A Montana Homecoming

“Your father told you I was at Fernwood, I suppose.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She knew Beau had been instrumental in getting her placed at Fernwood, a private mental health facility outside of Denver, where she received more care than she would have through the system in Lucius.

“Holly told me. She came to visit me at seminary. Came to give me a piece of her mind, actually, for going for weeks on end without calling home. That’s when I learned what your father had done. What had happened…to you. After I’d dropped you off that evening, I picked up my suitcase from the house and kept driving. I didn’t know about any of it until Holly came to see me in California.”

She pressed her fingertips into her eye sockets. “My father didn’t do anything.”

“Then you remember that? You remember what happened that day, but not the hours you and I spent sitting in that bloody sunroom at Fernwood.”

“I remember enough!” She dropped her hands, staring at him. Wondering why the pain of it was as sharp as it was, when time was supposed to dull this sort of thing. “You slept with me in Calhoun’s barn, and then you dumped me, and after you drove me back to my house—insisted on it, in fact—I arrived in just enough time to see my mother accidentally fall down the stairs. I don’t care what everyone said. My father did not push her.”

“Because you remember it.”

Her eyes burned. The truth was that she didn’t remember anything beyond the sight of Shane driving away in that old pickup truck while she stood on the porch, silently crying. “My father wouldn’t have hurt my mother.”

“Did you ever talk to him after you left Lucius?”

The question came like a slap. “Yes.” Often, once she left Fernwood. Then over the years dwindling down to just once a year. On his birthday. Calling him more often might have been the right thing to do, but she hadn’t been able to bear the constant disappointment.

“And? What’d he say?”

“What does it matter to you? It wasn’t a confession, I promise you that.” She knew her father would never have made such a confession. Not to her. Not to anyone.

He had been a miserable man, but he hadn’t been an abusive one. No matter what the rumors around Lucius had said.

She ought to know.

She’d lived under his roof.

He’d often raised his voice, but he’d never once raised his hand.

That had been her mother’s particular domain.

“Laurel.” Shane’s voice went soft. Careful. Gentle. “I’m just trying to—”

Coddling.

She hated it.

“He told me not to come home to Lucius,” she said baldly. “So I didn’t. He never came to visit me. His actions were perfectly clear. He didn’t want to be around me. But now he’s gone and what he wanted doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“There’s nothing in this house that can hurt me.”

“Hurt doesn’t have to be physical.”

She knew that as well as anyone.

And she was still grappling with the revelation that he’d visited her at Fernwood. “I’ll be fine.”

Something came and went in his eyes. “I guess I’ll be close enough by to make sure of it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He merely straightened and rounded the couch, stopping in front of her. “Come with me.”

Wariness edged in again. “Where?”

He held out his hand. “You’ll see.”

She swallowed. Eyed his palm. She could see the row of calluses, the signs of a man perfectly accustomed to physical labor, despite his position as sheriff. His fingers were long. Square-tipped. His wrist corded.

She swallowed and gingerly placed her hand in his.

And even though she’d braced herself, the contact felt electric.

If he noticed, he hid it a lot better than she did.

She rose.

He led her out the front door. The plywood vibrated under their feet as they went down it. There was no sign of Shane’s SUV. Instead, there was a small blue sedan parked at the curb.

It didn’t look at all like a car he’d ordinarily drive.

But then, what did she know?

She absently noticed that a breeze had cropped up. It felt welcoming, given the heat of the afternoon. Given the heat charging up her arm to her elbow to her shoulder and beyond…

He walked the length of the house, then around the southern side. Fifty yards behind the house, the land rose sharply. Growing up, she’d done a lot of sledding in the wintertime on that hill.

“I’ll be close by,” he said, letting go of her hand and pointing. “Because we’re neighbors.”

She stared.

The house on the hill was his.

The house that was so incredibly beautiful. She’d spent more than one night watching the wooden and stone structure sleep in the moonlight when she hadn’t been able to find any such rest. She’d admired the gleaming windows, the stone chimneys, the inviting porch. The house had been built while she’d been gone from Lucius, yet it didn’t reek of newness at all. It possessed only a timeless beauty.