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She stepped closer, leaning past him to watch Brutus’s retreating backside. Close enough that he caught the scent of her shampoo, warm skin, and lingering orange juice. He kept his eyes fixed on the treeline.
“Cal?” she asked softly as he turned back toward the sink.
“Yeah, baby girl?” He drank another cup of water, trying to rinse away the crime scene in his mouth.
Sage giggled. “Can… can you make me some food?”
“Of course. But I’m gonna finish what you made. It’s delicious.”
She went quiet. When he glanced back, she was watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite name — laughter still there, but something deeper underneath, something vulnerable she hadn’t managed to hide in time.
“You… are going to eat them anyway,” she said, almost to herself. “For me.”
He didn’t answer. Just pulled down a fresh pan and started cooking two perfect French omelets with herbs, cheese, and tomatoes.
Sage watched him for a long moment, then turned away, wiping at her eyes. A minute later she picked up a dish towel and started cleaning up the beautiful mess she’d made.
“I’m going to learn how to cook,” she said quietly. “Mary Sue could probably… Is that okay? If I call her?”
“She’s your mama,” Cal said simply. “I think she’d want that.”
Sage went still for a second, something soft and a little fragile flickering across her face. She blinked quickly, then gave him a small, grateful smile that didn’t quite hide the wetness in her eyes.
“Yeah… okay,” she whispered.
The kitchen settled into a comfortable quiet.
Outside, Brutus had returned to his spot by the chicken coop. The mountains glowed gold as morning light spilled over the ridge. Cal cooked food in his bare feet and Sage wiped her eyes and smiled, and neither of them said anything else, and it was enough.
18
CAL
The December days grew shorter without fanfare, each one quietly stealing a few more minutes of light. Yet somehow, the cabin felt brighter than it ever had. Fuller. Warmer. As if the fading daylight outside was being replaced by something softer and more enduring that had quietly taken up residence in the walls, the mornings, and the spaces between them.
Six years ago, when he’d first returned to Blackthorn Ridge, he had been broken in ways most men never survive.
The last mission had shattered what little remained of him after years of brutality and war, in the Navy first, and then the CIA. A black void had nearly swallowed him whole.
Destroyed and bleeding, he had broken so completely that he thought he would never come back. Only a desperate, fevered dream that dark night, and the quiet mercy of God, had pulled him back from the edge.
With the help of people who loved him, he came home and slowly laid down the rage and anguish he’d carried for so long.
It had taken time. Pain. Prayer. And the hardest thing of all — forgiving himself.
He had done it.
Mostly.
Before Sage Thompson, he would have said he was at peace. Happy, even.
Mostly.
But now he understood the truth.
That his life before her had been like a beautiful black-and-white photograph — stark, honest, and cold.
He hadn’t known what he was missing until she arrived, carrying color with her. Vibrant, messy, impossibly bright color that filled the shortening days and made the long winter nights feel like something to look forward to instead of endure.
