Victory.
"Yeah. I knew Corbin. Good man." The words are gravelly and low, and my stomach flips at the gruff sound. Not unpleasant, at all.
"He was." This is sure ground for me. I idolized my father, and anyone who says nice things about the man who helped raise me can't be all bad. "I think I saw you. At the funeral. You were in the back?"
It had been a fleeting glimpse, just as we were following the casket out of the small chapel. He'd been a big shadow, an ocean of space around him in the empty pew, and then I'd been hurried on to the next necessary steps of grieving. The ones my family told me would help. Except they hadn't helped me. Not really.Because the one person in my life who loved me just the way I was had died and he wasn't coming back.
And I was about to lose the last thing I had of him. The thing that had meant so much to him.
But damned if I was going to let that happen.
3
BRAND
I shouldn't have opened the door. That's exactly what I'm thinking as Corbin Kincaid's daughter stands on my porch. It's clear she has no intention of backing down until she gets what she wants. The way she's standing, hands on her hips and an unwavering smile on her face, makes it very clear that she's also not afraid of me.
Which puts me in a tough spot. A very, very tough spot.
She's right. I was at the funeral. Even more, I saw her there. Couldn't look away from her, truth be told. It hadn't occurred to me that my presence would even be noticed, much less by her. She'd been beautiful even then, the sadness in her eyes something that had hit me then, and it had been impossible to shake that memory away. I could still see it now, despite the facade she was wearing. She missed her dad. And that was why she was here.
"Since you knew him, I wondered if you'd help me with something important." She takes a deep breath, ready to launch into her argument for why I should be part of whatever plan she has, so I raise a hand to stop her.
"No."
Her jaw snaps shut in surprise and there's a flash of what I know is hurt.
"But, if you don't help ..."
I step toward her and she freezes. It's not something I do often, use my size to intimidate other people. Not intentionally. And I don't want to do that in this moment, either. But there's no way I can miss the way she swallows nervously, or how she leans back, automatically trying to create space between us. My chest aches at the idea that I'm scaring her.
The only problem is, it's exactly what I need to do.
"I'm not going to help you, Lydia. I can't. So you need to go on back down to town, have a nice time buying gifts at the Maker's Market, drink some fancy cocktails, and then head home. Where you belong."
It sounds mean, even to me. I don't like doing it. It bothered me to see the grief wash over her pretty face, taking us both back to that moment in the chapel, when she was struggling to say goodbye to someone she loved.
I don't wait for her to make any other plea or ask me to change my mind. Just turn my back, look over my shoulder as I go back inside, and say, "Drive safe."
Then shut the door in her face.
4
LYDIA
I fumed the whole way back to my dad's house. Anger had my hands shaking as I gripped the steering wheel, and my stomach clenched. Because without Brand's help, the task I'd set for myself was going to be even harder to accomplish. I refuse to let the word "impossible" assign itself to the job I've given myself. Because if I do, I'm afraid there's no hope of it happening.
The front door sticks, and I have to put my shoulder against it and shove before it finally opens. It's been like that for so long and every time I mentioned it, Dad would say, "I'll get around to it."
Except he never did. Time ran out, and there were so many things left unfinished.
Looking around the dim, dusty living room, the weight of what I've taken on fully hits me. All these reminders of the man I loved and respected surround me, and there's no doubt it's still his place. His home. But I was happy here with him. And while the happiness is hard to find in these moments, I still feel safe and comforted. There's no giving up allowed when I'm in this place. Just like every time he'd help me with my despised mathhomework, hugging me when frustrated tears fell as I struggled over problems that absolutely made no sense. He'd reassure me, reminding me that he believed I was smart enough, even though it might not come easy.
"Easy victories are wins, no doubt about it, sweetheart. But the hard victories, the ones we have to fight for, those feel different. So much better than you ever expected. When you earn those kinds of wins, it stays with you. Solve this problem and you'll know what I'm talking about."
His voice still fills my mind, and as I repeat those over and over in my head, belief seeps into me. His belief in my ability to overcome challenges. I can almost feel his arms encircling me again, holding me close and lending me his strength when I was small and everything out in the world felt so much bigger than me.
When I open my eyes again, the stubborn streak my father always shook his head and laughed over flares back to life.
