Professional. Put-together. Respectable.
She pulled out a navy-blue dress—conservative, knee-length, the kind of thing a PTA mom would wear. Added a cardigan. Took it back off. Stepped into heels, then flats, then back into lower heels. She picked up her grandmother’s pearls. Her hands were shaking so badly she had trouble with the clasp.
Shane appeared behind her and fastened it without a word, then smoothed his hands down her arms. “You look perfect.”
April stared at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look perfect, she looked terrified. Like someone who was about to lose everything.
Her gaze drifted to the top shelf of the closet. To her Lucky Louis purse sitting exactly where she'd put it after Ellie’s party. She’d pulled it out of storage to impress Claudia, or at least not appear completely impoverished, and look how that turned out. Not only was Claudia a new friend, but relations continued to thaw between April and Yvonne.
What'd you do, hock it to keep this shithole running?
"Fuck him," April said quietly.
Shane followed her gaze. Without a word, he walked over to the closet and pulled it down. She took it out of its dust bag and transferred her essentials—wallet, keys, phone, lip gloss—into the purse. It felt strange in her hands, like holding a piece of her past. A reminder of who she'd been when life was nothing but one gamble after another, when she thought love and security meant expensive things and penthouse views.
Now she knew better.
Now she knew the fierce love of a man who'd burn the world down for her and their son. She knew the innocent love of a boy who trusted her with his whole heart. A family who'd turned an old empty building into a coffee shop that added something beautiful to the community. Friends who stuck by her, surrounding her with love so strong she felt surrounded by a fortress wherever she went.
She looked at Shane. "I'm not ashamed of who I was or what I survived."
His smile was fierce and proud. "Damn right you're not."
“I’m ready.”
Shane’s fierce smile turned softer. “You need one more thing.” He touched the old purse. “This tells Vince who you were. When you walk into that courtroom, I want you wearing something that will show him who I hope with all my heart you want to become.”
April tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this.”
Shane reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little velvet box.
TWENTY-SIX
Shane triedto keep his hand from trembling. He watched April’s expression go from confused to wide-eyed, her lips parting, mouth opening, her gaze riveted on the velvet box—the most important possession he’d ever owned. He thought back to the beginning of its creation ten days ago.
The early-summer heathad settled into Colorado like it meant to stay. Shane stepped out of his SUV and studied the big Victorian Ben had meticulously renovated. Bear usually got the credit for being the handyman—and he deserved it—but Ben? Ben was an artisan. Always had been, even when they were kids.
That’s why Shane was here. He needed Ben’s artistry.
He’d called ahead. Ben told him to come around back to the forge—said he’d be in the middle of something for the Renaissance Festival west of Castle Rock. Shane took the gravel path around the side of the house and through the garden As he got closer to the backyard, he heard it. The steady rhythm of hammer on metal. Not the wild clang of a novice, but measured,patient strikes—each one landing with precision, ringing like iron bells.
The river behind the property ran high with snowmelt, loud and fast and silver in the June light. Cottonwood fluff drifted through the yard like someone had opened a down pillow and shaken it out. The smithy windows were thrown open, the doors too—heat shimmered at the threshold. Working a forge in the summer was no joke. It was a test of endurance, precision, and brute strength in equal measure.
Shane stepped inside.
The scent hit him first: cedar, smoke, and hot metal. Coals glowed in the arched brick oven he’d made, kicking out waves of dry heat. The anvil sat in the center of the room like an altar, the floor swept but still stained with years of blood, sweat, and ash.
Ben stood with his back to the door, a mountain in motion.
He was shirtless, skin sheened with sweat, muscles working with every swing of the hammer. His dark hair was tied back with a leather cord at the nape, grown long for his summer run at the Ren Faire. He wore a black utility kilt, boots, and a leather apron folded down at the waist, revealing the full flex of his shoulders and back as he turned a glowing piece of steel with his tongs. He struck again.
Ben looked over his shoulder. “Heard you coming. You stomp like a guilty man.”
Shane huffed. “I don’t stomp. You just hear like a moose with PTSD.”
Ben grinned. “I prefer hyper-vigilant artisan.” He adjusted the steel on the anvil, gave it one more clean strike, then set the hammer aside. The piece went into the quench tank with a hiss, steam rising in a white cloud. Only then did he face Shane, sweat rolling down his chest in lazy trails, arms streaked with soot.
