“Wait.”
He stopped and looked back.
“The funeral is tomorrow at the Roadhouse.” Her words were hushed. Defeated. “After lunch.”
He stepped closer to her.
She knelt down and petted one of her dogs. “Will you come?”
“Of course. I’ll be there.”
Her chin dipped in a slight nod, and then she walked past him one more time. “Thank you. I better go check on my family now.”
As her words washed over him, so did her breath.
Peter let her retreat. It was her safety net. But the whiff of whiskey couldn’t be denied. One day soon, he’d have to ask her about it. And it might very well be the end of their friendship.
A thought that hurt more than he wanted to admit.
THREE
Watching Whitney stand beside her sisters, Peter couldn’t ignore the niggle at the back of his brain. The liquor he’d smelled on her yesterday hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. Normally she smelled of mint. A scent that now always reminded him of her. She’d mentioned to him how she liked to chew on the leaves—especially when she was mucking the dogs’ kennels. Made complete sense. But it wasn’t mint yesterday. He knew what he’d smelled. If he didn’t speak to her about it, who would? No one else probably even knew. Why hadn’t she talked to him about needing more tonic? The pain had obviously continued, and he didn’t blame her for doing whatever she could to keep going. That was who she was. Strong, capable, independent. But if the stoic look on her face was any indication, she would continue to run herself ragged and treat herself with alcohol, and things could spiral out of control.
The funeral service had been beautiful, but it had taken its toll. The dark circles under her eyes and the slouch to hershoulders made him want to take her home immediately and insist that she get some rest.
But she would refuse. Every fiber of his being could predict it.
It had been months since he’d given her the tonic, but the consequences of the attack were more than just physical. She’d dealt with anxiety and fear since that day. Things that Whitney attested to being new and strange to her. And she’d made him promise that he wouldn’t tell her family.
Rumors had flown throughout Nome that Whitney was a loose woman. Until Sinclair changed his story and made a public declaration of her innocence in the matter. The apology had, no doubt, been forced by the man’s employer.Judas. Which didn’t matter—at least her reputation had been restored.
Then Sinclair disappeared.
No one missed the man. But Whitney had once mentioned her fear of him returning.
Even though she never gave details of the attack, it hadn’t been hard to put two and two together.
The physical attack and emotional consequences would be difficult to heal from even if that was all Miss Powell had to deal with. But when compounded with every other trial her family had encountered in the past year, she was on the verge of breaking. She’d never admit it, but he could see it. Almost as if she stood on the brink of a precipice and it wouldn’t take much to push her over the edge. If she continued to keep things bottled up and turn to the “tonic” for help, the results could be catastrophic.
He’d just have to stay attentive to Whitney’s demeanor, actions, and health.
So far, she’d been honest with him when he’d checked onher. At her last visit, she hadn’t mentioned needing the tonic any longer ... but would she use this latest grief and loss to shut everyone out, including him? If not, would confronting her about what he suspected push her away?
He shook away the questions and focused on the here and now.
The Roadhouse hummed with quiet chatter. The service had been beautiful. The girls sang “Rock of Ages” to close the service in the most beautiful performance he’d ever heard. Their harmonies were glorious. Their voices strong. Even though each one of them had tears glistening in her eyes.
It appeared the entire town of Nome had shown up for the service.
Peter stood in line to speak to the family, listening to the praise and memories of Chuck Bundrant.
Before Peter reached the family, Whitney excused herself and went out the side door.
Odd. Or maybe not so much. Grief could make it difficult to be around crowds of people.
For several moments, he watched the door she’d used as an exit and debated with himself. But when she didn’t return, he followed her in the direction of her retreat.
Bright sunlight blinded him for a moment, and he put a hand over his eyes to adjust. The snow shimmered like diamonds. He searched the area around the building and then spotted her. With her arms crossed over her middle, her chin was dipped low. She’d taken out the ribbon that had tamed her curly hair, and it hung from her fingertips. As her curls swayed in the bone-chilling wind, she lifted a hand to rub one of her temples.
