Beckett glanced across at the photography studio one more time. “Nothing’s gotten into me, Mama. Just handling some things that needed handling.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. When his mother spoke again, her voice had softened. “This is about the Whitlock girl, isn’t it? Simone O’Hara told me she’s back in town.”
“Her name is Marnie. And yes, she’s back.”
Another pause. “You be careful, son. That girl’s been through more than most people could survive. She doesn’t need you charging in like a bull in a china shop trying to fix things.”
“I’m not trying to fix anything.”
“Mmhmm.” His mother’s tone said she didn’t believe him for a second. “Just remember—some people need time to find their footing before they can let someone else in. Don’t push too hard.”
“When have I ever pushed too hard?”
“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?”
Despite himself, Beckett laughed. “Point taken.”
“Come to dinner Sunday. And Beckett?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m proud of you for standing up for her. Even if you did it in the most dramatic way possible.”
She hung up before he could respond, and Beckett sat in his truck for a long moment, staring at the phone in his hand. His mother had always been able to see right through him. Even when he was a kid, she’d known what he was thinking before he did.
He started the engine and pulled away from the curb, pointing the truck toward home. There were cows waiting and fences that needed mending and a hundred other things that demanded his attention.
But his mind stayed in town, in a little shop with a freshly hung sign, where a woman with dark eyes and too many secrets was trying to build a new life.
He’d give her space. He’d give her time.
But he wasn’t giving up.
Chapter Nine
Marnie loved the little house on the river.
It was exactly what she needed—seclusion and privacy and a little bit of a fairy tale. The stone cottage was nestled behind a bank of trees, invisible from the road. In fact, she’d missed her turn into the narrow drive on more than one occasion, the entrance hidden by overgrown willows that brushed the roof of her van as she passed beneath them.
The stone was dark gray, weathered by decades of mountain winters, and black shutters flanked the windows. The sidewalk was graveled and snaked to the little front porch where a pair of rocking chairs sat waiting for someone to fill them. Inside, the house was furnished simply—just as Blaze had told her it would be—and she’d been able to find plain white cotton sheets at the mercantile and a set of towels in the same color. Everything was simple and comfortable, exactly as she preferred.
She’d turned the second bedroom into a small office where she could edit photos and handle the business side of things. But the master bedroom was her favorite. The walls were painted a smoky gray and trimmed in white. The bed dominated the room—ornately carved posts thick as tree trunks—and the bedspread was a waterfall of gray shades that matched the walls.
But the centerpiece of the room was the large picture window that looked out over the river. There was a window seat with stuffed cushions and pillows, perfect for relaxing with a good book. She especially loved it first thing in the morning, when the fog crept over the water and through the trees like smoky fingers reaching for something just out of grasp.
She was an early riser, but this morning she stayed in bed a little longer, watching the show until the sun’s rays shone through the window and prodded her to get up. The wood floors were cold, so she put on the slippers she’d left by the side of the bed and bundled up in her robe to go start the coffee maker.
Part of Marnie wished she could avoid Beckett forever.
Life had taught her some hard lessons. The most important being that the only person she could ever truly trust was herself. The second being that everyone had an agenda—something they wanted from you, whether they admitted it or not.
Her father had kept her around as a punching bag, and every once in a while he’d ask her a question like she was his own personal crystal ball. But she’d rarely been able to give him the answers he sought, and the beatings that followed had taught her to keep her visions to herself. Clive had wanted to possess every part of her. To own her. And he had. She’d let him because there had always been that fear lurking in the back of her mind—the fear that if she did the wrong thing or displeased him, he’d turn into a version of her father.
She didn’t know what Beckett wanted from her yet, other than the obvious. Back before she’d left, Beckett had been as young and naïve as she was. But he was a man now, and she wondered what his ultimate goal was where she was concerned.
The other part of her—the less cautious part—longed to see him.
The visions had led her back to Laurel Valley, but they hadn’t shown her future clearly. Only that she was where she belonged. She knew their paths would cross again. It was inevitable. But it would be on her terms. She wasn’t willing to give any part of herself away again. She’d already given too much, and there wasn’t much left to give.
