PROLOGUE
Lily Hawthorne
“Towels are in the bathroom cabinet, and breakfast is at eight.”
I smile at the elderly couple staying in room four as they nod politely, already halfway out the door, eager to explore. September always brings a certain kind of guest, the kind that arrives curious and leaves a little softer, a little quieter, like Wyoming has settled into them. Fall in Lander does that. Everything turns golden and crisp, the air carrying that first hint of cold, and people never expect it to be this beautiful out here.
I watch them go for a moment longer than necessary, then turn toward the stairs just as Grace cries.
I know that cry.
Sharp, offended, deeply wronged, like the world has personally betrayed her by waking her too soon.
I move quickly down the hall and into her room, lifting her from the crib before she can work herself into a full storm. She quiets almost instantly, her small body curling into mine like it belongs there, like it was always meant to fit against me this way.
“Did you wake up already?” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the soft crown of her head. “You only slept thirty minutes. I bet you’ll be grumpy by noon, huh.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, those eyes that were once blue and are now slowly turning green, studying my face like she’s trying to decide something important. Then her lips curl, soft and certain.
“Mama.”
There it is. My undoing.
“All right,” I say, smiling despite myself. “I guess you’ll help me prepare lunch.”
I tickle her belly and she laughs, that full, unfiltered baby laugh that fills the space between us and makes everything feel lighter than it is.
I’m halfway down the stairs when the phone rings.
I pause for a second, already tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, then set Grace gently into her play box before reaching for the receiver.
“Hawthorne Ranch and B&B, how can I help you?”
“Mrs. Hawthorne, hi. This is Principal Sloane.”
I close my eyes briefly.
This is the third time this month.
“Hi,” I say, careful with my tone. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” he replies, and there’s no hesitation in it. “I’m afraid it’s not. Your son, Dexter, had one of his episodes in class today.”
The word settles wrong.
Episodes.
“He refused to listen to his teacher,” the principal continues, “and threw himself on the ground, screaming. We strongly suggest you make an appointment with the local children’s neuropsychology department and have him evaluated.”
I exhale slowly, my hand tightening around the edge of the counter.
“Evaluated?”
“Yes. More than one teacher is convinced there may be something wrong with him.”
Something wrong with him.
My gaze drifts to the wall across from me, to the framed photograph of the ranch in winter, white stretching endlessly in every direction.
