The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)

by Amy Harmon

Whatever it was, when Moses came to Levan, he was like water—cold, deep, unpredictable, and, like the pond up the canyon, dangerous, because you could never see what was beneath the surface. And just like I’d done all my life, I jumped in head first, even though I’d been forbidden. But this time, I drowned.

A cowboy had hurt me and a troublemaker had come to my rescue.

“Moses, Jeeps, seatbelts, home, Moses,” I listed, not even aware I was speaking out loud, and not caring that I’d repeated Moses twice. He’d earned two spots tonight. “What?” Moses leaned in and lifted my chin, his eyes worried. “Nothing. Habit. When I’m . . . stressed, I list the things I’m grateful for.”

“Well, it’s working for you.” I turned and looked at my walls. “Cracks and all. In fact, if your brain wasn’t cracked, none of the brilliance could spill out. Do you realize that?”

“See? The moment you quit chasing him, that’s when he wants you. He looks jealous. He thinks he’s been replaced.”

My brain might be cracked, but it’s not just my brain. The sky is cracked too, and I can sometimes see what’s on the other side.”

“I’m a very ordinary girl, Moses. I know that I am. And I always will be. I can’t paint. I don’t know who Vermeer is, or Manet for that matter. But if you think ordinary can be beautiful, that gives me hope. And maybe sometime you’ll think about me when you need an escape from the hurt in your head.”

“No, stupid. Because he’s in love with me, and he tries to pretend every day like he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” I shot back.

“We can’t escape ourselves, Tag. Here, there, half-way across the world, or in a psych ward in Salt Lake City. I’m Moses and you’re Tag. And that part never changes. So either we figure it out here or we figure it out there. But we still gotta deal. And death won’t change that.”

Georgia was Eli’s mother. And I was Eli’s father. I had to be.

“Eli keeps showing me random things,” he repeated, and I felt myself soften even as my heart lurched wildly. I could not resist the lure of Eli, of hearing about him, even if it was all a fairytale told by a man who I really wanted to hate. “Like what?” I whispered, not able to help myself. “His toes in the dirt, chicken noodle soup, Legos, pine cones, and Calico. Always Calico.”