was no ground, not a surface to step on, just an expanse of moving, shallow, clay-red water. I waded toward my name. “Help! Evelyn!” It was Cole’s voice.

I staggered down the driveway until the ground dropped away suddenly. Cole sprawled on the ground four feet below me. He lay in the mud, facing up, his hat had tumbled away from him and his left leg stuck out beside him, the angle of it so wrong it seemed to belong to someone else. His horse, a young gray mare his daddy had just bought, stood a few yards off, tensed as if to bolt. There were deep gouges where the stone and clay of the driveway had given way.

Cole held his hand up to his eyes, shielding his face from the rain, and struggled to get up on one elbow when he saw me. I glanced back at the house. My stranger was in there, warm, dry, and calm where we had been alone for five days—a place like a dream of comfort. I was the link between Cole and the cold and her—her—in the house.

I could barely see. My skin prickled with the heat of alarm. None of this was a dream.

I turned back to Cole below me, shouting over the rain, “Cole, I’m here. Don’t move! I’ll get help.”

I felt a warm hand on my arm. She was there beside me, a jacket and Uncle Lester’s hat on. I allowed myself one short glance. “Stay here with him. I’ll be back.”

Below us, Cole grimaced with pain, his face ash-white against the mud. The rusty rainwater eddied around him.

“Cole, we’re going to pull you up. I’m going to get some rope.”

When I returned with rope, a wide plank, and an old sled, she stood where I’d left her, looking down at Cole, who squinted up. His face was all pain, but his eyes held a question. I gave her one end of the rope and had her back up a little while I went down for Cole.

His voice was hoarse. “I was worried ’bout you.”

“Hush,” I told him, and tied the rope around his chest. The fabric of his pant leg was blessedly coarse, easy to grip. I straightened his leg. He made a high, whimpering sound, shuddered, then passed out. While I strapped his legs to the plank, his horse came over and pulled at my coat. With Cole so slick and wet, dragging him up onto the sled took several tries. Unconscious, he was heavy, dead weight. We would need the horse.

I glanced up, but the mare was gone. Then I heard a sharp whinny behind me. Further down, past the driveway where the rise was less steep and covered with grass