“I liked when she braided my hair,” Eliza continues. “She didn’t pull. Uncle Marshall pulls.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Yeah?”
“She smells nice,” Caleb adds. “Like flowers. And honey.”
Eliza nods solemnly. “And she listens. Like when you talk, and she doesn’t interrupt.’”
I swallow.
The rain taps steadily against the windshield, the world blurring into gray-green streaks as the road stretches out ahead of us. My kids keep talking, their voices overlapping, stacking up memories.
“She makes the good tea.”
“She lets us ask a lot of questions.”
“She didn’t get mad when I spilled the sugar.”
“She said it was an accident, not a mistake.”
Each comment is small.
Together, they’re devastating.
I don’t say much after that. I let them talk. I let the road unwind. I let it settle in.
Because it’s one thing for me to want her.
That’s dangerous enough on its own.
But my kids?
They’ve already made space for her without hesitation. Without fear. Without the baggage I drag behind me in an overpacked trailer.
They adore her.
And that realization sits heavy and quiet in my chest—not panic exactly, but closer to awe.
When Colter Creek finally comes into view, smoke thinned to a distant haze and rain-darkened trees lining the road, standing guard, I slow automatically, eyes scanning.
And then I see it.
Abilene’s place.
The house is still standing, but it’s not untouched. Mud smeared up the siding. A porch step warped. The yard looks… bruised.
My jaw tightens.
“Daddy,” Eliza says softly. “Is Miss Abilene’s house okay?”
I pull over for longer than necessary, engine idling, and take it all in.
“It will be,” I say finally. “We’ll help.”
They accept that instantly. No doubt. No hesitation.
Of course they do.
I pull back onto the road, already making a list in my head. Tools, lumber, time. Things I can fix. Things I can do.
