The slight defensiveness in her voice made his jaw clench. She shouldn’t have to worry about grocery budgets, shouldn’t have to stretch meals to make ends meet. Not when he had money sitting in accounts he’d barely touched.
“I could?—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than necessary. “I mean, thank you, but we’re fine.”
Rowan studied her profile, reading the stubborn pride that had always been part of her appeal. Sierra Blackwood didn’t accept charity, never had. But this wasn’t charity—this was him…well, finally stepping into a life he’d thought would be his.
Maybe still could?
He moved to the sink and began washing dishes that had been sitting in the basin since morning.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He rinsed a plate and set it in the drainer. “But my mother raised me right.”
The casual mention of his mother sent familiar grief through his chest.
“I was so sad for you when she died.”
“I was OCONUS, so I didn’t hear about it until after the funeral. Felt too little too late to come home, so…” He lifted a shoulder.
She looked at him, her brow creased. “You never said goodbye?”
Rowan’s hands stilled in the soapy water, the words a rock in his chest. “I left straight from your house, went to Denver, joined up. So, yeah. Not really.”
She nodded. Glanced upstairs as if looking for Huck, back to him. “She was…she was an amazing, strong woman. And very…well, very kind to me. Especially after…” She trailed off, catching her lower lip.
“After I abandoned you.” The words emerged soft, mostly because he hated hearing them aloud. “I’m…” He swallowed. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back.”
“I know.” She gave him a small smile, then added onions to the pan, the sizzle loud in the sudden quiet. “You had your reasons. Besides, it’s in the past.”
It felt too easy to dismiss.
In the past. What they’d had didn’t feel finished, didn’t feel relegated to memory. Watching her move through her kitchen, seeing how she’d raised Huck, being here in this house that felt more like home than anywhere he’d been in a decade—none of that felt past tense.
“What time’s church tomorrow?” The question surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise her. Where had that come from?
Sierra’s spatula froze mid-stir. “You want to go to church?”
No. Yes. Maybe. “If that’s okay.”
She turned to study his face, clearly looking for the joke. “You do remember you weren’t exactly a believer before, right? Used to say church was for people who were afraid to think for themselves.”
Rowan winced and set a pan to dry on the rack. Grabbed a towel. Those words sounded even worse coming from her mouth than they had from his eighteen-year-old arrogance. “I said a lot of stupid things when I was eighteen.”
“So what changed?”
He leaned against the counter, considering how much to reveal. “Being dead makes you think about, well, being dead. And over the past couple years, Saxon and I and a couple other buddies have been in some big scrapes. Wildfires that should have killed us, situations where we had about a one percent chance of survival.”
“But you survived.” Her voice came out softer than before.
“We survived. And after the third or fourth time that happened, I started thinking maybe someone upstairs was looking out for us.” He poured himself the last of the morning coffee and put it in the microwave. “Hard to explain unless you’ve been there.”
The truth was more complicated than that. He’d started questioning his lack of faith the night they’d survived a firestorm in Montana. And then his buddy Kane had looked at him and said, Someone’s got to be keeping score, brother. Otherwise, none of this makes sense.
But Sierra didn’t need the full theological crisis that had followed. Just, “There were a few Christians on our team, and they believed that God was looking out for us. Sort of rubbed off, I guess. So maybe it’s worth a look.”
Sierra studied his face with those dark eyes that had always seen too much. “Well. This should be interesting. Half the congregation thinks you’re dead.”
