“Is that you, honey?” My father’s voice has always been a deep baritone, but tonight it’s broken and weak sounding to my ears. It doesn’t have the richness, laced with his accent that I remember. My throat is dry, and I can’t speak.
When we spoke last week, Mallory explained that my father’s cancer is spreading and overtaking his lungs. When I inquired further, she kept things simple, but said to come and see him while I still can.
“It is... and Eloise is here,” Mallory says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“What?” He asks like he didn’t hear her right. His voice cracks and I swear he’s crying. Then he coughs as I enter the room, his hand landing on his chest. He appears frail, his skin has an unnatural pallor in the dim bedroom light.
Mallory rushes to his side, bringing him a glass of water to ease the coughing fit he’s fallen into. “Breathe. Just take a moment,” she says.
My father takes a few deep breaths and falls back against the pillows. I continue to absorb how he looks, and it doesn’t match with how I left him. He was a big man, built from working the ranch. Now he looks frail and weak. The sickness is eating away at his body.
“Eloise?” He tries to rise, and I realize I’m still back by the door and within the shadows of the room.
My feet have me moving forward without thought and toward his bed, where Mallory has left a lamp on for him, so I’m within the light. I’m struggling to find the right words. “It’s me, Dad.” My fingers fiddle with the charm on my right wrist as I pause by his bedside.
I didn’t prepare myself well for this kind of reunion. He should be healthy and smiling. And we should be laughing together, putting the past behind us. Why did I wait so long to come back?
He’s crying, tears wetting his cheeks when I come forward to sit beside him. He looks at me, then his wife, and me again.
“I’ll make dinner.” Mallory caresses his arm, then steps out of the room and leaves us alone to reconnect.
He lifts his hand toward me and opens his mouth to speak. The words seem to lodge in his throat, and he starts coughing again. I rush to grab the water Mallory left on the bedside table. He struggles to sit up and take the glass from me.
“I’m okay.” He gets enough water to clear his throat, although his voice is ragged and tired.
He’s sitting up, and I take some pillows to rest behind his back since it doesn’t seem like he wants to lie back down. His t-shirt is loose on him, and his face, despite being covered in facial hair, appears thin. The muscle, once covering his body, has wasted away along with the light in his eyes.
“Dad,” I whisper when he adjusts again, then cringes in pain. I gently press my hand down on his arm, hopeful he will stop moving.
“Eloise, it’s been too long. I’ve missed you. Sorry for everything. I don’t know what to say.” His rambling pauses when he reaches for his water again. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come back.”
“You’re here now, that’s all that matters,” he promises. “Sorry, I didn’t come to you either.”
I don’t know what else to say, and neither does he. My father watches me, and after a bit of time passes, his eyelids grow heavy.
“You’re here,” he whispers, then drifts off to sleep.
“I’m here.” With one final squeeze of his hand, I rise from his bedside and turn to walk from the room.
This house is as familiar to me as breathing. As a child, I ran these halls, hid in all the best spots, and danced around the living room. I make a quick pace down the hall and out the back door, remembering the floor plan with ease.
My hands fly to my chest, and I take in staggering breaths as the back door slams shut. I can’t get the air into my lungs fast enough to ease the pressure. The tears pour down my cheeks, the cool breeze hits me with the fresh mountain air, and yet I still can’t breathe.
A hint of cologne comes to me at the same moment I catch a glimpse of the man’s boots. I stay bent over with my hands on my knees. “You okay, miss?”
I shake my head no. The words just won’t come out. He’s dying. I’m losing my father before I can fix us. I was too angry in my youth, and too stubborn as an adult to confront what happened between us, and now I’m losing him.
“Breathe.” A strong hand lands on my back and rubs in a gentle, yet firm movement.
I let him soothe me, his voice a comfort while I focus my attention on how warm his palm feels against the bare skin of my shoulders and how good he smells—the mix of man and the breeze of a late Montana Spring is an intoxicating combination. I’d never forget that twangy drawl of his, even after all the time in California.
“Thank you.” Words slip out when my chest relaxes, but when I rise, the breath gets knocked right back out of me again when I see his face. “Maverick.”
I’d know that face anywhere. God, it’s been five years since I’ve seen him, but my heart remembers. My heart pounds away in my chest in a way only this man can make it do. His voice is so familiar, and my heart has already forgotten how much he’s hurt it.
Maverick gets a good look at me. “Eloise.”
So much for breathing, Maverick knocks the air right back out of me.
Chapter Two
Maverick
The moment those green eyes lock on me, I’m frozen. Nothing can prepare me for the way she knocks the wind out of me.
She’s haunted my dreams more nights than I care to count. When she left five years ago, with anger burning in her eyes, I knew I’d never see her again. I told my mind to let her go, but my heart never did.
I need to refocus because I’m sure she’s hyperventilating again.
“Are you doin’ okay?” I ask, then remove my hand from her back to kneel in front of her.
She’s bent back over, her hair tumbling around her face so I can’t see those green eyes anymore. That copper hair I used to run my fingers through on late nights while she rested on my chest creates a veil between us.
“He’s... it’s so bad,” she says around a sniffle, “And you’re still here?”
I move her hair, tucking it behind her ear so I can see her face. She’s aged but is still as beautiful as my memory recalls. She has those freckles I remember across the bridge of her nose and the same heart-shaped face that haunts me at night. Her copper hair is still soft between my fingertips. Her lips are the same shade of pink.
God, I’ve missed her. I’m not sure how I let her go, but we were only seventeen. Just teenagers back then. We had no idea life would rip us apart. But it did, and I let her go because my family couldn’t make it without me.
“Want to go to the lake?” I suggest. Hopefully, something calming like her favorite place will ease the pain she must be feeling.
“That sounds good,” she says and rises from her bent position. I stand with her, then place my hand across her lower back to lead her toward the lake.
It’s not like she’s forgotten where the lake is—it’s only my undeniable desire to touch this woman in any way possible—that has me leading her today.