My eyes snap open, my neck craning around to find the source of the squeal. Two children careen around the corner of the cabin, slowing as they get close to Libby.
Libby’s eyes widen in terror, and she sprints back to me. I meet her at the bottom of the three front porch steps, my coffee sloshing over the sides of my cup. She leaps into my arms and I stand.
The kids are frozen in place, staring at me.
“Hello.” I wave. “She’s just a little skittish. She’s a rescue.” I think, anyway. Selfishly, I’m hoping she is.
The older child, a girl with brown hair and a guarded expression, points behind me. “Is my Uncle Wyatt home?”
I blink twice, the puzzle pieces falling into place.These are Warner’s kids. Which means Warner must be around here somewhere too.
“No, he’s not home.” I shake my head and Libby gets excited. I think she’s decided she’d like to say hi to the kids after all. I bend, setting her on the ground, and she trots over. Both the girl and the younger boy clap their hands and smile, bending down. Libby licks their faces, and they laugh.
“Charlie? Peyton?” a deep voice yells from somewhere nearby.
I turn my head in the direction the children came from, and just as I do, Warner strides into view. He’s staring at the kids, wearing a confused look and those same jeans I swear are going to be the death of me. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I’m afforded the chance to watch him.
Reverence softens his features when he looks at his kids. There is no question of his love and devotion, even from this distance. It radiates from his pores.
A pang, a longing, a sliver of hurt slices across my chest. I have good parents now, but I didn’t always.
Warner glances toward Wyatt’s cabin, and his calm, bemused expression is replaced with shock. His jaw flexes, his body stiffens.
I suck in a sharp breath. I know what this looks like. Me in pajamas, standing in front of Wyatt’s cabin. I open my mouth to speak, but the words stick in my throat. Warner’s coming this way, his lips pressed together and his eyes stormy. He stops a mere foot from me, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath, as if corralling his emotions.
The air around me might be refreshing, but the air between us is so tense it should be viscous, something I can sink my hand into and gather in my palm.
“Hi, Warner,” I say, my voice kind, and I smile. He was a bit of a jerk yesterday but he had a reason. I get it.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell that he wants to. Different responses dance through his eyes, and I’m almost positive none of them are very nice. Behind him, his children dart back and forth, and Libby chases them. What’s happening over there is so different than what’s happening right here.
Warner stares at me for another second, then sidesteps me and heads for the cabin. I sigh.
I lift my chin and say to the sky, “He’s not in there.”
I turn around. Warner has stopped on the second stair. “Where is he?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
He side-eyes the cabin. “Sounds about right,” he mutters. He stomps past me. “Charlie and Peyton, let’s go. We need to leave early if we want to make it on time.” He shoots me a look. “Increased traffic in town these days. I’m sure you know where it came from.”
My nose wrinkles. I understand being mad at me for lying, but seriously? I had a reason. A good one, too.
Warner’s walking back the way he came. He glances at me as he goes. “Are you going to be done playing house in time to shadow me or should we put it off until tomorrow?”
My mouth drops open in shock. I cannot reconcile this rude man with the same person who helped me on the side of the road.
He disappears from view, his kids following him. Libby runs over and goes with me into Wyatt’s cabin. My limbs are rigid, little sparks of anger shooting off inside me.
I get changed, strip the sheets, and check my phone on my way to throw them into the washing machine.
Wyatt has texted me.Sorry, I’m not going to make it home this morning in time to take you to town. Warner lives in the cabin behind mine, you can catch a ride with him.
I exhale and drop my chin to my chest, then hurry to stuff the sheets into the washer. I don’t have time to replace Wyatt’s sheets on his bed if I’m going to catch Warner.
“Ugh,” I groan out loud, double-stepping to my overnight bag and zipping it up. With Libby in my arms, I leave Wyatt’s place, walking around front and following the path I saw Warner take a few minutes ago. About a quarter mile away sits another cabin, a second replica of the homestead, but bigger than Wyatt’s.
I wonder if Warner lived there with his wife?
