Part 32 (1/2)
”She says she's my sister.”
Owen frowned into the setting sun. ”She explain how that could be possible?”
She'd intimated that the spell of two witches, cast four hundred years ago, fueled with sacrifice, fire, and magic, had sent my sisters and me to this time-where no one believes in witches any more. Or at least not the kind they'd believed in then.
”Not really,” I hedged.
”Why should you believe her?”
”You saw her, right?”
”Right.” He reached over and laid his hand atop mine where it rested on Reggie's bony head. ”What are you going to do?”
”Ask my parents if I'm adopted.”
Despite all the childhood conjecture, I never had before.
”What if they deny it?”
”There's always DNA.”
Owen turned into the lane that led to my parents' farm. ”This is gonna be swell.”
Chapter 20.
Moose brayed like a banshee, and Reggie tried to climb over me while doing the same. As soon as the truck stopped, I reached for the handle.
”Reggie should stay here,” Owen said.
”He doesn't play well with others?”
”His idea of play is work and vice versa.”
”What does that mean?”
”He lives to play with his ball after he finds deadly explosives. Got a grenade you could hide for him?”
Reggie stared out the window, panting. Play. Run. Chase.
”He wants to play,” I said.
”He tell you that?”
Instead of answering, I opened the door. Reggie vaulted out of the truck and chased Moose into the high gra.s.s. I listened for growling, yelping, or snarling. When none came I cast Owen a glance, but kept the ”told you so” to myself. I had bigger fish to fry.
Both of whom stood on the porch, having been alerted to our arrival by the security system known as Moose.
”Should I stay in the truck?” Owen asked.
”No need.”
I certainly wasn't going to bring up witchcraft, time travel, spells, and the like to my parents. All I wanted was the truth about my past, and I didn't mind Owen hearing it too.
We crossed the yard. My mother hurried down the steps and threw her arms around him as if he were a long-lost child who had at last come home. He kind of was.
”Owen,” she said, the same way she always had.
In contrast, my father's scowl seemed completely out of place. Though Owen's arms had gone around my mom and held her close, his gaze had gone to my dad. He wasn't smiling either.
”What's up with you two?” I'd asked before, but neither one of them had answered. I was pretty sick of it.
”You tell me,” my father said, eyes still on Owen, who'd released my mom, though she'd taken his hand as though afraid he'd disappear if she didn't hold on to him tight. I understood the feeling. ”He broke your heart. Now he's back and that's just fine and dandy?”
I certainly didn't want to discuss how broken my heart had been, how long it had taken me to get over Owen-the truth being that I never had-in front of my parents.
In front of anyone, ever, not even him.
”I'm not here to talk about Owen.”
”Then feel free to run along,” my father said to him.
”No.” I took the hand my mom wasn't clinging to and clung a bit myself. ”He stays.”
”You afraid he's going to disappear if you don't keep an eye on him?”
”A little.”
”He's going back wherever he's been, Becca. You shouldn't get too attached.”
I'd started for the house, but his words made me stop. ”How do you know that?”
My father's mouth tightened, as if he didn't want more d.a.m.ning words to flow free.
I glanced at Owen. ”How did he know that?”
”We ran into each other.”
”You've been here a day.”
”He stopped by the cottages this morning.”
My gaze narrowed. ”You said you had to mend fences. That was a euphemism for talking to Owen?” Didn't appear like they'd mended much. More like they'd broken things even more.
”Dale?” My mother released Owen's hand. ”What did you do?”