I can get there on my own. you can leave me here alone.
He thinks Gospel lucky to have her.
He can see the child rail against her and that she does not yield.
The gaze is edged in steel, the jaw set, rimmed with a patience he has never seen in her before.
She is a good mother, he thinks
The child will never have to wonder whether she ever meant anything to her parents.
At least not her mother.
He wonders if he should edge his way back into their space. If he should close up some of the space between them. The child had not seemed afraid of him, only angry. He wonders if there’s some way to desensitize her to his presence or if she will always gnash her teeth in his direction. If she will always turn her cheek in his direction. Is it hate? He wonders. Does his daughter hate him?
She does. Or, at least, she thinks she does. It makes her quiver to think about how close he had gotten, close enough to kiss her mother’s head. Close enough that she could sink her teeth into his shoulder. He’s still bleeding, a river cut down the length of his leg to pool in the snow at his feet.
Her mother’s tone is different now. It is firm without biting and the child grits her teeth and flares her nostrils and stares up at her mother in defiance. She hates him for meaning anything at all to her mother, whoever he is. It does not occur to her that his blood is her blood, at least partially, and that’s why it tasted familiar. It does not occur to her that he loves her, too, even if she hates him.
She does not speak. She has nothing else to say. Her mother continues to take his side over hers and she shrugs away from her mother’s side, tasting the bitterness of betrayal for the first time.
Adna levels her gaze with his face and his smile has gone dark. He merely looks at her now, the faintest question in his eye. “Is everything all right?” he asks. It is lame, certainly, but he doesn’t know how else to ask.
BETHLEHEM
I'm just tryin' to do what's right. oh, a man ain't a man unless he's fought the fight.
