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“What happened?”

“I said things…He said things…” She shakes her head. “I can hardly remember exactly what now. Not but a bunch of bitter, angry words that I suspect neither of us really meant. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Once the words are out there…the damage is done. Your father packed up his things and your mother, and I—I told him—” Her lip quivers, her wrinkled hands trembling against her cup. “I told him if he walked out that door, he wouldn’t be welcome back.”

Her eyes close, and I have the strangest urge to reach out and grab her hand. I don’t know if she would welcome it, though, so I resist the urge.

“And you just…never spoke to each other again?”

She nods, her eyes still closed. “He wrote letters. For a short while. I was not smart enough to swallow my pride and answer them. For your entire life, I clung to that pride. A useless, ugly thing. I lost myboy, the light of my life, and I never told him ever again how much I loved him. I didn’t even know he was sick. He didn’t tell us. Why would he? It wasn’t until he passed that we—”

Her voice cracks, and one solitary tear leaks from the corner of her eye.

“I didn’t know,” I offer. “I didn’t know that he didn’t tell you.”

“S’not your fault.” She chuckles under her breath, a bitter sound. “S’not your fault I’ve been so cold to you either, I reckon.” Her eyes are glassy and wet when she opens them to look at me, a bright, vivid green as she studies my face. “Seeing you…it was such a shock. You look so much like your father. When I saw you on that doorstep, looking almost like you’d brought a piece of my boy back with you, I felt…angry. So bloody angry.”

“I know that I should have—”

“I wasn’t angry at you, lass,” she cuts in, shaking her head. “Not really. I know that’s what I’ve made you believe, but it’s not true.” She takes a deep breath, blowing it out through her nostrils. “I was angry atmyself. Still am, truth be told. I saw you, and it was suddenly so clear how much time I’d wasted, the life that I’d thrown away, thefamilyI’d cut from my life because of my stubborn pride. And for what? Absolutely nothing.” Her brow furrows, and her eyes gain a faraway look. “That’s what I feel every time I look at you, Keyanna, and I don’t yet know how not to feel it.”

Her confession leaves me stunned. This entire week I have wondered how I might bridge the gap between my grandmother and myself. I’ve wondered what might have come between her and my father to tear them apart. Finding out that in a roundabout way it wasmewas not on my bingo card.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell her honestly. “I’m sorry.”

She waves me off. “You’ve naught to be sorry for. Truly. I justneeded you to know what I’m dealing with, and I wanted you to know that I’m going to try harder to do just that. I…” She swallows, her eyes flicking to my hand, which rests on the table, as her fingers inch toward it tentatively. She gives me a quick glance as if seeking approval, and with my barely there nod, she brushes her fingers over mine. “Idowant to know you, Keyanna. I do. Trust me when I say that. If you can forgive your stubborn arse of a grandmother, I’d like a second chance to prove it to you.”

I watch as her eyes, so like mine, begin to swim with emotion, feeling almost like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Sure, I’ve still got the whole “there’s an actual monster living on the property” thing going on, but to know that my presence might not be actively hated by the last remnants of my family definitely makes it a little easier to breathe.

“I can,” I say, offering her a small smile. “I can forgive you.”

She nods, on a deep inhale, reaching to wipe her eye with her free hand. “Probably more than I deserve, but that can be said about most things in my life.” She pats my hand as she returns my smile, the first one she’s sent in my direction since I arrived, and with it, I feel something like hope pouring into my chest. “Now, how’s about a cup of tea?”

I can’t help the bubble of laughter that spills out of me; the last twenty-four hours might have been the longest of my life, and I have a feeling this is only the beginning.

“Got anything stronger?”

Rhona’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and she gives me a wink. “Aye, hen. That I do.”

12

Lachlan

I never thought that at thirty-four I would find myself actively avoiding a person as if caught up in some schoolyard drama—and yet for the last week, I’ve been doing exactly that. It’s become all too obvious that Keyanna MacKay is not someone easily ignored, however. She’s a constant thorn in my side, hounding me around the farm and trying to corner me at every turn, no doubt doing her best to catch me alone and grill me about what she knows. Because of course she couldn’t just make things easy and cart herself back to America. No, now she’s dug her heels in as if she’s got all the more reason to stick around.

Not that I have the slightest clue as to why.

There’s no good reason for her to want tohelpme as she continues to claim. In fact, if my family has learned anything from history, it’s that the MacKays are thelastpeople to expect help from. Rhona and Finlay might be the right sort, as far as I can tell, but they’re surely a fluke in an otherwise ghastly line of folk that I’ve been taught to avoid since before I knew how to walk. And given what I know aboutdaughters of MacKay—I have all the more reason to keep slipping away whenever I find myself in a nearby radius of the determined redhead.

Last night was a doozy, another disappointing venture of tryingto make contact and ending up retreating to a secluded bay licking my literal and metaphorical wounds. I don’t know why I’m still subjecting myself to this, since I know nothing good can come of it, but I can’t seem to make myself give up completely. As long as he’s out there, it seems that some part of me will always hold on to the foolish hope that I can get him back.

The sun is high when my eyes open, and I can tell from the way it streams through the curtains that I’ve already got a late start to the day. I stretch my arms above my head as my jaw cracks with a loud yawn, scratching my stomach as my lashes flutter closed in a last-ditch effort to grab a few more minutes of rest.

I’ve just started to drift when a loud banging sets off at my front door.

“Lachlan! I know you’re in there.”

I groan. It’s the third time this week she’s come pounding on my door. I grab the pillow from under my head and bring it to my face, trying to drown out her voice.

“I’m not leaving,” she calls through the wood. “I’ll wait out here all day if I have to.”