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It rolled through his mind like a song lyric. Delicate, but with a core of strength. Like her.
She cocked her head toward him. “President Blackwater said he’ll observe the traditional four days of mourning. Will you do the same?”
He shrugged to loosen the sudden knot in his shoulders. “In my way.”
Maybe he’d take a few extra days after settling his mother’s affairs in Phoenix—let the shoulder heal. He could still get back in time to take the New York job.
“There.” Gia pointed to a small single-story house—off-white stucco trimmed in gray stone.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
He knew this place.
His grandfather still lived in the modest home he’d built for his wife not long before she died. Caleb had expected the Navajo Nation president to have fancier digs.
Street parking was their only option. He stayed in the Jeep, seatbelt latched, as his grandfather, aunt and uncle, and Zach streamed inside, the security detail close behind.
Gia’s hand slid over his.
“Caleb?” Her voice was gentle. “Are you coming?”
“Yeah.” He forced a smile and unlatched his belt.
Memories buffeted him as he stepped inside. The black, wood-burning stove in the living room corner. The tan sofa and brown armchair around a wood coffee table. Even the oak dining table crowded with documents instead of plates looked familiar—a workspace rather than a place for communal meals.
In the kitchen, a silver-haired Navajo woman stirred a cast-iron pot on the stove. She was new—to him, at least. The smell of mutton stew and fry bread made his stomach gurgle. His grandmother had made stew like that. After they moved to Phoenix, his mother had tried—cheaper cuts of meat, fewer spices—but eventually, even that had stopped.
“Lucy, this is my grandson, Caleb.” His grandfather’s voice brought him back to the present. “Lucy keeps me fed and my house in order.”
“Yá’át’ééh, Caleb.” Lucy handed him a steaming bowl and a generous piece of fry bread.
“Yá’át’ééh, shimá sání.” He returned the greeting, adding my grandmother as a term of respect.
Meal in hand, he hovered, unsure where to sit. The small space made him claustrophobic. His family probably had seats theygravitated to after years of gatherings he and his mother hadn’t been part of. Would he have grown up sitting next to Zach? Would his life have been different if they’d stayed?
A dull ache bloomed in his chest. His jaw tightened.
No use mourning what might have been. He’d survived and was doing just fine.
His grandfather settled into the armchair by the stove. His aunt and uncle carved out space at the dining table. Gia and Zach took the sofa.
“Come sit,” Gia said, patting the cushion beside her. There was something in her expression—the way her gaze lingered on his family, that hinted at a longing Caleb recognized all too well.
He lowered himself next to her and set his bowl on the coffee table, then tore a piece of fry bread and scooped a bite of stew into his mouth.
The flavors—tender meat, spicy chilies, carrots, onions, and—exploded across his taste buds and warmed his stomach. His eyes fell shut, savoring the connection to a life that used to be his a long time ago.
“My grandson approves, Lucy.” A smile hovered over his grandfather’s lips, despite the sadness in his eyes.
The small boy inside Caleb leaned into the hint of affection. The grown man remembered the years of silence, the abandonment.
His jaw tightened.
Too little, too late.
He wiped his mouth. “We need to discuss Gia’s protection.”
Gia placed her bowl carefully on the coffee table with unsteady hands.