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Her parents’ disapproval of the man she’d chosen.
The shock of finding out she was pregnant.
Her belief that the baby was her way out of reservation life.
And then, the slow unraveling.
The man she’d married wasn’t Prince Charming.
He isolated her after Caleb was born. Got her hooked on drugs.
Threatened to have her declared unfit when she tried to leave.
Her mental health declined, especially after her mother died when Caleb was twelve. They’d fought constantly, but Patricia Blackwater had been her anchor. When she was gone, something in Lillie broke.
Not long after, they moved to Phoenix. Even as her family reached out, fear and shame kept her from going back.
The only brightspot left in her life was Caleb. She’d clung to him. Feared losing him. Feared her family might believe the lies—that she wasn’t fit to raise her son.
Caleb closed the last journal and ran his fingers over the frayed cover.
It hadn’t been his mother’s family who cut ties.
It had been her.
And she’d regretted it.
He swallowed hard. Then again. Grief—raw and aching—pushed up from where he’d buried it for years.
If things had been different, he might have grown up knowing Zach. Might have had a relationship with his grandfather. Might have belonged—to his people. To the Diné culture he’d always kept at arm’s length.
“Caleb?”
Gia.He hadn’t heard her come into the living room.
She crept to the couch and sat beside him. “I woke up and you were gone.”
Her fingers brushed his cheek and came away wet. Tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed. “You opened your mother’s box.”
“I should have done more.”
“You were a child.” Her hand drifted to the necklace at his throat. “This is beautiful. Was it hers?”
“She was ashamed of what she’d become. Afraid of losing me.”
Gia took his hand and squeezed. “It’s not too late to get to know your family.”
He kissed her—gently at first, then deeper, pulling her close, needing her warmth to quiet the storm inside him.
She was his refuge. Her sweet kisses softened his grief. Her hands smoothed up his arms and curled around his neck, anchoring him in the present.
He breathed her in, her scent like desert flowers after rain, and molded her softness against the hard edges of himself.
His mother would have liked her. Would’ve seen a kindred soul—someone who understood what it meant to survive violence and chaos and still find strength on the other side.
And he had to dangle her like bait in front of a cartel prince just to set her free.
The thought turned his blood to ice—then sent it surging through his veins like a fire hose, threatening to rupture the one organ he couldn’t live without.