Alex Adams: White Horse

“I don’t believe it,” he says. “How can this be? How did you find us?” But he’s crying, too, so I know he believes, even if his mouth can’t yet form the words.

I look to Irini. Her scars are bathed in tears.

“You brought hope,” she says.

But I didn’t. The message I carry is a mixed blessing. I know how this will go. I am the messenger, the one who bears news both good and bad: Here is your grandchild, but your son is dead . Then the struggle will begin inside them: Should they love me for holding hope in one outstretched, sunburned palm, or hate me for performing the bait and switch of an inexpert con man? Have this child, for yours is dead .

“Nick.” I swallow; his name hurts.

Miracles are tiny things, meaningless except to the person who seeks one. To that one person, a miracle is everything. One happy event can change the course of a life. In the blackest moments, they hide.

Wait….

Wait….

Ignoring prayers and pleading, miracles enjoy the element of surprise. They love those who would step forward and meet them halfway.

Nick’s father moves slowly, a boulder being rolled aside. And there it is: my miracle. My white knight does not ride a steed, nor does he hide behind armor gleaming from the goodness of his deeds and a polishing rag. He does not need those things. He comes instead in shorts and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, bare-chested and barefoot, a fishing rod in his hands instead of a sword. Just Nick.

“Zoe!” he yells. And then we are one again. Me, Nick, and our daughter.

This is my miracle. It is small to everyone but me.

Irini leaves us that night, slipping out alongside the sun. The men bury her while I sob quietly for the woman who saved our lives.

We name our daughter for her, Nick and I. Irini. Peace. As the ground claims her for its own, I pray the snake woman of Delphi has found her peace as I have found the beginnings of mine. I thank her—for all days.

And when I lay my head upon his chest on those hot summer nights, I try not to notice Nick’s beating hearts.

Thank you seems too small a thing for the following people:

My amazing, dynamic agent, Alexandra Machinist, who I’m secretly convinced is a superhero. Thank you for loving my work, believing it could go great places, and making sure it got there.

My wonderful, insightful editor, Emily Bestler, who makes editing fun (and often funny). The next manuscript has less spitting and vomiting, I promise.

Constantly upbeat editorial assistant extraordinaire Caroline Porter. Thank you for answering all of my weird questions and being the most helpful person I know.

To the entire Emily Bestler Books/Atria team; I don’t know you all by name yet, but that in no way diminishes my gratitude for the hard work you do. Book people are the best people.

Special thanks to Linda Chester for her kindness and wisdom.

To my parents, who didn’t think I was crazy for wanting to write. Or if they did, they had enough compassion not to say it to my face. I love you both.

There is a best sister in the universe and her name is Daisy. I’m sorry this book doesn’t have vampires, shopping, or lots of the color orange. One day.

A huge thank-you to my dear friend Stacey McCarter. You’ve read everything I’ve ever written, even when it was awful, and still you speak to me. If you ever need to bury a body, call me; I’ll bring the backhoe.

Speaking of buried bodies, the brilliantly clever Kim McCullough and I have not buried any—yet. That might change if I keep giving her my uncorrected work to read.

A world of thanks to two talented writers and good friends, Jamie Mason and Lori Witt. You both get it. You really get it.

MacAllister Stone and the Absolute Write community: you gave me my training wheels and for that I will be eternally grateful.

White Horse never would have been written if it wasn’t for William Tancredi, my alpha reader, alpha male, sweetheart, and favorite person. You inspire me to be a better writer and a better woman. Also, you make me laugh until I cry. I love you, you know.

And to you, Dear Reader. I write to entertain you. Hopefully I’ve succeeded. Let’s do this again sometime.

ALEX ADAMS was born in Auckland, New Zealand. She lived in Greece and Australia before settling in Portland, Oregon, with her family.

White Horse is the first novel in a debut trilogy.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Alex Adams

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First Emily Bestler Books/Atria hardcover edition April 2012

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Designed by Jacquelynne Hudson

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-4516-4299-5

ISBN 978-1-4516-4301-5 (eBook)