“No,” she admitted. “But it’s all I have left.”
They sat there as the light shifted, gold fading to ash.
When it was time for Helen to go, they lingered too long at the garden gate, words hanging loose and unsaid between them. There was a sheen in her eyes, tears—or something final.
But Nic couldn’t let her walk away like that.
He reached for her hand. Her fingers tensed beneath his, but she didn’t pull away. His gaze searched hers—desperate, unresolved, full of yearning raw and cracked open.
And then he kissed her.
Not the tentative kiss of a reunion, nor the warm kind of memory. It was a plea—aching and urgent. A last attempt to stitch together what was unraveling. She didn’t move at first. Then her grip tightened. Her lips trembled against his, just as desperate as his yearning. When they finally broke apart, her eyes were glassy with everything neither could bring themselves to say.
For a long moment, they just stood there.
Then she turned.
Nic watched her walk away, hands fisted in his pockets, the ache in his chest heavier than any fallen tree.
Nic knocked on the front door and stepped back, listening. No answer. He leaned forward and peered through the window—empty sitting room, not a soul in sight.
He knocked again, louder this time. “Jasmin? Are you home?”
Still no reply.
Maybe she’d gone to the village. He set the small parcel beside the door—his mother’s way of saying thank you, a few jars of preserves and a handwoven rug—and turned his attention to the porch.
This was why he’d come. The front steps were worse than he remembered. Splintered, warped, half-hinged to the frame by rot. He crouched to inspect them and the board beneath his foot gave way with a snap. He dropped through up to his shin.
“Well, that settles it,” he muttered, yanking his boot free. “This place is going to eat someone alive.”
He headed for the wagon and began unloading lumber and tools. Jasmin wouldn’t mind—hopefully—but he still wasn’t thrilled about the possibility of meeting her husband for the first time while wielding a saw on his property.
Nic had just pried loose one of the more stubborn planks when he heard the heavy stamp of hooves. The old mule clomped into view, and beside it—Jasmin.
A strange, bright warmth stirred in his chest. He straightened, lifted a hand, and crossed the garden to meet her.
She flung her arms around his shoulders. “What a pleasant surprise! You’re looking almost human again.”
He hugged her back. The feel of her—solid, familiar, warm—unsettled him more than he expected. He cleared his throat. “I had two excellent healers. My friend’s a doctor, and my mother’s not one to let anyone suffer in peace.”
She slipped her arm through his, her attention already caught by the wagon. “What is allthis?”
“I come bearing gifts,” he said. “My mother insisted on the rug. The rest is my idea.”
She eyed the lumber. “Planks?”
“I couldn’t stomach seeing your porch in that condition. Thought I’d patch it up while you weren’t looking.” He gave a sheepish grin. “Hope you don’t mind.”
She squeezed his arm. “You’re far too kind. Though I barely notice the porch anymore.”
“Then it’s high time someone did. Besides, I’ve already hauled the wood—surely you wouldn’t send me back down the ridge with it.”
She laughed. “Alright, alright. If youinsiston building me a porch, I suppose I must learn to accept your generosity. Come on, help me unload.”
Nic took the mule’s bridle. “Is your husband still back in town buying supplies?”
Her smile dimmed. She passed him a parcel from the mule’s pack. “No. He sent word from White Wood. The lambing season’s keeping him longer than expected. I don’t expect him home before July.”
