My eyes lurch open. She’s tracing my handwriting.
My jagged, angry Sharpie letters written so many years ago, blurred with rage. I’d been stabbing at the cardboard with the marker, trying not to be furious at Abby checking out on us the way she’d gone. Leaving no closure. And because it felt wrong to be pissed at the dead.
ABIGAIL – BOOKS
That’s all it says. Just those two words.
I know deep down it says a hell of a lot more.
Peace smiles sadly, all the flighty sweetness that makes her who she is tied up in those soft pink lips.
My heart thumps so hard she must hear it.
“Need a little help?” she asks, and my throat constricts.
“Yeah,” I say. “Think I’d like that a lot, darlin’.”
She doesn’t say anything else.
As much as she peels me open with those soft, understanding words, right now, it’s her silence that gets me.
She rests her hand on my arm, squeezing gently, then slips into the bedroom behind me and grabs a box.
Together, we make our way to the attic with the first load of memories boxed up tight.
Memories which suddenly don’t cut so bad at all.
With Peace’s help, it doesn’t take long to clear out the bedroom.
We don’t talk until we’re stripping old bedding and opening up the windows to let some light in, taking down curtains that have so much dusty fur on them I think they might damn well be alive.
“Sorry this place is such a mess,” I growl. “Rest of the house is plenty clean. This room, we just shut up under lock and key.”
“You kidding? This is nothing. That honey farm I lived on right outside Redding for a few months...I think I slept with the bees. They lived more in the wood of that rotted old house than inside their boxes.”
Can’t help but grin. “Been meaning to see about some beekeepin’ myself one day. Doc swears up and down I’ll get myself stung to death. I’m itching to prove him wrong.”
We share a smile over easygoing banter for once. It’s nice.
She’s impressed I can get a fitted sheet on seamlessly.
Boot camp discipline and attention to detail as a grunt never leaves a man, I guess.
I’m impressed she nearly kills herself taking down a pair of lace curtains, flopping back into my arms when her balance craps out.
The two of us keep working for a few hours to turn this vault of dead memories into a living space for Peace. Before long, it’s not too hard to breathe without choking on dust. The room comes alive, full of sunset light and the fresh smell of clean linens and brand new curtains.
There’s a little glimmer of pride in us both.
On an unspoken agreement and a little toss of her head toward the door, we dust ourselves off and head out into the late evening to fetch her things.
We take my Jeep, leaving her car at my place for obvious reasons.
One, I don’t want anyone to realize she’s coming back to the inn, if they’re watching for her—though if they’re spying at her cabin, they’ll see us getting out together. Whatever, I’m with her. I’m sure I can handle some gangly freak in a ski mask after taking down a whole group of lethal bandits months ago with nothing besides firecrackers, helping Doc’s tight-lipped ass.
Two, if anyone followed her today, then I want them to see her car at my place.
Let them know she’s mine.
Well.
Not mine-mine.
But damn it, she’s with me, and I ain’t letting a single thing happen to her.
We finish loading her stuff up pretty fast. There’s plenty of room in the back of my Jeep, enough to hold all the cases and folding things and suitcases she’d had in that Mystery Machine van of hers, and then some.
There’s more teasing, lightness, but what I like the most is that it doesn’t feel like we have to make a thing out of it just now.
The air’s easier between us, and she likes it, judging by how she keeps on beaming like the sun.
I like it, too.
It feels good to be out and about with her, the Jeep’s top down briefly to let the winter breeze wash over us. She asked me how it works, so I showed her.
Then Peace lifts her hands up, letting out this soft whoop like she’s riding a roller coaster, her cheeks flushed with the chill and her eyes so bright.
Yeah.
Shit.
This woman does things to my heart.
It’s hard remembering she’s too young for me. Not when she makes me feel like I’m the man I was before this bastard leg injury and the scars on my heart flayed me apart.
I sober up a little as we pull into the driveway back at my place.
Light’s on in the upstairs window.
And there’s angry heavy metal music thumping through the walls.
Andrea’s home.
And my little violet and I need to have a talk.
I guess Peace picks up on the vibe. She goes sober as I park and cut the engine, scrubbing nervously at her cheeks.
“Hey,” she asks softly. “Everything okay?”
“Yep.” I flash her a smile. “Give me a sec, will you? I just need a few words with Andrea to let her know you’ll be staying. Then we’ll get everything unloaded and hauled up to your room.”
The look on her face says she doesn’t quite believe me—like that’s all it is.
With a gentle smile, she lets it go, squeezing my arm again with those warm, nimble fingers—I swear I feel her heat even through those silly yarn gloves—before unlocking her passenger door and slipping out.
“I’ll get a head start,” she says. “Hopefully Andrea won’t mind having another chick trying to sort her crap out up in her space.”
I chuckle, but I’m not really feeling it.
It’s go time, and I have no earthly clue how Andrea will react.
I pick up the heaviest suitcase, two birds with one stone, and heft it over my shoulder before I turn to follow her inside.
The music is deafening, so I guess it’s a good thing we ain’t got much to say to each other as we trek upstairs. I leave Peace with her bag and the case of oils she hauled in, tucking her away in her room before heading to Andrea’s to knock on the door.
I don’t think the girl even hears it over the racket.
“Andrea?” I call, pounding on the door harder. “Yo, Andrea!”
The music dies down for a second.
Then up again.
Damn her.
I haven’t even done anything yet, and she’s already mad at me.
I try the door, and...yep.
Locked.
I’ve got a key, sure. I mean, I respect my daughter’s autonomy and privacy and I’m not gonna barge in on her unless it’s critical, but I’m also a firefighter.
If something happens, I’m not gonna let a locked door keep me from saving my daughter in a crisis.
I’m just trying to figure out how much of an emergency this load of bull is.
I sigh, closing my eyes, thunking my head against the door hard enough to make it rattle.
“Please,” I say. “Open the hell up.”
And the music cuts off.
I straighten up, blinking.
A few seconds later the door opens. Just a crack, enough for Andrea’s wary, suspicious face to peek out, just a sliver of her nose and mouth plus one eye.
“What,” she mutters. “You cleaned out Mom’s stuff. Why?”