Page 32 of The Unmaking of June Farrow

The mare calmed for a moment, breaths slowing, and the man’s eyes followed her gaze in my direction. His dark hair was falling to one side, tucked behind an ear and curling at its ends. The suspenders that hung from his belt were slack against his legs, his white shirt damp. And when his eyes finally focused on me, his whole body went rigid, making me flinch.

I lifted a hand against the harsh light of the glaring sun, trying to make out his face. “Hello?”

He visibly exhaled, his chest deflating beneath the pull of his shirt, but he said nothing as he stood there, staring at me. And then, suddenly, he was walking. The hammer slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground, and he stalked toward me with an intensity that made me move backward. When he didn’t slow, I glanced at the road. Then to the house. There was no one else here.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“W-What?” I dropped my hand as he came closer.

“I said what the hell are you doing here, June?”

I gasped when I heard it. Not just my name, but my name spoken inthatvoice. The one that whispered in the dark. The one that had been like fire on my skin. I knew that voice.

I took another step backward, hitting the porch railing with a shoulder before he reached me. When he finally did, he was so close that I had to tip my head up to look at him.

“I’m sorry, did you say—”

The words sputtered out as I frantically studied his face. His eyes. They were a deep brown, with the same bronze hue that the sun had lit in that horse’s mane. And for just a moment, I was sure that I’d seen them before.

“Do you know me?” I whispered.

“What?” He was moving even closer now. So close that I could feel the heat coming off of him.

“You said my name.”

His full lips parted, face twisting in confusion. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I blinked, turning the sound of his voice over in my head. There was a faint accent to his speech that pulled at the vowels and sharpened the words. It was definitely the one I remembered.

He stared at me, waiting, but I hadn’t figured this part out yet. I hadn’t had any time to think about it. I hadn’t had a plan when I walked through that door.

“I’m looking for someone.” I took hold of the first thing I could think of. “Susanna Farrow.”

His eyes narrowed as he drifted back, putting inches of space between us. There was something changing in his manner now. A shift somewhere I couldn’t see.

“Rutherford,” I corrected. “Susanna Rutherford. Do you know her?”

“What is this?” He said it so softly that it sounded like he was asking the question of himself, not me. He looked almost…wary.

“I’m looking for Susanna. Do you know where I can find her?” I sounded even less sure than I was. And it occurred to me all at once that he wasn’t asking about what I wanted. He was asking aboutme.

His hand came between us suddenly, snatching up my wrist. Before I could even react, he was pulling my arm long between us.

“What are you doing?” I tried to yank free, but his fingers clamped down harder.

I watched, gasping, as he pushed up the sleeve of my shirt and turned my hand so that the skin of my forearm was bare between us. His breaths were coming faster now, his grip squeezing tighter, but I didn’t know what he was looking for. And then, all of a sudden, he let me go, taking several steps backward.

I pulled my arm into me, wrist screaming with pain.

“You’ve never been here, have you?” he said.

“Been here?”

The muscle in his jaw ticked. “We’ve never met.”

“No.” Again, I looked to the empty road. “I told you—”

“Christ, June.” He dragged both hands over his face, pressing them to prayer in front of his mouth, and there it was again. That familiar way he was saying my name. “What did you do?”