“Mom? I’m hungry.”
She shook her head. “Of course you are. There’s leftover spaghetti?—”
“I can get it.”
She shot a look at Rowan. “I don’t need another fire.” She headed inside.
Rowan followed her.
Huck had filled a water bowl for the dog and now set it on the floor. The pup went over to drink, its whip tail wagging.
She took the container of spaghetti from the fridge, put it onto a plate to microwave.
“You did a dangerous thing, going after that dog,” Rowan said softly behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
The man had gotten on the floor next to the dog. And Huck.
She turned away.
“Mom says I shouldn’t have. Says I could’ve died.”
“Your mom’s right. But I understand why you did it.”
She opened the microwave. Spotted Rowan patting the dog with his big hand. “Sometimes we take risks for the things we love. The trick is making sure the risk is worth it.”
“Was Bandit worth it?”
“What do you think?”
Huck’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I think maybe I should have asked for help instead of going alone.”
Sierra braced her hands on the counter, her jaw tight. Don’t cry. Don’t?—
“That’s very wise. Asking for help isn’t giving up. It’s being smart.”
Aw. Now he was talking to her. Jerk.
She glanced at him.
He smiled at her.
Jerk!
“Hey, what happened to your hand?” Rowan had noticed a cut on Huck’s palm, partially hidden by the boy’s pajama sleeve.
“Fell on a rake when I was running in. It’s not bad.”
“Let me take a look.” Rowan examined it. “Yeah, it needs a Band-Aid.” He got up, moved toward the cabinets. “First aid kit?”
“Above the sink.”
He found the first aid kit and spread its contents on the table, then gently took Huck’s hand in his. The cut was shallow but still seeping blood, the edges ragged from the rake’s teeth.
“This might sting a little,” Rowan warned, opening an alcohol wipe.
“I’m tough.” Huck’s chin came up.
