Relief nearly knocks me over.
“Thank you.”
“If she refuses?”
“I'll bring her back.”
Rafe nods.
“And Sherry will do what she must.”
I don't answer.
Because I'm already carrying Daria toward my bike.
Toward home.
Toward the hardest conversation of my life.
I cradle her across my lap as I drive us carefully to her place.
A few minutes later, she's tucked safely beneath a quilt on the couch in her old farmhouse.
The place is charming.
Worn hardwood floors.
High ceilings.
Boxes still waiting to be unpacked.
Outside, I can see the weathered red barn she'd told me about.
The future animal rescue.
It suits her.
I sit beside the couch.
Take her hand.
And I wait.
Slowly—after an hour or more—her fingers twitch.
Long blonde hair spills across the pillow as she stirs.
A soft groan escapes her.
Whiskey-colored eyes flutter open.
She focuses on me.
Confusion clouds her face.
“Rand?”
“I'm here, Honey.”
