“When you’re ready,” I said against her skin. “If you’re ever ready. I’ll be there.”
She closed her eyes. Tears tracked down her cheeks.
I let go of her hands. Stepped back. Turned toward the barn door.
“Graham.”
I stopped. Didn’t turn around. Couldn’t.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For seeing me.”
I walked out of the barn and into the failing light and didn’t look back because if I looked back I would never leave.
We packed that night.
Jamie worked quietly in the cabin she’d been using as an editing suite, boxing up equipment. She didn’t say anything to me and I didn’t say anything to her. There was nothing to say.
Dex loaded the van, gear inventoried, cabins cleared. He’d done this a hundred times in a hundred countries.
I packed my bag in ten minutes. Hadn’t brought much. The cabin that had been mine for three weeks looked exactly the way it had when I’d arrived. Anonymous, functional, empty.
Except for the shelf above the desk, where Rose had left a jar of wildflowers two weeks ago. They were dead now. Brown and brittle, petals scattered on the wood.
I left them where they were.
In the morning, Hank was waiting by the van.
He shook my hand. Firm, brief, the handshake of a man who said everything with actions and almost nothing with words.
“She’s never let anyone get that close,” he said. “You should know that means something.”
“Thank you, Hank.”
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t waste it.”
Kaya appeared from the barn. She walked straight to me and pulled me into a hug that was fierce.
“Don’t give up on her,” she whispered against my shoulder. “She’s pushing you away because that’s what she does. Don’t let her.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“Aye. I promise.”
She stepped back. Her eyes were red but she was smiling. “Good. Now get out of here before I start crying in front of Hank and ruin my reputation.”
Hank snorted quietly from behind us.
Denise appeared as we were loading the last bag.
She came from the main house with a tray of travel mugs and the warm, competent smile of a woman who thought of everything. She handed them around, coffee for the road, making sure everyone was taken care of. Then she turned to me with an expression so perfectly calibrated, sympathy, warmth, just a touch of shared sadness, that I almost admired the craftsmanship.
“Safe travels, Graham.” She reached out and squeezed my arm. “I’ll take care of her. You know that.”
I looked at her hand on my arm. Then at her face. Those steady eyes, that practiced kindness, the mask so seamless it had fooled everyone for years.
“I know exactly what you’ll do,” I said quietly.
