“When is it again?”
“October, first weekend.”
“Yeah, I think so.” I nod, walking to the big front window to look out over the street. “Toby should be big enough to come out, if Delia feels comfortable with it.”
“Oh yeah? How’s he doing?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
We chat for a while, about the fall festival, about the kids, about the remodeling I’m still doing upstairs. Then, a group of farmers come in, and they all want coffee and pastries to go. I hug Freya and head out, taking the long walk back to city parking so I can stop by and pick up some flowers from the farmer’s market. They’ve got fall blooms now, gold and red. I grab a handful for myself and another for the girls before I get on the road.
Back at the house, I walk into the hall to the sound of the percolator bubbling. It’s the same damn one Jensen made me coffee in when I met him. Old as the hills, strong as steel.He won’t drink coffee from anything else, and he’s raised his children to do the same.
Landis sits at the table, a faded envelope in his hand. I set my purse down, handing over a bag of leftover pastries Freya sent home. He dips his head but doesn’t open them.
That’s strange.
“You okay?” I ask lightly, shifting my bundle of flowers from my arms and laying them on the countertop.
He nods, eyelids lowered. “I was cleaning out the loft in the barn and ended up going through the plastic containers we have out there. Found some photographs.”
“Oh.” I sink down, staring at the envelope.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry,” he says. “I know this isn’t your favorite topic.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll always discuss it with you, whenever.”
His jaw works. I pick up the envelope, fingers hesitating. Then, I reach inside and take out a handful of photos. There’s baby photos of everyone but Landis—we lost his in the fire. Toddler pictures of him and the girls, photos of their first days at school, their proms, their graduations. I sort through them until I find the photo I know he saw.
I set it down. “Is this it?”
He turns it right-side up, frowning. “Who is that?”
“It’s complicated,” I say.
His brows knit. “Is that my biological dad? Because why do they look like they’re friends?”
I laugh out loud, unable to bite it back. He glances up, startled, and I compose myself.
“No, that’s your father’s friend,” I say. “Enemy sometimes. They were very close at one point but not anymore.”
“But who is he?” he says.
Jensen isn’t going to like this, but I understand at that moment why there’s a little bit of sadness around my son. He’sfrom the mountains, even if he didn’t grow up in them, and there’s an ache deep in his bones that calls him back. I lean in, planting my elbows on the table.
“When your dad was young, he didn’t have much,” I say carefully. “He fell in with some people who weren’t good for him. That man was…sort of an organized crime lord, I guess. Not really anyway else to describe it.”
He stares at the photo for a long time. “So Dad’s got a rap sheet?”
“No, never got caught.”
He laughs, shoulders easing up. “That doesn’t surprise me, I guess.”
I reach out and pat his hand, but he doesn’t move. Landis knows his biological father died in a fire the night I stole him away and ran off with Jensen to Montana, but I never told him it was me who killed Leland first and left the flames to eat up the evidence. Maybe I owe him the truth, or maybe he needs to figure things out for himself.
I sometimes worry he’ll hate me if he knows. He wouldn’t understand at his age how far a young mother was willing to go to get her baby back into her arms—or that I would do it again if it got down to it.
“You good, Mom?” He leans in, brow furrowed.
