“That would be nice.”
She settled on the couch while Beckett prepared the tea. Through the window, she could see snowflakes beginning to fall again, gentle and unhurried. In Denver, snow meant traffic jams and hospital emergencies. Here, it was simply part of the rhythm of life.
He returned with two mugs, handing one to her before taking a seat in the armchair across from her. The fire crackled in the hearth, spilling a warm glow across the room.
“He did well today,” Beckett said after a moment. “But he’ll be tired tomorrow.”
“I noticed. I’ll make sure he rests.” She cradled her mug, breathing in the herbal scent. “I still can’t believe how involved he is in the town. The father I remember barely spoke to the neighbors.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “People can surprise you. Sometimes they just need time.”
“Or the right person to help them change.” She met his gaze directly.
He looked away, uncomfortable with the implied compliment. “Your father’s a good man. Always has been, I think.”
She considered this. “Maybe. But he wasn’t always good at showing it.”
“Grief does that to people. Makes them forget how to connect.”
The simple truth of his words settled over her. Wasn’t that what had happened to her too? After her mother died, she’d learned to be self-sufficient, expect nothing from others, and keep her emotions tightly controlled. It had made her an excellent nurse but a guarded human being.
“I’m starting to think Sweet River Falls has some kind of magic,” she said, changing the subject. “Everyone seems so... connected here.”
“It’s a special place. Took me by surprise too.”
“How did you end up here?” The question had been on her mind since she arrived.
He was quiet for a long moment, and she thought he might not answer. “The reentry program I was in partnered with communities willing to take a chance on people like me. Your father volunteered. Said he had the space and could use the help.”
“That doesn’t sound like my father at all.”
“People change.” He echoed Annie’s words from earlier. “Sometimes they just need the right reason.”
They fell into a comfortable silence, watching the fire. She realized she felt more relaxed than she had in months. No beeping monitors, no emergency calls, and no constant pressure of life-or-death decisions. Just the quiet of a snowy evening, the warmth of tea, and the unexpected comfort of Beckett’s presence.
“I think I needed this,” she said softly, more to herself than to him.
“The tea?” he asked with a hint of a smile.
“No. This.” She gestured vaguely at the room, the falling snow outside, and the peaceful moment they were sharing. “Slowing down. I’ve been running for so long, I forgot how to stop.”
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Sweet River Falls is good for that. Reminds you to breathe.”
She took a deep breath, as if testing his theory. The air smelled of smoke from the fire and the herbal tea in her hands. They were simple, comforting ones.
“I think you’re right.” Something tight within her began to loosen. For the first time since arriving, she didn’t feel the urgent need to check her phone for messages from the hospital or to mentally calculate how many days until she could return to Denver.
Instead, she found herself wondering what the River Walk looked like under a full blanket of fresh snow and whether they still lined the walk with Christmas lights. She wanted to try Miss Judy’s cinnamon rolls and visit the bookstore section of Annie’s cafe. Small curiosities, but they tugged at her with surprising strength.
As she sat there in the quiet house with the steady presence of Beckett across from her, she realized something unexpected. Part of her—a part she’d long ignored—was glad to be home.
Chapter 8
Tessa woke to the sound of a distant snowplow rumbling down the street. She lay in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling. The memory of her mother helping her put up those glowing stars on her ceiling flashed through her mind. Her mom helped her shape them into constellations. She glanced at the window where the curtains her mother had sewn for her still hung, faded now, but still there.
For a moment, she let herself be still. No alarms blaring, no overhead announcements, no rush to check vitals or administer medication. Surrounded by comforting memories. Just peaceful quiet, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of the plow against asphalt.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a morning without urgency. Enjoyed a morning without pressure.
