Page 114 of Rage

Bringing her fingertips to her face, she quickly swipes at the tears. “I have to get back to work.” Turning away, she starts toward the family, already pulling out her order pad.

“Angie?” I say.

She stops, hesitates, then looks at me over her shoulder.

“You’re going to be all right,” I tell her.

Giving me the shadow of a smile, she turns and walks away.

It’s dusk when I pull into the gravel lane that will take me to the farm I share with Tomasetti. I park behind his Tahoe and start toward the back door only to hear someone pounding on something in the barn. After setting my laptop on the step, I turn and head that way.

Whack! Whack!

I find him just inside the door, splitting wood with an ax. His back is to me and I take a moment simply to enjoy the view. “I thought you were going to buy that log splitter we talked about,” I say.

He swings the ax a final time, scoring a perfect split, then turns to me. His hair is mussed. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’s a little annoyed because he’s been at it awhile and I’m sure his fortysomething muscles are feeling it. I resist the urge to go to him and wrap myself around him.

“If I recall,” he says, “someone thought we weren’t going to use enough firewood to warrant the cost of the log splitter.”

“In all honesty, that someone probably doesn’t have to get her butt out here and chop wood.”

Cocking his leg, he sets the ax against the wood siding and crosses his arms. “That’s a likely scenario.”

“If it’s any consolation, Tomasetti, I like the way you swing that ax.”

“That helps. A little.”

I bend to pick up the newly split logs and toss them into the bed of the pickup with the rest of the wood he’s chopped.

“Something on your mind, Chief?” he asks.

“Log splitter aside?” I straighten, turn to him. “I just talked to Angie Kuhns.”

He sobers. “How is she?”

“Feeling guilty. Beating herself up. Trying to adjust back to Amish life.”

“Can’t be easy after what she’s been through.”

I nod. “She asked about Lucy Yoder.”

He nods, all too aware of who that is. “There’s still a chance she’ll come around,” he says. “It’s only been a week.”

“Too long.”

“You worried?”

“Not yet.”

“If Lucy’s going to get in touch with anyone, it’ll be you. You left that door wide open.”

I watch as he goes to the pickup, turns, and heaves himself onto the tailgate. Picking up a water bottle, he downs half of it. “Weather guy says this winter is going to be a snowy one,” he says. “I thought it might be a good idea to cut some extra wood for the fireplace.”

Trying to shake off the remnants of my worry about the wayward Amish girl, I go to him. “Maybe we should reconsider that log splitter.”

“You think?”

“I do.” I slide between his knees and put my arms around his neck. Smiling, he pulls me close and sets his mouth against mine. He smells of fresh-cut wood, this morning’s aftershave, and his own unique scent. For the span of a full minute, the rest of the world falls away and I’m reminded that these small, seemingly mundane slices of time are priceless.

“I’ve got a six-year-old bottle of Petite Sirah sitting on the counter,” he murmurs. “A couple of steaks in the fridge.”

“Baked potatoes?”

“Scrubbed and ready to go.”

I’m about to pull away when the cat vaults onto the tailgate and proceeds to brush against us, first in one direction, then the other.

“I think he likes it here,” I whisper.

“I don’t blame him,” he says. “I kind of like it here, too.”

It’s a small thing, but it makes me laugh. It makes me happy.

Taking my hand, he slides off the tailgate, and with the cat in tow, we start toward the house.