Later, Beckett went out to run errands, and she cleaned up the cottage, then settled down to read her book. Beckett came back to the cabin, stamping the snow off his boots. “Coming down hard now. Main Street is emptying out. People are heading home. Kind of pretty out, though.”
Her father got up and looked out the window. “Looks like at least seven or eight more inches since this morning. It’s perfect for walking the River Walk.”
She frowned. “You want to walk the River Walk? Dad, I don’t think that’s a good idea yet. Your blood pressure?—”
Her father waved a dismissive hand. “Not me. You two. You and Beckett.”
The suggestion hung in the air. She glanced at Beckett, whose expression remained carefully neutral.
“I used to take you when you were little,” her father continued, his voice softening with memory. “After a fresh snow. You’d run ahead, making those little footprints all over the pristine white.”
Something caught in her throat. She remembered those walks, her mother bundling her in a red coat and matching mittens, her father lifting her onto his shoulders when her legs grew tired.
“I don’t know, Dad. I should probably stay here with you.”
Her father fixed her with a look. “I’m not an invalid, Tessa. Doc says I’m making good progress. Besides, Ronnie’s coming over to play cards. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Ronnie from the B&B? I met his wife, Lucy, when we were working on the food baskets. But since when do you play cards with Ronnie?”
“Since I got tired of losing to Beckett,” her father said with a wry smile. “Go on. Fresh air will do you good.”
She looked at Beckett again. “What do you think?”
“I think the River Walk is beautiful after a fresh snow.”
A half-hour later, bundled in a coat and scarf, she walked beside Beckett. He had been right. It appeared most people had cleared out of town and headed back to their homes to wait out the storm. Annie had even closed Bookish Cafe early.
They walked along the path that wound behind Main Street. The River Walk had changed since her childhood, with new benches and decorative lights strung through the trees, but the rushing water of Sweet River remained the same, partially frozen at the edges, flowing strong in the center.
Their boots crunched in the untouched snow. She breathed deeply, the cold air sharp in her lungs.
“Dad was right. This is perfect.”
He nodded, his breath forming clouds in the air. “I come here a lot. To think.”
“What do you think about?” The question slipped out before she could consider it.
He was quiet for a long moment, and she wondered if she’d crossed some invisible line. But then he spoke, his voice low and steady.
“Everything. The past. The future. How different they look from what I expected.”
She nodded, understanding that feeling all too well. “I never expected to be back here. I was so sure I’d built the perfect life in Denver.”
“And had you?”
The question was gentle, but it hit her hard. Had she? The long shifts, the empty apartment, and the growing sense of disconnect from her patients and colleagues...
“I thought I had.” She shrugged. “Until I didn’t.”
They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the crunch of snow beneath their feet and the rushing water beside them. Ahead, the path curved around a stand of pines, their branches heavy with white.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
He nodded.
“How did you... I mean, after everything that happened to you, how did you find your way back?”
He considered her question carefully. “In prison, I had a lot of time to think. Too much, sometimes. I was angry at first. At my friend, at the system, and at myself most of all.”
