1
The first time I saw him, he was kneeling beside a headstone a few plots down from my late husband’s. I wasn’t staring at him, but it felt like I’d been caught when he looked up and his dark green eyes locked with mine.
I’d heard about him before and recognized him instantly. But I’d never seen him in person. And he was a sight to behold. Tall and handsome, covered in muscles and leather, looking like a dark angel next to the grave. For a split second, I froze as an unfamiliar feeling shot through me. One I hadn’t felt since before Russell died.
“Hello!” my three-year-old daughter called, waving excitedly as she walked toward him. “I like your pretty flowers.”
“Freeze!” I ordered in a harsh tone—the one I reserved for urgent situations—like when she approached an unknown person.
Brinkley was a friendly child, and that scared the shit out of me because, to her, everyone she met was a potential new friend—regardless of their age.
Thankfully, she was also an obedient child and stopped at the sound of my voice. Then, she waited for me to take her hand before she continued toward her target. By that time, he had risen to his feet and was watching us with a curious smile.
“Hello, Mister! I like your pretty flowers. My name’s Brinkley Moore. I’m three years old. I like pigs. And this is my mommy, Mackenzie Moore. We live in Devil Springs. Her phone number is nine—”
“Hold on, Brinkley,” I interrupted before she could finish giving out my phone number to a stranger. Again.
After finding a lost child at the mall while we were Christmas shopping the year before, I taught Brinkley my phone number and how to call me in case she ever got lost. Never in a million years did I think she would proceed to recite my number along with my full name and hers every time she said hello to a stranger in public. But that’s exactly what happened, and I’d been coming up with creative ways to interrupt her ever since.
I turned my attention to him. “I’m so sorry for disturbing you. Please excuse us. We’ll be on our way.”
“No apologies necessary,” he smiled kindly. “Can she have one? A flower?”
“Oh, uh, sure,” I said and looked down at my daughter. “Would you like a flower?”
“Yes, please!” she squealed.
“One,” I said firmly. “And be sure to say thank you.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
“I do apologize for interrupting your visit,” I said once we were standing beside him. “She’s too young to understand where we are.”
And while that was true, I’d always wondered if Brinkley understood more about where we were in a way that I couldn’t. The first time Brinkley smiled was during one of our visits with Russell. From then on, whenever we went to the cemetery or drove past a graveyard, she would giggle and laugh. But after she started walking and talking, things got even more strange. When we took flowers to Russell’s grave, she would toddle to a nearby headstone, sit down, and begin babbling as if she were having a conversation with someone.
“She’s fine,” he said and bent down to help Brinkley get a flower. “Which one do you want?”
Brinkley wobbled as she squatted down and placed her hands on her knees to study the flowers before making her selection. “This one,” she said and straightened to point out her choice. “Thank you, Mister. Look, Mommy, it’s Mystical’s favorite.”
“It’s very pretty,” I said slowly, trying to figure out who or what she was talking about.
“Will you put it in my hair, please? Right here?” she asked and pointed above her ear.
“Let me see if I have a hair thingy. Oh, this might work.” Pulling a small hair clip from my purse, I tucked the stem behind her ear and secured it into place.
Brinkley turned around with a broad smile on her face. “Thank you for the pretty flower, Mister.”
“You’re welcome, Brinkley,” he said and turned his attention to me. “And Mackenzie, right?”
“Yes,” I nodded and extended my hand. “And you must be Bear, Batta’s dad.”
He blinked in surprise before he grinned proudly. “I am. How’d you know?”
“I’ve heard him mention you before,” I said and nodded toward the name displayed on his chest, “and you look just like him.”
“Can’t deny that one bit. So, how do you know my son?”
“I’m friends with Coal,” I said.
