“Hush. I’ve been feeding hungry boys for thirty years. I know one when I see one.” She patted Hammer’s shoulder. “Eat up. You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.”
Saxon bit into his burger with obvious appreciation. “This is incredible. What kind of chiles are these?”
“Hatch green chiles, straight from New Mexico. We get them roasted fresh every fall.” Dolly beamed at the praise. “I’ve got apple pie too, if you boys have room.”
A commotion outside caught Hammer’s attention. Through the large front windows, he could see people gathering near the police station. The EMS truck was pulling away, lights flashing but no siren—a good sign. Whatever emergency they’d responded to was under control.
Then he saw it.
Parked in front of South Eagle Elementary School, an old beet-red 1968 vintage Ford F-100, with three on the tree and that white leather bench seat.
Time pinned him to the booth.
Especially when the driver’s door opened and Sierra Blackwood stepped out.
Ten years collapsed into nothing. She was still small, maybe five foot five in her work boots, but she moved with the same confident grace that had captivated him as a teenager. Long dark hair caught the afternoon light as it fell in waves over her shoulders, framing a face that could have been carved from memory—every detail exactly as he’d carried it through a decade of trying to forget. The plaid blue flannel shirt she wore was rolled up to reveal slender forearms that spoke of ranch labor and mountain climbing, her jeans bearing the honest wear of someone who worked the land with her own hands.
Still breathtakingly beautiful in a way that hit him like a physical blow.
He might have even stopped breathing.
“Earth to Hammer.” Saxon’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You’re staring.”
“That’s her.” The words came out rough, barely audible. “That’s Sierra.”
“She’s pretty,” Saxon said.
Pretty didn’t begin to cover it. Sierra had always been striking rather than traditionally beautiful—those high cheekbones, dark eyes that seemed to see straight through to a person’s soul, full lips that could smile like sunshine or deliver a to-the-bone truth with equal effectiveness. But it was her presence that had always gotten to him, the way she commanded attention without trying, the quiet strength that radiated from her small frame like heat from a forge.
And oh, it just lit him on fire.
Her shoulders were set in that rigid line he knew too well—the posture that meant she was holding herself together through sheer willpower. Hammer had seen it before, usually right before she broke down crying in private, and the sight of it now made his chest tighten with the urge to fix whatever was hurting her.
“You gonna go talk to her?” Saxon asked.
“I don’t know.” Hammer watched as Sierra paused at the school’s front steps, one hand resting on the railing.
“Seriously? Isn’t that why you’re here? So you can tell?—”
“Maybe I should wait. Find the right time.”
“When’s the right time to tell someone you’re back from the dead?”
Before Hammer could answer, the school’s front door burst open and a boy came running out. Eight or nine years old, maybe, with sandy-brown hair and a backpack that looked too big for his small frame. He launched himself at Sierra with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for favorite people, and she caught him in a hug that spoke of overwhelming affection.
Her son.
The realization hit Hammer like a physical blow. Sierra had a child. Of course she did. Ten years was a long time—long enough to meet someone, fall in love, get married, start a family. Long enough to build a complete life that didn’t include the guy who’d abandoned her without explanation.
“You okay?” Mack’s voice was concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
No, he’d just seen his future whisp away.
Because he was the ghost.
“I’m fine,” he said, then looked at Mack. “Let’s eat. And then let’s move on. Our little visit into the past is over.”
Two
