“And we don’t know him more without risking our heart. And doing the hard thing. For me, it was letting someone else raise my daughter. For you...” She gave her a grim smile.
So that didn’t help at all.
The over-the-door bell rang, and she looked out onto the street to see Flynn carrying a boxed pizza, her copper hair bright in the sunshine.
The woman had been a little peeved at her. But maybe Keely was just as peeved with herself.
Could this be our forever, could we make this last?
Or is this just a beautiful moment that will soon be past?
She blinked away the deep sluice of regret.
“So, what are you going to do?” Vic said, cutting through her what-ifs.
Keely shrugged. “I don’t know. My voice is ... it might never recover.”
“You don’t have to have a perfect voice to make a beautiful song, Keely.”
Keely stared at her, hearing her mother’s words. How ...
Maybe it didn’t matter. The truth was ... they were both right.
Her cell phone buzzed, a text coming in. She flipped over her phone and opened it. From Goldie.
Keely! I wondered if you’d gotten socked in with the storm and lost service. No can do on the driver, but I sent the jet to Anchorage. Get home.
Bryce Harper passed away.
Oh.Oh ...Keely pressed her hand to her mouth.
“What’s the matter?”
She set the phone down. “Zoey’s dad died.”
Vic frowned, just a little, something of empathy in it. Then she reached out and caught Keely’s hand. “Then we’d better get you to the airport and on a flight home.”
She had the terrible feeling that home was what she might be leaving.
Dawson shouldhave gotten on the chopper with the rest of the injured.
But, no, he had to look like an idiot, hobbling his way along the snowy road toward the sheriff’s office, his crutches landing on ice, the cold wind in his ears.
He’d call Flynn, but his phone had died, so that was perfect.
So much for finding Keely, making things right. By now, she was probably in Anchorage, getting ready to hop a flight and never look back. He didn’t blame her, really. But his chest ached, and not just from the strain of working his crutches.
A honk behind him made him jump, and he turned, ready to shout—I’m walking here!
Or hobbling. Whatever. Caspian perched in front of him, clearly with the same thought.
Except Dawson’s breath blew out as the vehicle pulled to the curb. An old yellow 1988 Suburban with a roof rack and, from personal memory, a bench seat with a tweed cover. The once-bright paint had died to a faded butter, and he guessed there must be nearly five hundred thousand miles on the odometer. But his father was never good at letting go.
What was Clay Mulligan doing here?
The driver’s door opened, and although Dawson hadn’t seen him in a year, maybe more, the man seemed to have barely aged. Still strong, robust, tan lines from hours outdoors, and thick brown hair with lines of gray that only deepened his blue eyes. He wore a red-and-black checked heavy flannel shirt, a padded vest, a hat, and jeans over scuffed work boots.
“Dad?”
