Read Online Lone Wolfe by Kate Hewitt - Free Book Online Page A

now leached of colour. ‘I wonder what
colour it was. Red, perhaps, like your hair.’ He reached out to gently tuck a
stray curl behind her ear. His fingers barely brushed her skin, yet Mollie felt
as if they lingered. Her whole body reacted to that touch, the whisper of skin
against skin. Instinctively she leaned into it. Abruptly Jacob dropped his
hand, took a step back.
                 Mollie
realised she was holding her breath, and she drew it in with an audible gulp.
‘Thank you for showing me this,’ she said. She tried to ignore the fact that
her heart was hammering and her ear and cheek still tingled from his touch.
                 ‘You
can keep it.’
                 ‘Thank
you. It means a lot.’
                 ‘You
were close to your father?’ He sounded almost wistful.
                 ‘Yes
…’ Mollie realised she sounded hesitant, unsure. How could she explain the kind
of relationship she had with her father? He’d adored her; she’d always known
that. It had just been the two of them, together, forever, and for so long she
couldn’t imagine life without him.
                 Yet
living alone with a forgetful father who was obsessed with the quality of soil
and the new fertilising techniques had been difficult at times; Henry Parker
had not always known when she needed new clothes, or a listening ear, or a
simple hug. And then five years of dwindling into dementia had left Mollie
feeling more alone and bereft than ever.
                 His
death, in some ways, had been a relief. It was a thought that made her cringe
inwardly with guilt and shame even now.
                 ‘I
know it was nothing like—like your father,’ she said stiltedly, ‘nothing at
all. But … sometimes … it was lonely.’ She felt ashamed to say it, especially
considering what Jacob and the other Wolfes must have endured under William’s
unforgiving hand.
                 Jacob
gave her the faintest of smiles. ‘We all carry our own sorrows. Just because
they’re different, doesn’t make them any less.’ He gestured to the rose. ‘I’m
glad you have that.’
                 Her
throat too tight to speak, Mollie could only nod. She felt humbled by Jacob’s
willingness to accept her own pain. He could have easily shrugged it off, told
her she had no idea, nothing to cry about …
                 Or
was that just how she felt?
                 She
looked up and saw that Jacob was regarding her with a certain thoughtfulness
that made her think he saw too much. Knew too much.
                 And
she didn’t know anything.
                 ‘Tell
me about him,’ she said, and he stiffened.
                 ‘There’s
not much worth telling,’ he said after a moment. Mollie was glad he didn’t
pretend to misunderstand. She was talking about William Wolfe, his father, the
author of his own sorrows. The man he’d accidentally killed—and must have
hated. ‘I wish.’ Jacob said, and then stopped.
                 ‘Wished
…?’ Mollie prompted softly.
                 ‘I
wish there was more to tell,’ Jacob said, a brusque note entering his voice. ‘I
wish I had—we all had—more happy memories with him. I wish my siblings had had
a proper father, rather than—’ He stopped abruptly, but Mollie, just as before,
felt she could have finished his thought. Rather than me . He gave her a
bleak smile. ‘If wishes were horses, eh?’
                 ‘Something like that.’ The intimacy of the moment still seemed to
wrap around them. ‘Annabelle never spoke about him,’ Mollie said quietly. ‘Not
that I asked. I was only eight when—’
                 ‘He
died.’ Jacob’s voice was flat, cold. Mollie realised she shouldn’t have said
anything. They could have moved on, away from this startling intimacy, the
sharing of memories,