“I suppose the pink trimmings arereallypink compared to the stained timber you used to have,” I said.
“Bronte picked the color.”
“And here I was thinking it was the dastardly Captain Callan.” I grinned. “It was your idea to freshen it up, though?”
He nodded.
“And to install the playground… And redo the gardens… And have the artist do this adorable mural.” I pointed to the hand-painted strawberries curling up the side of the shop. “You could pop pictures of this place onto a postcard. It’s gorgeous.”
“You really mean that?”
“Bronte will have no problem marketing the hell out of this place in the spring. You’ll have to fight off the tourists stopping by.”
“Why isn’t it enough then?” I’d never seen his blue eyes so helpless—not even after his accident. “Why doesn’t Dad care?”
“He still hasn’t signed over the farm to you?”
Callan shook his head. “Not officially. It feels like no matter what I do… No matter how much I try to prove myself…” He sighed. “It feels like everyone’s just holding their breath waiting for Cole to come back.”
“Cole’s not coming back.”
That comment caught him by surprise. His eyes widened. “Other than me, you’re the only person who’s ever thought that.”
I lifted my shoulder. “He wasn’t happy for a long time before we lost Lila. He only stayed because she wanted to stay. They fought about it a lot before she got sick.”
“I… I didn’t know… Cole and Lila always seemed… I don’t know. Perfect.”
“They were happytogether, but…”
“Not happy here?”
“Yeah.”
Callan’s gaze drifted to the rows of budding plants stretching to the barbed-wire fence on the horizon. “I couldn’t imagine not being happy here,” he murmured.
I inched closer and rested my hand on his arm. That wasn’t a world I could imagine, either. “Cole took over running the farm out of duty, but you… You do it out of love, Cal. Everyone can see that. Even your father.” I gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Hang in there, okay? Good things are worth waiting for.”
His smile was soft when he agreed, “They sure are.”
Richmond hadn’t changed inthe years I’d been gone.
Weathered gray cobblestones still guided the way into town, winding around the sandstone shops that curved over the hill. Only a few tourists braved the crisp winter morning with their knitted hats pulled low, nothing like the swarms of people the town would welcome in the spring.
Matilda, of course, marched past it all.
“This door?” She pointed to the ice cream shop.
“Nope,” I said. “A bit further.”
She huffed but powered on, arms swinging. “This one?” She pointed at the dark green door of the doctor’s clinic.
“That’s the one.”
Excited, she bolted ahead, determined to open the door. She loved beingfirst.
The receptionist flipping through a magazine didn’t seem to mind my over-energized toddler storming inside. She rose from behind the desk and flipped a tumble of blonde curls off her shoulder.
“Who’s this adorable little miss running into my clinic?” she asked.
