Dropping her hand from the bed rail to her side, the feel of the knife still strapped to her thigh drew her attention.
She didn’t know what to do, what to say. She could feel herself trembling, her chest tightening, and she couldn’t make sense of the chaos battling inside her.
Her mother’s eyes opened again, slowly, her gaze finding Angel.
“You were so little,” Chaya whispered, tears glittering in her eyes as Angel felt panic building inside her.
No. Her mother couldn’t cry.
“She still looks pretty short to me, babe,” Natches said, his voice soft as Angel fought to speak around the lump in her throat. “No more than a li’l bit.”
A little bit. It was something she’d heard him call Bliss and her cousins more than once. It was a term of affection. One she hadn’t expected, but one she held to her.
“You made me cookies. It was the only thing you could cook without burning the house down.” That was one of her favorite memories, though it was more knowledge than memory. “Peanut butter. Bliss says they’re her favorite, too.”
Chaya’s face softened further, the hand nearest Angel lifting weakly, reaching out.
“Momma.” Trembling, Angel reached for her hand, forgetting about the knife she held in a death grip until it was in her way.
Taking her mother’s hand, she wrapped it around the sheathed blade.
“You gave me the knife, remember?” she said as surprise registered on her mother’s face. “You sewed the pocket on my teddy bear so I could hide it there.”
Chaya’s lips trembled and a tear eased from the corner of one eye.
“No. No, please don’t cry.” Angel was shaking, trembling so hard her voice shook with it now. “Please don’t cry. I’m good. It’s kept me safe, just as you said it would. It’s yours again now.”
Emotion was swamping her. Years of holding everything back and now, to be confronted with a lifetime of dreams, of hopes, and of fears. It was too much.
“Yours.” Chaya pushed the knife back into her hand. “Always meant to be yours.” Her breathing was ragged.
Angel looked up at Natches worriedly. This couldn’t be good for her mother. Too much emotion. And if her momma started crying, then it would hurt her chest.
“I should let you rest. . . .” It was too soon for this. It couldn’t be good for her mother’s recovery.
Chaya’s fingers tightened on hers. Not a lot, but enough to jerk the emotional bonds tighter and hold her in place.
“Had to protect you.” Sorrow glittered in her mother’s too bright eyes. “You wouldn’t hide. . . . Had to keep you safe. . . .”
Tracker had once said Angel didn’t know the meaning of the word “hide,” let alone “caution” or “defeat.”
“I understand,” she assured her mother. “I hate it. I’ll yell over it later. But I understand.”
Chaya’s fingers clenched and unclenched weakly against Angel’s before she looked at her husband and youngest daughter.
“Keep them safe. . . .” she breathed. “For me.”
Pure love filled his face and burned in his fierce emerald eyes. Even after sixteen years of marriage and what had to be a fiery relationship considering the type of man he was, he wore his heart on his sleeve when it came to his wife.
“That’s a two-person job, Chay,” he said gently. “And she’s not used to ha
ving a dad yet, so you better get better so we have a hope of keeping the two of them out of trouble.”
Worry shadowed Chaya’s expression, a weak moan passing her dry lips. “Natches, please . . .”
“Get better, Chay.” His voice firmed, his expression tightening with pure challenge. “I can’t do it alone. And she’s your daughter, honey. Just imagine how stubborn she is.” The imperceptible wink he gave his wife softened the determination in his expression, but only marginally.
“You need to rest,” Angel told her again, worried about the paleness of her face, the trembling of her lips. “I’ll come back later. I promise.”