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  “I thought so, too, but the nurse said she’s fine.”

  “I hope she’s right. The kids will be heartbroken if she takes a turn for the worse.”

  “They’re heartbroken every time they come and she doesn’t know who they are,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “God, this is all such a mess.”

  “The kids said that Rumer and Sullivan are back. That might make things easier.”

  “They arrived this morning.”

  “They also said that Rosie is staying on,” she added.

  “Right. Those kids have big ears and bigger mouths.”

  “And that you’d left.”

  “I did.” He gestured to an overnight bag that sat on the floor near the window. “I had some things to take care of in LA. Today seemed like as good a day as any to do it.”

  She nodded, touching Sunday’s cheek. “It would also be a good day for you to come back to us, Sunday.”

  Sunday opened her eyes. Just like she usually did.

  “Good for you, hun,” Clementine encouraged, smiling into her friend’s eyes. She got a blank stare in return, Sunday’s once lively gaze hazy and unfocused.

  “It’s one of her bad days,” Porter said. “She hasn’t tried to communicate with anyone. The nurse said that’s pretty typical of these kinds of brain injuries.”

  “It’s going to take time for her to completely heal.”

  “So the doctors and nurses keep saying, but the longer this goes on, the harder it is to believe that she ever will,” he admitted. “The kids are feeling that most of all. Aside from Moisey, they’ve been reluctant to visit.”

  “Moisey will probably never be reluctant. Currently, she’s obsessing on pink bandages, because she’s sure if she puts one on her finger, she’ll be able to bring Sunday back from whatever dreamworld she’s wandering in. She’s got quite an imagination.”

  “And quite a propensity for getting into trouble. I should call my brother and let him know she might be on the prowl tonight.”

  “I called Rosie. She’s going to make sure Moisey doesn’t go wandering tonight. I told her I’d go to town, hunt down pink bandages, and drop them by the house later. Somehow I ended up here.”

  “This is a long way from town.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “But here you are anyway.”

  “Here we both are. For a while. When does your plane leave?”

  “It left at three this morning. It returned an hour ago.”

  “You missed it?” she asked, finally glancing his way again, her breath catching, her heart leaping, that thread pulling taut between them.

  “It would be a little difficult to be here if I had,” he responded.

  “But . . . you’re not in LA.”

  “I was. I had a meeting at nine. Another one at two. I hopped on a return flight as soon as it was over.”

  “But Sullivan is back.”

  “And?”

  “You did your part.”

  “I guess you didn’t hear what I said earlier: I’m not going to be a fill-in until someone else comes along.”

  “I heard what you said.”

  “But you didn’t understand what I meant. The kids need consistency and stability. Now more than ever. They can’t handle saying good-bye every other day of their lives. So, I’m staying.”

  “Staying?”

  “In Benevolence. In the Lee Harris house.”

  “But you hate that house.”

  “I hated what it represented, but I’m not going to turn my nose up at something that will give me a chance to be around for Matt’s kids.”

  “You have a job and a life in LA.”

  “I had those things. Now my life is here. My job is going to be making sure my nieces and nephews know I can be counted on. My most important job, anyway. Since I also have to eat, I talked to the sheriff a couple of days ago. He’s looking for a part-time deputy. If things work out, it’ll be full-time in a year.”

  “But when Sunday recovers—”

  “I’m going to be here. No matter what happens. Because those kids need at least one person who makes sure they know they’re not throwaways or afterthoughts,” he said, staring straight into her eyes.

  Her heart thumped.

  Hard.

  Because he’d done what she couldn’t. What she wouldn’t. And he knew it.

  “That’s another thing I shouldn’t have said,” she mumbled, her mouth cottony, the words tight.

  “Why not? It’s the truth. And here’s another one: sometimes, a person’s got to brave-up. Sometimes, he’s got to forget the past and all the shitty things that have happened, and he’s got to throw himself into the future. New plans. New goals. New dreams. Because holding on to what he thought he wanted isn’t going to give him what he needs.”

  “Are you talking about me? Or you?”

  “I guess you’ll have to decide that.” He lifted the overnight bag and crossed the room.

  “You’re leaving?” she said, because she wanted to ask him to stay, but the words were stuck in her throat, caught somewhere between fear and longing.

  “The silent auction is Friday night, and there’s still a lot of work to do to prepare for it,” he responded, his tone clipped and a little angry.

  “How are the ticket sales? Will there be a good turnout?”

  “Life is too damn short to waste time talking about things that don’t matter.”

  “It’s a benefit for Sunday’s kids. Of course it matters,” she said, purposefully being obtuse, because that was easier than being honest. Easier than telling him he was braver than she was, more noble, made of the same stuff as ancient heroes and modern champions.

  “Tell you what, if you want to know about the auction, call the mayor. Because it’s been a long day, and I’m too tired to discuss it. See you around, Clementine.”

  “Porter,” she began, but he left the room, walking away with the quick, brusque stride of a man who had better places to be.

  “Damnit,” she whispered, dropping back into the chair, her eyes burning with useless tears.

  She could have gone after him.

  She could still go after him.

  So why didn’t she?

  Because of her job? Because of the past? Because she really was so much of a coward that she wouldn’t risk her heart?

  “He’s right. Life is too short to waste time talking about things that don’t matter.” The words were slurred, the voice almost inaudible, but Clementine heard it. At least, she thought she did.

  She glanced at the door, expecting to see a patient who’d been walking through the hall and overheard the conversation. Maybe an elderly woman with white hair and a wizened face.

  The doorway was empty.

  She crossed the room and looked into the corridor.

  It was empty, too.

  So maybe she’d imagined the voice, or maybe it was a ghostly manifestation of her subconscious mind. Whatever the case, the voice was right. Porter was right.

  Which could only mean that she was wrong.

  She could either stand around knowing it and not acting on it, or she could run after him. She could speak the things that mattered. She could tell him what was in her heart. She could throw herself into the future and see where it led.

  Because her parents hadn’t raised her to be a coward.

  They hadn’t taught her to be afraid. Not of relationships. Not of love. Not even of heartache.

  Sim had taught her that, and she didn’t want to carry the lesson with her. She wanted to release it into the cool night air and watch it twirl into the evening sky.

  “Where are my children?” the voice whispered again, the words like an icy finger sliding up Clementine’s spine. Ghostly. Disembodied. Made of cloud and mist and morning fog.

  She turned slowly, not sure what she expected to see. The jug-woman—Pukjinskwes—speaking from the shadows, calling for the babies that she’d stolen? A ghostly apparition hovering above the floor?
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  She scanned the room. Saw herself, tall and pale, reflected in the bedroom mirror. Saw the empty chairs. The abandoned book. The bed.

  Sunday. Looking at her.

  Really looking.

  No haze in her eyes. No vague emptiness in her gaze.

  “Sunday?” she said, rushing back across the room, lifting her friend’s hand, terrified that she’d imagined the voice, the alertness in Sunday’s face.

  There was a heartbeat of silence, then another.

  Finally, Sunday’s lips moved. “Who are you?”

  “A friend.” She pressed the call button, desperate to summon a nurse, to have someone verify what she was seeing and hearing. Because this was big. It was huge.

  Sunday had spoken previously. She’d seemed semi-alert on a few occasions, but she’d never asked for her children. She’d never seemed at all aware of the situation she was in or the life she had lived. She’d never looked into Clementine’s eyes and asked who she was.

  A nurse walked into the room moving way too calmly and slowly for Clementine’s liking.

  “Is everything okay in here?” she asked.

  “Sunday is waking up,” Clementine responded, her gaze fastened on Sunday’s pale face, because she was afraid if she looked away, the moment would end.

  “She’s been awake since she left the hospital,” the nurse replied.

  “I know, but she’s really waking up. As in, she’s asking questions about who I am and where her children are.”

  “Really?” The nurse looked doubtful, but she crossed the room, lifting Sunday’s wrist and feeling for her pulse.

  “How are you, sweetie?” she asked.

  Sunday didn’t answer. She was still staring into Clementine’s face.

  “Sunday?” the nurse persisted, and Sunday’s gaze shifted.

  “Where am I?”

  The nurse’s eyes widened.

  “Evergreen Valley Rehabilitation Center,” she responded. “Do you know your name?”

  “Sunday. Bradshaw.”

  “How about your age?” the nurse asked, reaching for the bedside phone and pressing several buttons. She was calling the doctor and other nurses, summoning experts, getting as many people to serve as witness to the event as she could.

  That made sense. Call people. Let them know. Gather everyone who loved Sunday around the bed, so they could hear her voice and look into her eyes, see a hint of the person she used to be.

  Just in case it didn’t last.

  Just in case she slipped away again.

  Clementine yanked her cell phone from her pocket, scrolling through her contacts. All the Bradshaws were listed, and she could have called any one of them, but Porter was closest. He couldn’t be more than five minutes away.

  She called him, her hands shaking as she held the phone to her ear and waited impatiently for him to answer.

  * * *

  Porter was six miles from the rehab center when his phone rang. He was in just the kind of mood to ignore it.

  He’d had a long day of meetings with people who’d been desperate to convince him to stay at his job. He’d been offered concession after concession. Different hours. More pay. More input into who he took on as client. The option to relocate to Benevolence and travel back to LA when he had a job. Flex hours and bonus pay and a hefty check to put in a fund for the kids’ college educations.

  It had sounded nice.

  Better than nice.

  It had sounded like something he couldn’t have refused a few days ago.

  But this wasn’t a few days ago, and he wasn’t the same guy who’d flown into town thinking about nothing but how quickly he could fly back out of it. He was an uncle with six kids who needed him.

  The phone rang again, and he frowned, pulling to the side of the road and checking the caller ID.

  Clementine’s name and number flashed across the screen, and his heart sank. This had to be bad news.

  Sunday had looked as pale as he’d ever seen her, her body so frail, he’d thought a light breeze could have broken her bones. If she died after all these weeks of the kids hoping and praying, if she fell back into a deep coma and didn’t come out of it, he didn’t know how he’d break the news to them.

  911. Pick up! Now! Clementine’s text streamed across the screen as the phone continued to ring. She’s talking!

  His heart jumped, his pulse racing as he connected to the handless phone system.

  “What’s going on?” he nearly shouted, useless adrenaline pumping through him, the tires squealing as he made a sharp U-turn and sped back toward the rehab center.

  “She’s awake,” Clementine replied breathlessly.

  He could hear hope in her voice. Relief. Fear.

  “Is she connecting with people? With you?” he asked, because Sunday had been semilucid just enough times for him to stop getting his hopes up when it happened.

  “She asked who I was. She asked about the kids. She remembered her name. She’s never done any of those things before.”

  She hadn’t, and he felt something feathery and light spring to life inside him. Optimism. Anticipation. Things he’d stopped having after the first few days of hopeful waiting. Things that he’d buried deep when Sunday had been moved to rehab, because it had been too painful to begin every day believing she’d reenter the world and end it knowing that she hadn’t.

  “Is the doctor there?” he asked.

  “A nurse called him. He’s on the way. How far are you? Oh God, Porter! What if she slips away again before the kids see her?”

  “Call Sullivan,” he replied. “Tell him what’s going on, but let’s try to keep it from the kids until they get to the center. That way if something happens . . .” He couldn’t finish. He didn’t want to think about how devastating that would be.

  “Right. Okay. I’ll call. Just hurry back, okay? She needs her family.” She disconnected, and he called Flynn, pressing the gas pedal nearly to the floor.

  He wanted to be at the rehab center now. He wanted to talk to Sunday, assess things, see if bringing the kids to see her was going to be the right thing to do. The last thing he wanted was to hurt them. If she wasn’t herself, if she didn’t act like their mother, would their hearts break more?

  God, this was hard.

  Knowing the right thing to do. Not for Sunday. Not for himself. For them.

  “Hello?” Flynn answered on the fourth ring, the connection staticky and tenuous.

  “Sunday’s awake,” he responded.

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Clementine is with her. I’m almost there.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “You might want to wait. If things change, a trip will be a waste of your time.”

  “If things change, you and Sullivan are going to be dealing with six heartbroken kids. Like I said, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Probably early tomorrow morning. I’ll rent a car, so no one has to pick me up at the airport. Text news as it happens. I want to be kept in the loop.” He disconnected, and Porter turned into the rehab center.

  He parked in the first available spot and jumped from the SUV, sprinting into the building and past the receptionist. Up the stairs and onto the second floor. He could hear voices as he ran down the hall. Men. Women. A buzz of excitement, and it was coming from Sunday’s room.

  He pushed through a crowd that had formed near her door, shoving his way past a couple of nurses. He didn’t care if he was being rude. He needed to know that the kids weren’t walking into heartbreak and disappointment. He needed to know that Sunday really was awake. He needed to know, damnit, that everything really might be okay.

  “Porter,” Clementine said, suddenly beside him, her hair tumbling around her face, her eyes wide. “You made it.”

  She grabbed his hand, pulled him to the bed, stood there beside him with her fingers curved through his.

  Sunday was lying exactly the way he’d left her, sheets pulled up to her chin, a blanket over her lower legs. Soft
golden hair poking out in dozens of different directions, the scar from her surgery angry-purple and puckered.

  But her eyes were open. She was staring at his face, studying it as if she were trying to figure out who he was.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m—”

  “Porter,” she said, her voice as soft as a butterfly’s kiss. “Where are the kids? Where’s Matt?”

  The question was like an arrow to his heart.

  He should have known she’d ask. He should have talked to Flynn, come up with a plan for how he would answer.

  “Porter?” she said, grabbing his wrist, her hand ice-cold and dry, her grip weak.

  “Let’s talk when you’re feeling better,” he suggested, knowing she had a right to the information, that she needed it, but unable to speak the words that were going to break her heart.

  She and Matt had been grade school friends, junior high buddies, and high school sweethearts. They’d married the day she’d turned eighteen. She’d known him for most of her life, loved him for nearly as long. Despite the troubles they’d been facing at the farm, despite whatever had been going on between them, Porter had to believe that still mattered.

  “Where are they?” she asked again, sitting up. Shoving the covers away.

  “Sunday,” a nurse said, putting a hand on her arm and trying to stop her. “Slow down. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “Are they dead? Is that why no one will answer my question?” she asked, still staring into Porter’s eyes, her face stricken, colorless.

  “Call the doctor,” the nurse said to no one. “See if he’ll order a sedative.”

  “No,” Clementine protested. “You can’t knock her out. She just woke up.”

  “Not knock her out. Calm her down.”

  “What’s the difference if she can’t greet her kids when they come to see her?”

  “I agree,” Porter said, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling Clementine down beside him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn’t know what to do. Tell Sunday the truth? Keep it from her?

  “She needs to know,” Clementine said quietly, as if she’d read his mind.

  “What? Just tell me, okay?” Sunday said, her voice raspy and hot.