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“You look like you have an idea you’re not sure I’ll like. Anything and everything is on the figurative table today. Whatcha got? We can make it happen.”

“I could… I could maybe come up with a simple quilt design for the ranch. Something for potholders or table runners.”

He couldn’t have stopped the smile spreading across his face even if he’d wanted to. “I would love to see that.”

Eryn looked down at where her dressy shoe poked at the edge of a display unit. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” Who had made this woman so unsure of herself? From the interactions Maxwell had observed, it wasn’t her father. He might be a bit oblivious to the fact that Eryn’s reactions weren’t normal — weren’t healthy — but he didn’t seem to be adding to the burden.

Could it have been Amelia? Or being compared to her by everyone all the time? Because, while Maxwell could barely remember shy Eryn from childhood, Amelia stood out like a beacon, larger than life. She’d been confident. Forward. A bit brash, even.

What would it have been like to be her twin, always in her shadow?

“I’ll show you later.”

Maxwell pulled his focus back to Eryn. “You’ve been drawing it already.” It was written all over her face, even as she appeared reluctant to look at him.

“Yes? It’s just a doodle. Not very good yet. Nothing firm.”

He did his own share of doodling ideas for renovations. He’d be willing to bet her ideas were more polished than she was letting on.

“I’ve got a request for you.”

This time, she did look at him and her shoulders braced. “What’s that?”

“Can you put all that in writing? Maybe do some more research on local artisans and things like that, and make a written plan?”

“I… I could.”

“Take a few weeks if you like.” The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel pressured. Like her future depended on it. “Then I’d like to set up a meeting with Tate for you. Maybe at Thanksgiving when my grandfather is here as well, since he has a vested interest in all the areas of the guest ranch.”

“That sounds nerve-wracking.”

“I’ll come with you if you like. And it’s nothing to get anxious about. If that’s the position you’re applying to do, they’ll be delighted with nearly anything you propose. It has to be an improvement over the slipshod way it’s been run seasonally thus far, right?”

“Well…”

“You know I’m right.” He chuckled. “I’ll help with research if you want. Just point me in the right direction.” Because wouldn’t helping her with her proposal be a great excuse to spend time with her and get to know her without piling on pressure?

Yes. Yes, it would.

Chapter

Thirteen

July 4, 2008

Small towns are dumb. The Independence Day parade was full of tractors pulling trailers with hokey farm stuff on them, like people dressed up as corn cobs. Ugh. If anyone from Wichita saw Gilead’s parade they’d laugh until they peed their pants. And the fireworks lasted all of three minutes, tops. But Max and his brothers sat nearby with their mom, and I’m pretty sure he kept looking at me. I ACCIDENTALLY bumped into him when we were folding up our lawn chairs and he smiled at me and said hi. Oh my gosh (I’m not supposed to use that word) he has the cutest dimples. [three heart emojis]

Eryn grunted and slapped the diary closed. What did it matter that Amelia had noticed Maxwell’s dimples? A girl would have to be blind not to.

Amelia wasn’t here anymore. She was dead.

Eryn wasn’t.

And why did that make her feel so guilty? It wasn’t like she’d driven the oncoming car or been anywhere in the vicinity. She’d never wished ill on her sister.

Gileadeans dabbed their eyes and spoke in hushed tones about a promising life cut short. But Eryn had felt relief — finally her sister would stop picking at her — and then guilt at the relief. Because death was final. Unless you were Jesus and could pop up again three days later — surprise! — and Amelia definitely wasn’t God.