“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not much of liar.”
“I was a pretty nervous child, used to get panicked easily, and my dad taught me to say, ‘Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear,’ over and over in my head when I felt it coming on.”
“Mark Twain.”
“Yes.” She nodded, her eyes focusing on his. “I said it over and over again on the way to you, Jake.”
“I’m glad you ran to me, Branna.”
“I-I…” She frowned, as if the words confused her. “I didn’t think about it. I just ran.”
“And here I am.”
“Here you are.” She placed a hand on his chest, as if to check that he really was there. Who had she run to before he came into her life? Were there times when she needed someone, but no one was there because she’d shut everyone out?
“I thought about my father as I ran, and suddenly I missed him, which is strange, because I believed I’d gotten past that.”
How did a person ever get past missing a parent?Jake wondered. Slipping a hand beneath the blanket, he ran it up her leg, stroking the cold skin, soothing and reassuring both himself and her.
“I’m not sure why I’m talking about this now.”
She looked genuinely confused, but he knew that she was reacting to what had happened and wasn’t really back in control yet, as much as she wanted to believe she was.
“Where is he now?” Jake rose and finished making the hot chocolate. Then, bringing a large mug back, he placed it on the table beside her; she didn’t resist when he lifted her up and sat with her on his lap. Picking up the mug, he then handed it to her.
She drank slowly, taking small sips, letting the chocolate slide down her throat, and then handed it back to him.
“Thank you, that tastes good.”
“Of course it’s good. I made it.”
Her snuffle fell way short of a laugh.
“Do you know where your father is?”
“No, we lost touch.”
Jake couldn’t fathom that because, even when he’d been in another country, he’d known where his parents and sister were and how soon he could reach them if he needed to.
“What happened?”
She turned and rested her cheek against his chest, and Jake wondered if she would answer his question, but it seemed that fear had loosened her tongue.
“He couldn’t forgive me for killing the only woman he had ever loved.”
Jake didn’t buy that, but he also didn’t know enough about the situation to make a call. However, he had a hunch that somewhere along the line, Branna and her dad had driven each other away in their grief.
“You didn’t kill her.”
“He believed so, and didn’t love me enough to forgive me.”
He didn’t believe that either. Jake listened as she talked about her father, about the life they’d had before her mother’s death, and contrary to what Branna believed, he formed the picture of a man who loved his daughter, a man who helped to do projects and went on school trips and even made her a tutu when his wife had to work. That was not a cold-hearted man; it was a man who loved his daughter.
The flash of light through the windows told him Cubby had arrived. He lifted her off his lap and went to open the door to his old friend, who appeared looking rumpled and sleep mussed.
