Her eyes softened. “I get the feeling you’re speaking from personal experience.”
He took a slow, shaky breath.
It would be easy to shut down this conversation. Avoid the hard stuff. All he had to do was stand up, make a generic comment about death always being sad, and use his busy schedule as an excuse to flee.
Instead, he remained seated beside this woman who radiated compassion and quiet understanding. Who was nursing an injured rabbit back to health, according to Natalie. Who planned to show up for the final disposition of a man whose solitary life had touched her heart.
Maybe it was time to tell her his history, and to share with her the grief and angst and guilt that had been his constant companions.
All he had to do was summon up the courage to reveal his secrets—and hope she didn’t blame him for ending two lives far too soon, as he’d blamed himself for three long years.
Beside him, Cara started to rise. “Sorry again. I didn’t—”
“Wait.” Brad reached out to restrain her. If he wasn’t willing to talk, she’d walk away. Possibly forever. And he couldn’t take that risk. “I was thinking about how to respond to your comment.”
After a tiny hesitation, she settled back into her chair. “Sometimes I have a tendency to ask too many questions. Comes with being a researcher, I suppose.”
“Or a sheriff.” He forced up one side of his mouth.
She played with the hem of her shirt, fingering a loose thread. “In the interest of full disclosure, Natalie mentioned once that you weren’t married anymore, and that it was a sad situation. I wondered if you were divorced. Now I’m thinking your story is even sadder than a broken marriage.”
He watched two chipmunks dash across the lawn in a game of tag. “Yes, it is. And it’s not one I talk about often.” Like never.
“I understand if you’d rather—”
“No.” He looked over at her. “I’d like to tell you what happened, if you can spare a few more minutes.”
“I can spare all afternoon, if that’s what you need. I know how important it is to have someone to talk to when you’re hurting.”
As pain pooled in her irises, his stomach contracted. It seemed he wasn’t the only one with heartache in his past.
“It sounds like you have a story of your own.”
She toed aside a shriveled, dead leaf. “I do, and it’s not a pretty one. Someday I may share it with you. But this afternoon I’m more interested in hearing yours.”
Soul baring hadn’t been on his agenda today. Yet it was a logical next step if he wanted this relationship to progressbeyond the superficial. Plus, if he gave her a peek into his heart, it was possible she’d eventually reciprocate ... and open the door to deeper sharing.
Transferring his focus to a broken branch off to the side behind her so sound would be directed her way but he could avoid eye contact, he plunged in.
“I had a wife and four-year-old son, Elizabeth and Jonathan. They were my world. Three years ago, after Jonathan came down with flu symptoms, we treated him with all the usual remedies. Or Elizabeth did. I was working a murder case and was busy tracking down suspects. I finally came home to crash after twenty-four hours with no sleep. Jonathan’s fever had spiked, and Elizabeth thought we should take him to urgent care. But all I wanted to do was sleep.” His voice rasped.
Cara reached out tentatively, as if she was uncertain about how he’d react, and covered the fingers he’d clamped around the arms of the chair with her own.
The comforting gesture gave him the courage to continue.
“Elizabeth tried to convince me to drive them there. She was a city girl, and she never liked navigating the country roads at night. But I didn’t feel the same urgency she did about Jonathan’s condition. She tended to overreact to illnesses. I told her I needed to sleep, and that we could take him to urgent care in the morning if he hadn’t improved. Then I went to bed.”
He stopped, the sudden flood of memories squeezing the breath from his lungs.
As if sensing his distress, Cara leaned closer, using body language rather than words to convey her support.
After swallowing past the constriction in his throat, he picked up the story.
“I found the note later that said she didn’t feel comfortable waiting and had decided to take Jonathan herself. Except theynever got there. Fog had descended, and she missed a curve. I assume she got disoriented.”
The cadence of Cara’s breathing wobbled.
He forced himself to finish the story. “The car fell fifty feet, into a drainage ditch. She was gone when the paramedics arrived. Jonathan died the next d-day.”
