Page 172 of Deadline

“She’d do it, too.”

“You bet your life. By the way, she invited us up for Thanksgiving.” He stroked her hair. “How was your trip to Kansas?”

“Quick, but I didn’t want to leave the boys with the Metcalfs for more than one night. The memorial service was terribly sad.”

“I’m sure Stef’s parents were touched that you went.”

“They said as much. At least they were relieved of having to go through a trial. Jeremy’s dying spared them that.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “I saw to his cremation.”

He held her face between his hands and searched her eyes. “We’ve got a lot of forgetting to do, Amelia.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait to get started.”

“Me, either.” And for a long moment they just looked at each other with full understanding.

After a time, she nodded toward the house that Bernie had occupied. “I’m happy to report that it’s been sold. The realtor who brokered the deal was out here yesterday with a contractor. The new owner is having it torn down and plans to replace it with a larger, more contemporary house that he’ll rent long-term.

“It can’t be razed fast enough, as far as I’m concerned,” she continued. “Every time I glance in that direction…” She trailed off and tilted her head in puzzlement. “You don’t seem at all surprised by this news.” She stared at him for seconds more, then realization dawned in her eyes. “You bought it.”

“You could never sell this house. It means too much to you. The only solution was to get rid of that one.”

“I can’t let you do that,” she exclaimed.

“I have a trust from my folks that I’ve never touched. It seemed fitting to do this with some of the money. Carl didn’t sire me, but he tortured my mother and left me to die. I don’t want any reminders of him around when we’re here.” She was about to protest further, but he stopped her. “It’s done.”

She relented, asking quietly, “Did they find Flora’s diary?”

“Yes. Mostly intact. Headly’s read some of it. He’s having the contents transcribed for me.”

She looked at him expectantly.

He raised one shoulder. “I don’t know that I’ll ever read it. Maybe. Right now, I need a break from all that.”

“Will you ever want to know who your father was?”

“No. It’s enough—more than enough—to know it wasn’t Carl. My quarrel with him wasn’t fathering me, it was abandoning me. My DNA ruled out that any of the men who died in Golden Branch had sired me. I don’t see the point of continuing the saga.”

Her arms tightened around his waist. She rested her cheek on his chest. “Will you write the story?”

“Harriet’s bugging me to, but I’ve told her no. I couldn’t write it without including you and the boys. I won’t do that.?

?? He pushed his hand under her tank top and stroked her back, marveling over how familiar and wonderful the feel of her skin was, shuddering to think how close he came to foolishly denying himself this woman.

“I’ve considered writing about Hawkins. His parents endorsed the idea. Military suicides are at an all-time high. It speaks volumes that a young man with a background as solid as his could sink to that depth of despair. The theme would be the effects of combat even on those with the strongest fiber. It could be a worthwhile piece.”

“Written by the best.”

“Awww,” he drawled and eased her cheek off his chest so he could whisk a kiss across it. But when he tried to kiss her in earnest, she resisted. “What?”

“You said of this house ‘when we’re here,’ and that Eva had invited us for Thanksgiving. Come Thanksgiving, will we still be an us?”

“I’m counting on it. You’re not?”

“Yes. Yes. Definitely.”

“Good to know.”