Page 44 of A Hellion for the Highland Hawk
“I was happy, even though we didn’t have much,” she went on, frowning. “Then, as I got older, the children at school grew more interested in why I didn’t have a dad. One of them called me a bastard and said my mother was probably a whore. I must’ve been nine or so, and didn’t know what the word meant. So, when I went home that night, I casually asked my mom if she was a whore.”
A quiet gasp tore from Hunter’s throat. The exact reaction that Nancy herself would’ve had if she’d heard her own story now, with the wisdom of age.
“My mom started crying, and she pulled me into this… super tight hug and kissed me on the forehead. She whispered that I shouldn’t listen to anyone who said those things, that it wasn’t true, and that I was so very loved. Then she took me upstairs to the neighbor, Mrs. Crimmins, as she always did when she had to work nights, and headed out. I remember she gave me one more kiss, and she sort of… lingered in the doorway, her hand up in this stiff wave, like… like she knew she wasn’t coming back.”
“Was that the night she went missin’?” Hunter asked.
Nancy nodded, her heart sore with the remembrance—the panic when her mom didn’t pick her up from Mrs. Crimmins’ to takeher to school in the morning, and the restless day that followed, praying it had been a mistake, that her mom had just had to work later or something. Then, the empty apartment when she got home, and Mrs. Crimmins calling up her mom’s work to see if she was there.
The dreadful, drained expression on the old woman’s face when she was told that her mom left at six a.m., same as always. After that, the too-polite cops and the manic smiles of the social services woman, the sound of Nancy’s screams as they took her away, though Mrs. Crimmins tried to insist that she could stay.
“She never came back,” Nancy said, her voice thick. “They searched for months, but there was no sign of her. I was passed from one place to the next, and my anger just… built and built. By twelve, I was running away and stealing things. By fourteen, I was drinking, smoking, sneaking into parties, doing anything I could so the system would give up on me. I think I hoped I’d be able to go back home if no one could control me and no one else would have me.
“Then, Emily happened. Emily and the Franklins. I was fifteen, hungover, with my meager possessions in a trash bag, smoking a cigarette out the window of the social service woman’s car, probably being foul.”
She laughed to herself, strangely fond of that spiky old version.
“The Franklins didn’t try too hard; they gave me a room of my own, set out some toast and juice for me, and just left me to it. I was trying to eat the toast when Emily came into the room. Shewas abandoned, like me, and… I think I’d reached a point where I needed someone desperately but couldn’t admit it, and there she was. Someone who understood. A friend who became like a sister and helped me turn everything around. Her story was way worse than mine, so I think it was a wake-up call to stop being a self-centered ass and figure my life out, because if she could, then so could I.
“A few years later, I got into college to study journalism, and when I graduated, I flitted between New Jersey and New York, chasing stories. I suppose I hoped that one day, I might find my mom during one of those chases. But it wasn’t until I happened on another story about missing women that I… realized it was what I wanted to write about, put a spotlight on: the epidemic of disappearing women.”
She exhaled slowly, her chest tight as if she’d run a marathon instead of speaking one.
In truth, she wasn’t sure how much of what she’d just said Hunter would understand, but maybe he’d get the gist of it: that she was a lost and confused girl who just wanted to find her mom, one way or another. Even if it was just bones discovered in a culvert somewhere, it would be an answer, and an answer was all she could hope for now.
“I found those missing women,” she murmured, that little flame of hope scorching her heart.
If I found them, maybe I can find my mom.
“But ye willnae be satisfied until ye find some hint of yer maither in the world, some echo of where she went,” Hunter said, his arms holding her closer. “Ye could find a thousand missin’ women, and it wouldnae quieten yer heart or soothe yer loss.”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, surprised by his words. Someone like him, she’d assumed he would rationalize it or tell her there were worse things. Instead, he’d hit the emotional nail right on the head.
“Exactly,” she said, frowning.
“What of Mrs. Crimmins? Did ye ever see her again?”
Nancy shook her head. “She’d moved out by the time I went back to visit her.”
“I might nae understand much about yer world,” he told her with a squint that suggested he was understanding far more than he let on, “but I’m sorry ye had to survive that alone. Nay bairn should have to find their way alone. I’m sorry ye had nay one ye could turn to, to care for ye, until ye met them Franklins and yer friend. We daenae do that here. We daenae just abandon bairns who have lost their family. They go to neighbors they ken well, they go to aunts and uncles, they go to somewhere and someone nearby, so they daenae feel uprooted. And they’re never left without.”
Nancy smiled. “It doesn’t sound so bad here.”
“It’s what happens when ye’re part of a clan, lass,” he replied, reaching up to brush a lock of damp hair from her face. “I insisted on it when I became Laird, that bairns are taken care of. There’s a reward for those who look after bairns as if they were their own, though it’s nae necessary. People do it because it’s the right thing, the Clan Lochlann thing to do.”
She peered into his green eyes. “You know, you’re not so bad for a Hawk.” A smirk curved her lips. “Although, maybe I’m just saying that because I’m not a mouse.”
“Ye’re certainly nae that,” he replied with a smirk of his own. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her cheek before whispering, “But daenae call me that again.”
She laughed. “I’m not one to force a nickname someone doesn’t like, considering mine was ‘bastard’ and ‘daughter of a whore.’”
This time, his kiss landed on her lips, soft and soothing.
If she’d had more energy, it might’ve stoked the fires of her desire to go for a second round. A longer round, perhaps. But between the time travel and the swim and the confusion of everything and the sleepless nights, she was content to let it all catch up to her. If she moved from this spot, she feared the insomnia might creep back in.
“Tell me more about yer world,” he demanded softly, his arm a pillow beneath her head, while he had hard stone beneath his.
Closing her eyes, she began to tell him of the Americas that she hailed from. Not the spreading British colony that he knew it to be, but the realm of skyscrapers, fast cars, modern medicine, running water, bold fashion, and communication and entertainment at your fingertips. If he thought she was even more of a witch afterward, then so be it. She was too tired to skirt around the truth anymore.
