She straightened her shoulders, mouth firming into a white line at the idea. “That he’s threatened … or actually done it?”
I guessed that did matter. Sometimes people’s bark was worse than their bite, but I didn’t think that was the case. So I said, “Raise your shirt.”
If I was wrong, there would be nothing to see. His dark eyes snapped at me with shamed ferocity, and the leaden feel of my stomach told me I was right. Fade didn’t want to do this, but with Momma Oaks waiting with a worried look, he complied. His stomach was fine—and then he turned. There, across his lovely, muscled back lay the evidence of his months in Salvation. Welts lay atop welts, some cracked and scabbed over, others red striped, and beneath it all lay blue-green bruises that said it had been going on almost since he moved from the Oakses’ house. I could see in her face that the woman wished she had kept him with her, despite the impropriety. Salvation hadn’t been as good to him as it had me.
“Arlo Jensen won’t get away with this,” she said with a tight fury. “Edmund!”
Fade tried to hide his humiliation, but I could see this was just making him feel worse. And yet, if we did nothing, then the despicable worm who hurt him wouldn’t pay for his crimes. When Edmund saw what his wife wanted him to, his whole face went red, and he clenched his fists.
“I’ll attend to it,” he growled, stomping out the door.
Momma Oaks took Fade’s hand, gently, and led him to the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost done, but I need to treat your back.”
He flinched reflexively, recoiling from the idea of her tending him. She read the rejection, and the sorrow in her expression said she understood that he wouldn’t trust easily. So she assembled the supplies and put her hand on my shoulder. “I’ll go lay the table. It might be better if you take care of him.”
“Do you mind?” I asked.
“I’d rather you did it.” His tone said he wanted to pretend it never happened, but that wouldn’t make the injuries go away.
“Then I will. Take your shirt off.”
He complied, laying it on the table beside him. We seldom ate in the kitchen, but the worktable would serve this purpose. My hands trembled a little. This wasn’t like rubbing salve on battle wounds. Those didn’t bother me. These did, because a human—who didn’t have the excuse of mutation, disease, or insanity, whatever ailed the Freaks—had inflicted them.
I washed my hands in the soapy water and then dampened a towel. More than anything, I feared hurting him, but he trusted me to do this. I just wished he had told me sooner, though since we hadn’t talked much, I supposed I didn’t blame him. Tegan could have helped him, or even Stalker. There was no reason for him to submit to such maltreatment. Trying to be gentle, I washed his back, pausing when I felt him flinch. His knuckles whitened on the edge of the table, his head bowed. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Almost done,” I whispered.
For the last step, I smoothed healing salve all over, as light as I could. He shuddered a little, but I had no idea if I was hurting him. With my fingertips, I traced each strap mark, each bruise, and by the time I finished, I wanted to find Arlo Jensen and cut him into Freak bait. The mere thought gave me immense satisfaction. The places where his skin had broken open didn’t appear to be infected, so there was no need for a deeper treatment, and they had clean scabs, so I didn’t apply bandages either.
“Finished?” Before I could answer, he pushed to his feet and shrugged back into his shirt. He wouldn’t look at me, as if I had betrayed him.
“Fade? Are you mad?”
“Not at you.”
But it seemed so. “If I hadn’t told her—”
“It’s fine,” he snapped.
“It’s not. What’s in your head right now?”
“I probably had it coming,” he bit out. “Tegan’s fine. You’re fine. Even Stalker seems to get along with his foster dad. And I was smart-mouthed, angry, because—” He gestured between us.
Because of us. Because of me.
“So it probably had something to do with my attitude.” He shrugged.
I was already shaking my head. “No matter what you said to him or how you said it, this wasn’t right. It was his failure, not yours. It wasn’t your fault.”
He hid so much, this boy of mine. I took a step toward him and before I could move again, he did, and then he was in my arms. He couldn’t stand for anyone but me to touch him. And so, I held him carefully, wondering if I’d ever hurt him with a casual caress. Not that he would’ve shown me. He had suffered unimaginable pain already, and these scars would add to the many he’d collected over the years. Fade dropped his head just enough, resting his chin on my shoulder, and we stood that way until I heard Momma Oaks moving about in the dining room.
Then the front door opened and closed. Edmund was back. Fade stepped away then, and I laced our fingers together, drawing him with me into the other room.
“It’s settled,” Edmund said with satisfaction.
Momma Oaks demanded to know: “What happened?”
“I took the matter to Elder Bigwater. You know he has strong feelings about the mistreatment of children. Jensen will receive ten lashes and a day in the stocks.”
He turned to Fade. “Not that it matters, but Arlo’s off the wagon. If we had known, we never would have entrusted him with your safety.”
“Off the wagon?” I asked.
My foster mother explained, “He’s been in the corn liquor. He’s a mean drunk. And I am so sorry. Of course you can spend the night here … and you’re welcome when growing season’s over too.” She was determinedly cheerful, fixed on the certainty we were both coming back.
“He can have my room.”
I left Fade to chat with Edmund while I went to deal with the claw wound on my stomach. The throb had dulled to a low heat, only sharpening when I twisted at the waist. Momma Oaks fussed while she treated me, shaking her head.
“I’ll never understand why you do this,” she muttered.
I cut her a sharp look. “So you wouldn’t fight for your children?”
The woman huffed out a breath. “Never you mind. Just lay the table.”
Dinner was a surprisingly agreeable meal. Since my foster parents didn’t carp on his injuries, Fade relaxed and enjoyed the food. I did notice he sat very straight, his back not touching the chair. He’d done that on the swing and the sofa too, and I hadn’t realized what it meant. Stupid. You might have helped him sooner.