I pull Elizabeth into a tight hug and hold her as close as I can. I would hold her like this all day if I could. This is the kind of hug I’ve longed for from my mother for years. My entire life, actually.
The one moment I’d desperately needed a hug, one to shelter me from the pain tearing through my body, she’d stayed true to herself. When I told her that her only grandson died in a car accident, a part of me believed we’d grieve together. Yet after all these years, I should have known better.
She didn’t hug me. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even cry.
I know she feels something. She has to. No one can be that heartless and cold.
“All right, Mom. You’re cutting off my air supply.”
We chuckle, and I loosen my hold.
“Sorry.” I pull back and hold her at arm's length. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”
“Yep.” She smiles and I can tell she’s struggling to keep it together. We both are.
“And I love you more than anything.” My voice cracks. “I expect you to visit me this summer, okay?”
“Absolutely. I’ll look at my schedule and figure out a time I can come. I promise.”
She hugs me one last time and kisses my cheek. “Now go before we stand here and cry all day.”
“See you soon, sweetheart.” I force myself to pull away, and it physically hurts. I knew this would be hard, but it's worse than I expected. We both slowly step backward from each other, tears streaming down our faces.
I’m the first to turn my back. If I don’t, I’ll never leave. I slip into the driver's seat and start the car. I grip the steering wheel and have to talk myself out of getting back out and rushing to her.
I can do this.
I put the car in reverse and back out of the driveway. With one final wave, I blow a kiss at Elizabeth as she gets into her own car.
I shouldn’t be sad. I should be excited and happy for this next phase in my life. A part of me is, but I’m still hanging onto the past and everything I lost. I need to heal, and this move is the first step in that direction.
I hope my mother is wrong, and I’m not about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
CHAPTER 1
ADAM
God, I love this land.
The frigid morning air burns my lungs. Spring is right around the corner, but that doesn’t mean much in this valley town surrounded by the Rocky Mountains.
I can't believe I ever considered leaving. The cold, mountain terrain is in my blood. Our small town in northern Montana is the last glimpse of civilization before entering the folds of mother nature. We see our fair share of tourists during the summer months. In July and August, a constant flow of visitors ready to lose—or find—themselves in the beauty of Glacier National Park vacation in Watercress Falls.
The rest of the year, all that remain are locals—those born and raised in the bitter arms of wilderness. Maybe that's why I love the winter months so much—quiet solitude.
I stop on the sidewalk to take in the cold one last time and breathe deep. The burn runs down my throat and settles in my chest. I hold it in my lungs and let the cold burn smolder like embers in a dying fire. On the exhale, the now warm air tickles my throat. A smile covers my face, and I turn my head toward the glow of the sun.
The extended winters are too harsh for most, but not for me. The freezing cold air makes me feel alive.
I step inside the only coffee shop and bakery in town. Sweet Cakes & Coffee serves the best coffee in the valley. Stopping by every weekday morning on my way to the office to get my coffee and sugar fix became a habit after my continued failure to make a good pot of coffee at home. I don’t care that it’s completely out of the way. Not only does the owner, Rachel, make the best coffee, she’s also a talented, self-taught pastry chef. Her chocolate croissants are to die for. On Fridays, I always take a few extra to get me through the weekend since I don’t typically make it into town on Saturdays and Sundays.
A wave of heat brushes across my cheeks, and my nostrils flare at the sweet smell of yeast and sugar baking in the back ovens. The shop is busy for a Tuesday morning. Typically, the seating area is sparse with guests, but today the only open seat is a stool at the front counter next to Rachel’s husband, Ricky—a long-time friend and colleague.
Ricky was raised a rancher and trained as an electrician. He considered starting his own company but couldn’t give up ranching. It’s in his blood, too. Plus, he and Rachel have their hands full with her business. He works at my parents’ ranch part-time, helps me with custom remodels in need of heating and electrical upgrades, and co-runs the coffee shop with his wife.
“Hey, Ricky.” I slap his back and sit in the empty stool beside him.
“Mornin’,” Ricky mumbles between bites of his pastry. “Whatcha up to today?”
