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  Porter leaned his elbow on the fence post, watching as the wire cutters inched closer to Sim’s ear.

  “Go ahead,” Clementine responded. “I wouldn’t mind facing you in court. Maybe the judge will force you to repay the money you stole from me.”

  “Now, hold on! I’m no thief. That money was ours, and I used it to build our future. I already told you that. As for the ring, I just want to use it as collateral to get a loan so that I can capitalize on our investment.”

  “Our investment? The only investment I’ve made recently is the time I put into this fence. I thought it would keep the vermin out of the chicken yard. Obviously, I was wrong. It’s about as useless as a lying, cheating jackass hanging from barbed wire.” She snapped the cutters closed. The wires sagged; Sim tumbled to the ground.

  “Get off this property,” she continued. “And don’t come back. If you do, I’ll make sure your heart is impaled with something a hell of a lot sharper than barbed wire.”

  She flipped the cutters up to her shoulder, holding them like a long-range rifle as she walked away. Hips swaying, stride confident, strong and feminine and sexy as hell. Beautiful in every possible way a person should be, and if she hadn’t been so scared, so worried about being hurt, Porter would have followed her home and kissed every inch of her gorgeous skin.

  “I’m still stuck,” Sim moaned, trying to unhook his coat from the barbs.

  “Because you’re an idiot,” Porter responded, yanking him up by the coat collar, pulling the barbs away, and giving him a none-too-gentle shove toward the house and the flashing lights of the sheriff’s approaching vehicle.

  Chapter Eight

  Sim was gone.

  For good and forever.

  Thanks to the sheriff’s promise to arrest him for trespassing and harassment if he ever set foot in Benevolence again, Sim had boarded a plane and gone home ten days ago.

  Home to his mother.

  Clementine should have been amused by that, but all she felt was tired. She’d been working the fields in the morning, building the chicken coop with Harley and the kids in the afternoon, spinning wool and knitting baby hats in the evening.

  She’d kept her days and nights busy, because she’d wanted to keep her mind occupied, her thoughts from drifting to places they shouldn’t.

  Like to Porter.

  To his sweet words and tender kisses, to the feel of his hands trailing along her spine.

  She shivered, pulling her sweater a little closer and telling herself it was the chill in the air and not the longing in her heart that was giving her goose bumps.

  “Goose walking over your grave, Clementine?” Moisey asked, looking up from the baby hat she was trying to knit. It was a mess of dropped and off-sized stitches, the yarn fuzzy from being worked and reworked as Moisey tried to correct her mistakes.

  “That’s a weird thing to say,” Milo grumbled, setting his fifth hat on the table and picking up another skein of yarn. Yellow with sparkly threads of white woven through it. He had a knack for knitting, each one of his projects beautifully finished, but he seemed embarrassed by the talent, and Clementine tried not to make a big deal about it.

  She tried not to make a big deal about anything with the kids. They’d seemed more restful lately, more synched with the tempo of farm life and with each other. Physical labor had been good for all of them. Setting posts and laying foundations and doing all the work Clementine had learned to do when she was Moisey’s age had burned off a lot of their energy and eased some of their anxiety. From what Rosie said, they got ready for school in the morning without complaint, did their homework, and hadn’t been in trouble at school in a week.

  Porter was probably happy about that.

  Clementine didn’t know. She hadn’t seen him since Sim had been carted away. Okay. She had seen him. But only at a distance and only for a few seconds. Sometimes, he’d wave. Sometimes, she’d smile. But they didn’t talk. Not like they had before.

  “Why is it weird?” Moisey asked, scowling at the knotted yarn at the end of her knitting needles.

  “Because Clementine is alive. She doesn’t have a grave,” he responded, taking the needles and hat from her hands and quickly setting them right. “There. Now go a little slower, because the only reason you’re messing up is because you’re trying to rush.”

  “I’m rushing because you already did five, and I haven’t even done one. And Maddox did two. And Heavenly did four. And Twila did three. And Clementine did, like, seventeen. And I’m just sitting here like a slug with a bunch of tangled yarn.”

  “It’s not a race, dweeb,” Heavenly said, setting a finished hat on the coffee table and lifting Oya from the floor beside her. “And your hats are always the prettiest colors, so why do you care if you make the most?”

  “Do you really think they are?” Moisey asked, eyeing the royal blue alpaca yarn she’d chosen.

  “The prettiest colors? Yeah. I do. You have an eye for stuff like that. Me? I’d rather just make them all black.”

  “I think that would be a little sad,” Twila said, finishing a pastel green hat and setting it down. “I also think we need to go home. Rosie said we should be back before dark, and the sun’s already setting.”

  “You’re right,” Moisey agreed, jumping up and rushing to the front window. “The sun is almost down. If we don’t hurry, we’re going to get in trouble.”

  “By who?” Twila asked, collecting all the finished hats and carefully laying them in a cardboard box. “Uncle Porter isn’t here. Rosie never gets mad.”

  “Your uncle isn’t around?” Clementine asked, surprised and a little unsettled. They might not be talking, but she’d gotten used to seeing him on the farm. He’d fixed the dock and cleaned out the boathouse, sawing and hammering late into the evenings. He’d built a small corral for pony rides and fixed the irrigation system that ran water to the fields.

  She’d been impressed by the work he was getting done, but she hadn’t told him that.

  She’d been afraid to break the silence, and even more afraid of how easy it would be to step into his arms again.

  “He left.” Twila closed the box and carried it to the door.

  “So he’s gone?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s what she just said,” Heavenly muttered. “But don’t worry. Sullivan and Rumer came back this morning. They’re at her grandmother’s getting all her stuff so she can move into the farmhouse with us. And Rosie’s moving in, too, because the uncles don’t think Rumer should have to do all the cooking, cleaning, and child-care stuff herself. Now that she’s family, she says she doesn’t want to get paid.”

  “Rosie’s staying on?” Clementine wondered how Sunday would feel knowing that the farmhouse was filling up with strangers. She’d probably love it. She’d been a wonderful hostess and a warmhearted friend.

  “Unfortunately,” Heavenly griped.

  “Why unfortunately?”

  “Because, if you ask me, the place is getting too crowded.”

  “If you ask me,” Moisey said, bouncing to the door and throwing it open, “the more the merrier.”

  “If you ask me, there are too many girls,” Maddox added. “We need more men.”

  “We need Mom,” Moisey corrected. “And since Rumer and Sullivan are back, maybe we can go see her tomorrow. I can’t wait! I finally figured out why my powers haven’t been working.”

  “Powers?” Clementine asked, following them to the door, her mind still on Porter’s sudden departure. They hadn’t been talking, but he could have at least said good-bye.

  “The ones I used to wake you up. They didn’t work on Mom, but I know why.” She held up her finger, showing a purplish scar. “See? The cut is healed.”

  “You’re not planning on cutting yourself again, I hope.”

  “No. That would be stupid. I realized the power came from the Band-Aid.”

  “It did?”

  “Of course. Everyone knows that pink ones have magical properties. I tried to g
et it out of the trash can once I remembered that, but Rosie was appalled. She said trash stays in the trash can forever. I looked for pink Band-Aids in our medicine cabinets, but we only have the tan kind.”

  “Do you want me to buy you some?” Milo offered.

  “No!” Clementine said, remembering his quest to buy her a pencil and how that had ended. “What I mean is, I’ll pick some up for her.”

  “You will?” Moisey’s face lit up, her impish smile showing off dimples in both cheeks.

  “Sure. I have to run to the feed store tomorrow to order the chicks. I can go to the pharmacy on my way.”

  “Tomorrow? But what if we visit Mom before you get back?”

  “You’ll be at school tomorrow,” she reminded her.

  “Tomorrow is Saturday,” Twila said with a sigh. “We all have to stay home.”

  “See?” Moisey added. “I have to have the Band-Aids tonight. If we go in the morning, and I don’t have them, I might miss the very last opportunity to ever wake Mom up.”

  “Why do you say that, sweetie?” Clementine asked, surprised by the comment. She’d been to see Sunday three days ago. She hadn’t improved. She still wasn’t completely conscious, but she wasn’t any worse than she’d been, either. Had something changed?

  “She’s lost in the shadow world of dreams, Clementine,” Moisey said solemnly. “It’s a dangerous place for mortals to be.”

  “Honey, that’s just a myth. Your mom has a brain injury. She’s having a hard time waking up from it.”

  “That’s what adults think. I know better. I thought you did, too. Never mind about the Band-Aids. I’ll figure it out myself.” She ran outside, sprinting across the gravel driveway and heading toward home.

  “Man, you sure made a mess of that,” Heavenly said, following her sister out the door.

  Minutes later the house was silent, the old grandfather clock ticking happily in the kitchen.

  Clementine wasn’t happy.

  She was worried. Moisey had a big imagination and a propensity for getting into trouble. She wanted pink Band-Aids by morning, and she’d probably be willing to sneak out of the house and walk to town to get them.

  If Porter was around . . .

  But, of course, he wasn’t.

  He’d left town without a word. No explanation. No good-bye.

  Not that she deserved one.

  She’d made her feelings clear. She’d told him exactly where they were headed. Nowhere together.

  He’d called her a coward.

  And she guessed she was one, but she’d learned something important after Sim left. She learned that giving someone half your heart made it easy when they walked away.

  That’s what she’d done with Sim—offered part of who she was. She’d given him love and affection and an unfathomable amount of grace, but she’d held back pieces of her heart.

  He hadn’t noticed.

  Or, he hadn’t cared.

  He’d certainly never asked her about the things she’d learned as a kid, the stories she carried with her, the life she’d lived in Wyoming. He’d never wanted to know how many wives her father had or how she’d felt about them. And he sure as hell had never wanted to watch her spin fibers into threads.

  Porter had.

  He’d wanted everything. Every story. Every memory. Every piece of who she was. He would never have been satisfied with less. She’d known that. Somewhere deep in her soul she’d felt it, recognized it, heard it as clearly as the beat of that tribal drum calling her home.

  “For God’s sake, Clementine! Get over it!” she growled, irritated with herself, because this was what she’d wanted. No connections. No complications. No soft-spoken, hard-muscled man asking her questions. Just her. Alone. Working on the farm until it was time to return to Seattle.

  To return home.

  Because that’s what she’d be doing. Not just going to someplace where she’d stay for a while. She’d be going to a place where she’d stay forever, teaching and lecturing and telling stories.

  And she was going to love it, damnit.

  She was!

  She grabbed her cell phone and called Rosie, asking her to keep a close eye on Moisey and letting her know that she’d drop the pink Band-Aids off as soon as she could find them.

  She hadn’t planned to go to town. Despite all the work she’d been doing on the farm, all the good she was accomplishing, people still watched her suspiciously when she went out in public. She might be helping the Bradshaws, but she was still the woman who hadn’t turned in baby Miracle’s mother, the one whose husband had fled town before he could be questioned by the police. She was a stranger and an enigma, and the town would probably be happy when she was gone.

  She’d be happy, too.

  Except that when she dreamed, she dreamed of the fertile fields and the distant mountains. She dreamed of plants sprouting from rich earth and rain falling on lush crops. She dreamed of apple blossoms and children’s laughter and hundreds of things that she’d never have in Seattle.

  She put on her coat, hooked her purse over her shoulder, and walked outside, a soft spring breeze tickling the hair at her nape. The air was still edged with winter, but she could feel a hint of warmth in it, smell the sweet aroma of new growth.

  All around her, the farm was coming to life. Fields plowed and ready to plant. Chicken coop gleaming white in the setting sun. Barn cleaned out. Stalls fixed. Local suppliers contacted about chicks and feed. She could imagine the place in the fall: teeming with life and overflowing with energy.

  “But you won’t be here. And that’s okay,” she reminded herself, climbing into the Pontiac and pulling away from the rancher. “Because you’re doing this for Sunday and her kids.”

  She drove along the quiet country road, meaning to turn toward town. Instead, she headed away from it, the evening growing darker as she wound her way through thick forests and onto a long stretch of highway. Sunday’s rehab facility was a few miles south of Spokane, the pretty brick building sitting smack-dab in the middle of acres of green lawn. When Sunday was ready, she’d be wheeled through the gardens and inhale the fragrant aroma of lilac and honeysuckle.

  For now, she was confined to her room on the second floor, bay windows on the west wall looking out onto the garden. People visited and brought flowers and cards and pretty little knickknacks. The decor was cheerful, the staff kind. It was a private room. Spacious. Probably expensive. Clementine hadn’t asked. She knew there’d been an insurance payout for Matt’s death and that more money was coming in for Sunday’s care. The drunk driver who’d caused the accident had been driving a commercial truck, carrying produce to a local store.

  He’d crossed the center line at seventy miles an hour.

  He and Matt had both died instantly.

  Sunday’s survival had been a miracle.

  Every day that passed when she didn’t return to her children made it seem a little less like one.

  Clementine checked in with the receptionist, slapped a name tag onto her chest, and took the stairs to the second floor. The corridor was quiet, most visitors gone for the day. Even with beautiful paintings and warm wood floors, there was sadness to the place. Sure, there were people there who were rehabilitating from injuries and were going home, but there were others, like Sunday, who, maybe, never would.

  She didn’t knock on Sunday’s door, just walked in, expecting to see the hospital bed, the two empty chairs, the cards and knickknacks and flowers. The window looking out onto a landscape that Sunday never seemed to see, a hint of fading sunlight in the distant clouds.

  She wasn’t expecting to see Porter, but he was there, sitting in a chair with a book in his hand.

  “Porter,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “The same thing you are. Visiting Sunday,” he said, setting the book on the table and standing. “I like to read to her when I’m here. Little Women, because it’s her favorite.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah. She told me that
once when I was visiting. She was reading to Twila, and this was the book. Her favorite, and she said she wanted to share it with the people she loved the most.” He touched the cover. “That seems like a lifetime ago, but it was probably less than a year. I was on one of my quick visits. In and out in two days flat.”

  “You’ve stayed a lot longer this time. I know Sunday appreciates that.”

  “If she knows, I’m sure she does. If she doesn’t, I don’t care. You were right when you said that I’m the kids’ uncle. Not some temporary fill-in who’s only hanging around until someone else comes along.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have said that. Your family’s business isn’t mine.”

  “It sure as hell is. I’ve seen what you’ve been doing with the kids—teaching them things that are making them feel strong and capable and in control. They’re happier now than they’ve been since the accident. I’d say that’s mostly because of you. So, yeah, you have a say in what’s going on, because you’ve invested in their lives.”

  “Just for a while. Just until the end of summer,” she reminded him, and herself.

  “What you’ve done for Sunday’s kids is going to be with them forever.” He was looking into her eyes when he said it, and she was looking into his, and she could hear that pulsing drum again, feel an invisible thread that seemed to pull her toward him.

  If she let herself, she could believe that’s what had made her turn away from town instead of toward it. She could believe that was what had drawn her to the rehab facility on a day when she hadn’t planned to go.

  If she let herself, she could believe a lot of things.

  But that didn’t make them true.

  She needed to remember that.

  She needed to remember her goals.

  Mostly, she needed to remember that she and Porter were both planning to go. One to LA. One to Seattle.

  She dragged a chair to the bed and sat, focusing her attention on Sunday.

  “She’s pale,” she said, brushing wisps of hair from Sunday’s forehead. She’d had three surgeries on her brain, and her hair had been shaved twice. It was growing in now, wheat-colored and fine.