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If only…
Stop.
Regret rushed through her — hard and true.
The path she’d set herself on didn’t include things like beds of flowers, sniffing dogs, or dinner dates. Lingering kisses.
If she survived…
She didn’t plan on it.
A cop in prison was a one-way trip to hell.
She spun on her heel, climbed the steps, and crossed to the front door.
It opened just as she lifted her hand to knock.
Small mercy — Ronan wore a shirt.
He grinned. “Ladies,” he said, stepping back.
She strode past him, keenly aware of his delicious scent. “This is not a date,” she said, more to herself than to him. She avoided looking at the staircase — that night still lived in her mind — and busied herself with unhooking the leashes.
He closed the door and the dogs danced around the hallway, nails clicking on the wood, grunting as they spread out, sniffing the nooks and crannies.
“Did you hear me?” she demanded.
He gave her an assessing look. “Not a date. Loud and clear. But Felicity…”
Huffing, she met his far-too-assessing gaze.
“I’m not the one who used that word.” A smile flickered. “You did.”
“Ugh.” She stormed through to the living room—
And stuttered to a stop.
Speechless, she stared at the mural stretching from window to window, fully exposed.
Fully restored.
It was … she had no words.
Along the lower edge, the river revealed itself. Not obvious at first. Just a soft curve of muted blues and pale sand, but once seen, it anchored everything. It meandered through the scene, splitting into shallow channels and sandbars, the deeper water rendered in darker strokes. The banks were uneven, natural, the grasses growing thicker there, spilling upward into the fields beyond, each stroke angled just enough to suggest movement … as if a slow, steady breeze moved through it.
A fence line cut across the scene, weathered posts leaning at uneven angles, the wire hinted at rather than defined.
Beyond it, the land rolled gently, rising and falling in soft swells that drew the eye toward the horizon. The blue above wasn’t a single color either — pale near the edge of the earth, deepening as it stretched higher, brushed through with the faintest suggestion of cloud.
A tree stood off to one side, closer than the rest. Its trunk was thick, its branches reaching wide. Leaves layered in greens — olive, moss, deeper forest tones — caught the light along their edges, holding a depth that had somehow survived the years.
The light in the scene was unmistakable. Late afternoon. Warm, slanting, touching everything without overwhelming it. It softened the fence posts, edged the grass, lingered in the canopy of the tree.
There was no focal point demanding attention. No drama.
Just land. Sky. Space.
Peace.
