“I know,” she whispered. “I love you too.”
A car rolled up the drive. Browne’s SUV stopped behind Palmer’s cruiser. He stepped out in his tweed coat, briefcase swinging at his side, hair wild. He looked like he’d been dragged out of a warm bed because of this. I knew Palmer had called him earlier.
“Miss Thomas, Mr. Adams,” he greeted, his voice gravelly. His gaze swept the ruins. “Thank heaven you’re both unharmed.”
“Thanks,” Milly said, smiling.
“The Thomases are in custody,” Browne said. “Between Sheriff Palmer and your friend Reaper, the evidence looks ironclad. The DA will have an easy time of it. Penny’s estate is secure, and your holdings are intact.”
He looked toward the field again. “A pity about the barn. Your aunt kept saying she’d mend it come spring. Of course, she’d said that for years.”
“She won’t have to,” Milly said softly. “We’ll rebuild.”
Browne smiled faintly. “She would like that answer.” He stood between the two of us. “I’ll see to the insurance and filings. You can expect some paperwork by Monday.”
When he left, it all felt lighter somehow. The smell of smoke lingered, along with wet wood and clean snow.
Milly pulled the blanket tighter around herself and stared toward the north pasture. “Winter’s here.”
“We’re ready,” I said, tightening my hold on her shoulder.
Snowflakes fell in large flakes, calm and soundless.
I thought of that other night again, the desert covered with ash, me standing where fire had ended everything. Tonight was different. I wasn’t watching something die. I was alive again.
Milly’s fingers tightened on my knee.
Tomorrow we’d face the paperwork, the cleanup, the insurance, the questions. Tonight, all I needed was her hand to remind me I’d come out of the fire carrying her, and along with it, my heart.
Palmer stood by his car. “Fire’s out. You two get some sleep.” He tipped his hat to Milly, then glared at me. “If that arm blisters, ER. No cowboy stuff.”
“No promises,” I said.
“Promises,” Milly countered, and the sheriff left muttering about sensible women.
By the time Palmer rolled off and Browne’s taillights vanished down the lane, the north field wore a thin, pale veil, a ghost of what once was.
Milly’s hand was still in mine. We stood on the porch a little longer. The goats muttered in the paddock, Inspector flicked his tail, and the horses were quiet. I squeezed Milly’s fingers and felt the squeeze back.
“Come on. Let’s go inside,” I said when her teeth started to chatter. “Heat, tea, and real air.”
She didn’t argue, just nodded.
The entry smelled like wood polish, wood smoke, and over-steeped peppermint tea. Someone had turned on the small flameless candle, a brave little light making its stand against the dark.
“Here.” I pulled out a chair. “Sit.” Her hair was still damp. I tucked a stray strand behind her ear, leaving a fingertip track through the soot.
“You need to rest,” she said.
“Already resting,” I lied. She gave me a disbelieving look.
I soaked a dish towel in hot water and wrung it out. “Hands.”
She lifted them, palms up. The rope had left red bracelets on her wrists. I laid the warm cloth over them and watched her eyes soften.
“This is sweet,” she murmured.
“I’m certified in kitchen-towel therapy. I thought you knew.” I winked. “Stay still.”
