Dawson's footsteps were soft against the tile as he approached. In the next second, she was enveloped in his embrace. The scent of his aftershave—cedar and citrus—filled her senses. Peyton's head found the curve of his shoulder instantly, muscle memory taking over. Comforting. Warm. Anchoring. She sank into his touch as memories rose unbidden in her mind. Long walks in the park, dancing under the shade of an old oak tree to soft country music, tender kisses full of promises and love.
“We'll find her, Peyton.” His voice was low, rumbling through his chest and vibrating gently against her ear. “Everything is going to be okay.”
“I hope so.” She pulled away to reach for some tissues, wiping her face, before crumpling them in her hand. “Thank you, Dawson. For coming tonight. It means a lot, especially given how things ended between us.” She forced herself to meet his gaze and drew in a breath. “I owe you a long-overdue apology. I was angry after Samuel died, and…” Shame heated her cheeks. “I couldn’t see a way forward. I lost my faith in God. It took me a long time to find my way back.”
His jaw tightened. “Neither of us handled it well. I made my own mistakes.” Dawson shifted from the bed to a chair. His expression was neutral, but she heard the warning note buried in his voice. “Why don’t we leave the past in the past? There are bigger issues to deal with at the moment.”
He didn’t want to talk about this. Typical. He’d never handled tough conversations well, and this time, she couldn’t blame him. What good would rehashing the past do? It couldn’t be changed. Dawson was right to focus their attention on Lilia’s disappearance.
A knock on the door preceded the emergency room doctor. His white coat flapped as he approached her bedside. “Good news, Ms. Hughes. Your MRI shows only a mild concussion. We’re going to send you home, but I want you to get plenty of rest and hydrate. If you experience any dizziness, severe headache, vomiting, vision changes, or confusion, I want you to come right back.” He continued rapid-fire, with a list of instructions while checking her pupil reaction. “The nurse will be in shortly with the discharge paperwork.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He left the room, closing the door hard enough that it jolted baby Grace. She gave a hearty cry. Peyton struggled to detangle herself from the bedsheets. Her muscles screamed in protest.
“I’ve got her.” Dawson rose and effortlessly slipped a hand underneath Grace’s head before gently lifting her into his arms. The baby immediately quieted. Dawson’s head dipped, his focus on the little girl, and in an instant, Peyton was transported back in time.
Her, in a hospital bed. Dawson standing nearby, his face etched in anguish as he held their son.
Samuel. Sweet Samuel.
A grief so painful it was physical swept through Peyton. All at once, she felt hot and cold. Her fingers found the necklace at her throat—Nana Grace’s cross—and held on. She forced a shallow breath. Then another one. The heartache subsided. Not completely. It was there, always. There were times, like now, when something would trigger a forceful reaction, but more often than not, it was a dull ache. But it didn’t consume her anymore. She'd learned to let it pass through without pulling her under.
Still, her hands trembled, and the room felt too small. She pushed back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Dawson looked up, concern flickering in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” She managed a small smile. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
She didn't wait for his response. The bathroom was only a few steps away, but her legs felt unsteady—whether from the concussion or the weight of her grief, she couldn't tell. She closed the door behind her and leaned against the sink, staring at her reflection. Her complexion was pale, dried blood still crusted in her hair.
You're stronger than you know, baby girl. The Lord didn't give you a spirit of fear, but of power, and love, and a sound mind. Remember that.
Nana Grace had said those words before they entered the church for her mother’s funeral. Peyton clung to them now. God was with her, and He would see her through.
She splashed water on her face and then washed as much of the blood out of her hair as possible, while being careful of the tender knot on her scalp. Feeling centered and more like herself, she stepped back into the hospital room.
Dawson was sitting in the chair next to the bed, still holding Grace. He glanced up, that concern still riding his brow. “Feeling better?”
She nodded. Peyton braced for a pang of grief, but this time, it didn’t come. She drifted closer. The baby had fallen back to sleep, long lashes resting on chubby cheeks. Her tiny rosebud mouth worked softly, as if she were dreaming of a bottle. Peyton could see the echo of Lilia in the curve of the baby’s forehead and the line of her jaw. She also shared their chestnut-colored waves. “She’s beautiful.” Peyton paused. “Lilia named her for our grandmother. Grace Elizabeth.”
Dawson nodded. “Nana Grace would be proud.”
“She would be.”
Their gazes met, and an understanding passed between them. One that could only come from having known each other since they were sixteen years old. Dawson had spent hours and at her house with Nana Grace. She’d been like a grandmother to him too. He’d loved her nearly as much as Peyton and Lilia had.
Dawson tilted his head toward the baby. “Would you like to hold her?”
“Yes, but I’m not steady enough yet.” Her muscles felt weak, and she didn’t want to drop Grace. Peyton smiled down at thelittle girl. “And she’s so peaceful in your arms. I don’t want to disturb her.”
He was quiet for a beat. “Peyton, there’s something you should know. We found something else tucked in the baby carrier along with the birth certificate.”
Her stomach tightened. “What?”
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Peyton gave permission for the person to enter, expecting the nurse with her discharge paperwork. Instead, an older man wearing a Knoxville Police Department uniform came in. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed short, and his expression was no-nonsense.
He stepped forward. “Ms. Hughes, I’m Sam Garcia, Chief of Police.”
