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She crept farther into the barn, listening intently, ready to flee at a moment’s notice, but now needing to know who’d come to her private place to grieve, even though she thought she knew.
The tuned-up tractor had been her first clue.
A big, burly man sat on the floor of an empty stall, back against the wall, shoulders heaving as he cried. In one of his massive hands was a piece of wood. In the other, his carving knife.
Harlan McKittrick. Her foster father.
She’d never seen him cry, not in the three years that she’d lived here, not even at the funeral today. He’d been stoic, his expression immovable, like a statue’s. He’d held his arm around Mrs.McK as she’d cried her eyes out. He’d spoken a few words over Wren’s coffin in his deep, gravelly voice, about peace and eternity and God.
Katherine had wanted to scream then. She’d wanted to hit someone.
She’d wanted to hit Mr.McK for being so... together. For being unfeeling.
But she could see now that she’d made a big mistake. The man was not unfeeling. He’d just saved his grief for when he was alone.
Just like I did.
She took a step back, intending to leave him in peace, to find somewhere else to scream her rage, but his head shot up and he met her eyes in the dim light.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. His tears continued to fall and she was poised to run. Finally, he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.
“Kit,” he said gruffly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”
He shook his head. “No, you don’t have to. This was your place, hers too. I should have known you’d come here tonight.”
Her cheeks heated. She’d been caught out of bed at three a.m. There were rules, even here. “I’ll go.”
“No, honey. I’ll go. Mrs.McK is probably wondering where I’ve got myself off to. You can stay.” He rose, wincing as he stretched his back. “I’m too damn old to be sitting on barn floors. I came out here to do some whittling, but...” He trailed off with a sigh. “It kind of hit me. You know how it goes, huh, Kitty-Cat?”
He always called her Kit or Kitty-Cat. Not ever Katherine, and she’d often wondered why. But she didn’t hate it. She might have even liked it. A little.
Talk to him. Say something to make him feel better. Because Mr.McK was a nice guy. And McKittrick House was so much nicer than any other place she’d ever lived. And she’d lived in a lot of places.
Mr.and Mrs.McK were good people. They never yelled, never hit. Never... took advantage of the girls or the boys, like so many of the other fosters had.
They’d let her stay even though she was not... good. They’d let her stay and they’d told her to call them Mom and Pop McK if she wanted to, just like all the other kids did who’d come through their big, warm house that always smelled like apple pie and clean laundry and lemon furniture spray.
She never had, though. She’d stuck with “Mr.” and “Mrs.,” anything to keep them at arm’s length. They’d never made her feel bad for doing so.
Now she wanted to make him feel better, because he was crying and it shook her hard. He was big and rough and gruff, but he was crying.
For Wren.
She pointed to the carved wood in his hands. “What are you making?”
He seemed surprised that she’d asked. Which was fair. Katherine didn’t talk much. She never asked anyone anything remotely personal. Never answered any question with more than “Fine” or “Okay.” And when they’d offered to adopt her, to make her an official McKittrick, she’d said only “No, thank you.”
Because nobody was that nice. Nobody really cared. It would end. They’d grow tired of her and make her leave, and then she’d be even worse off.
Mr.McK stared down at the carving in his hands. “A wren. You know, like the bird.”
A sob flew from Katherine’s throat before she could shove it back in. “A wren?” she asked, her voice breaking.
He nodded, his eyes on the little bird. “I put one in her coffin, y’see. In her hands, so she’d have something to hold.” His smile was wobbly. “To maybe remember us by. So she wouldn’t be alone.”
Katherine pressed her hand to her mouth. Keep it in. Keep it all in. “You did?” she asked, the words muffled.
