her. She was so grateful to get away from her first husband, anything Hank did or said was practically holy.
Abigail was the great unknown.
People murmured condolences. Abigail introduced a few people to him—some of her dead father’s friends, people from church, her mother’s Safeway job, and from the neighborhood.
Libby cried and clutched Abigail’s arm with one hand and the grubby Santa Claus pillow in the other.
Luke wanted to be anywhere but there.
After an hour, Abigail swayed. Granny had warned him not to coddle Abigail, but also to make sure she didn’t overexert herself. Whatever that meant.
“Are you okay?” he murmured in her ear.
“As well as can be expected.” Abigail swallowed hard, soothed her sister, and turned to the next person in line.
“Pete,” he heard Gary say. “It’s so kind of you to come today. Girls, you remember my boss, Mr. MacDougal, right?”
Abigail nodded and Libby buried her face in Abigail’s side.
The man had what Luke had heard called a radio voice: deep and booming, even when he was trying to be solemn for the sad occasion. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know how much you loved Tina. And her girls—they must be devastated. I know my mother is rallying the ladies at church to help out with food and such.”
The air was close in the funeral home, and warm. Stuffy. The stench of dying flowers only added to the oppressive atmosphere. Luke would have given anything to be able to morph and lope through the doors and into the wilderness.
Abigail shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Stumbled. Collapsed.
Luke caught her before she hit the floor. Scooping her into his arms was not a hardship. Mourners stared at them. “Find us some privacy,” he snapped at Restin. He’d likely pay for that later. The pack beta was insufferable, especially when it came to status. Status didn’t matter to Luke. Abigail had to be his primary priority.
But Restin didn’t argue. He simply bulldozed his way through the clusters of people until he found someone who led Luke to a small lounge, complete with short sofa and one of those handmade blanket thingies like his Granny hooked every winter. Luke deposited Abigail, and ignored the glare Restin tried to laser through his back.
“You want some water or something?” he asked Abigail.
She shook her head. “No. It was stuffy in there.”
“You might be dehydrated.” Granny had cautioned him about making sure Abigail had enough to drink. “Restin, see if you can find some water or juice or something.”
Who else was he supposed to ask? Libby, who was cowering like a shadow at the foot of the sofa? No one ever gave an omega a handbook on how to deal with bad situations when you were the least of all. He had to go with his gut.
Abigail’s pink tongue wet her lower lip. Or tried. There wasn’t much saliva there.
“Now,” Luke growled.
Oh, yeah. There’d be scat to eat come band departure time the next day. He’d worry about retribution then.
But it was Libby who came through for her sister. Luke didn’t notice her slip out of the lounge. Didn’t notice her absence until she returned with the funeral director.
“Is Mrs. Omega okay?” Digger Sendall asked.
Luke didn’t like his smarmy tone, his aftershave, or the way his hair was slicked back, but Sendall carried a bottle of water.
“I’m fine,” Abigail said, even though any fool could see she was lying simply by looking at her. Her face was far too pale, emphasizing dark circles beneath her eyes.
Luke snatched the bottle from Sendall, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to Abigail. “Drink,” he barked.
She gulped the entire bottle in one trip to her mouth. “I’m okay now,” she said. “Thank you. Libby and I need to get back.”
Luke scowled.
“People will think it’s odd if we’re not there for our own mother. If we consigned her to Gary’s keeping.”
So he cupped Abigail’s elbow as she returned to the viewing parlor. Rested his hand
Abigail was the great unknown.
People murmured condolences. Abigail introduced a few people to him—some of her dead father’s friends, people from church, her mother’s Safeway job, and from the neighborhood.
Libby cried and clutched Abigail’s arm with one hand and the grubby Santa Claus pillow in the other.
Luke wanted to be anywhere but there.
After an hour, Abigail swayed. Granny had warned him not to coddle Abigail, but also to make sure she didn’t overexert herself. Whatever that meant.
“Are you okay?” he murmured in her ear.
“As well as can be expected.” Abigail swallowed hard, soothed her sister, and turned to the next person in line.
“Pete,” he heard Gary say. “It’s so kind of you to come today. Girls, you remember my boss, Mr. MacDougal, right?”
Abigail nodded and Libby buried her face in Abigail’s side.
The man had what Luke had heard called a radio voice: deep and booming, even when he was trying to be solemn for the sad occasion. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know how much you loved Tina. And her girls—they must be devastated. I know my mother is rallying the ladies at church to help out with food and such.”
The air was close in the funeral home, and warm. Stuffy. The stench of dying flowers only added to the oppressive atmosphere. Luke would have given anything to be able to morph and lope through the doors and into the wilderness.
Abigail shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Stumbled. Collapsed.
Luke caught her before she hit the floor. Scooping her into his arms was not a hardship. Mourners stared at them. “Find us some privacy,” he snapped at Restin. He’d likely pay for that later. The pack beta was insufferable, especially when it came to status. Status didn’t matter to Luke. Abigail had to be his primary priority.
But Restin didn’t argue. He simply bulldozed his way through the clusters of people until he found someone who led Luke to a small lounge, complete with short sofa and one of those handmade blanket thingies like his Granny hooked every winter. Luke deposited Abigail, and ignored the glare Restin tried to laser through his back.
“You want some water or something?” he asked Abigail.
She shook her head. “No. It was stuffy in there.”
“You might be dehydrated.” Granny had cautioned him about making sure Abigail had enough to drink. “Restin, see if you can find some water or juice or something.”
Who else was he supposed to ask? Libby, who was cowering like a shadow at the foot of the sofa? No one ever gave an omega a handbook on how to deal with bad situations when you were the least of all. He had to go with his gut.
Abigail’s pink tongue wet her lower lip. Or tried. There wasn’t much saliva there.
“Now,” Luke growled.
Oh, yeah. There’d be scat to eat come band departure time the next day. He’d worry about retribution then.
But it was Libby who came through for her sister. Luke didn’t notice her slip out of the lounge. Didn’t notice her absence until she returned with the funeral director.
“Is Mrs. Omega okay?” Digger Sendall asked.
Luke didn’t like his smarmy tone, his aftershave, or the way his hair was slicked back, but Sendall carried a bottle of water.
“I’m fine,” Abigail said, even though any fool could see she was lying simply by looking at her. Her face was far too pale, emphasizing dark circles beneath her eyes.
Luke snatched the bottle from Sendall, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to Abigail. “Drink,” he barked.
She gulped the entire bottle in one trip to her mouth. “I’m okay now,” she said. “Thank you. Libby and I need to get back.”
Luke scowled.
“People will think it’s odd if we’re not there for our own mother. If we consigned her to Gary’s keeping.”
So he cupped Abigail’s elbow as she returned to the viewing parlor. Rested his hand
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