Page 53 of Grumpy Lumberjack’s Secret

“Mama,” she said. “Is Papa mad at you?”

My chest tightened. I set the book down.

“Yes, baby. He is. And it’s my fault. I made a lot of mistakes that hurt him very badly.”

Emma considered this with the gravity she applied to all important matters. Her fingers worked at Sir Chomps-a-Lot’s ear.

“Is he important to you, Mama?”

“Yes.” The word came out without hesitation. “He is very important to me.”

“Then talk to him.” She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You always say nothing gets fixed if no one talks about it. Nothing gets better if nobody tells how they really feel. Right?”

I stared at my daughter. This tiny, fierce, wise person who had survived more in six years than most people face in a lifetime, and who still believed that honesty was the answer to everything.

“Right,” I said quietly.

The sound of the truck reached us before I saw it. Sawyer came up the drive, parked, and got out. He was in his work clothes, flannel and boots and sawdust, and he looked tired the way he always did after a day at the mill.

Emma was off the porch before he’d closed the truck door.

“Papa!” She ran to him and he caught her, lifting her with one arm, and she pressed her face into his neck the way she did every time he came home.

“Hey, bug,” he said, and the softness in his voice, the complete transformation from guarded to gentle, made my eyes sting.

Emma pulled back and looked at him. “Mama is waiting for you. She said you’re important to her. It’s the same as saying she likes you.”

My face went hot. “Emma, when did I say that?”

“Just now. You said he’s important. That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It is.” Emma wiggled down from his arms. “I’m going to my room. You both need to talk.”

She walked into the cabin, Sir Chomps-a-Lot under her arm, and the door closed behind her with a definitive click.

Sawyer stood in the yard. I stood on the porch. He looked at me with those green eyes, steady, unreadable, and I felt every inch of the distance between us.

“Don’t stare at me like that,” I said.

“Like what.”

“Like you’re trying to figure out if I’m going to run again.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. He climbed the steps, slowly, his limp more pronounced after a full day. He stopped in front of me.

“Are you going to talk to me or not?” he asked.

I grabbed the front of his flannel shirt and pulled him inside.

He stumbled, caught himself, and followed me to the couch. I sat. He sat. Close enough that I could smell the cedar and coffee and sweat on him.

“I’m going to talk,” I said. “So sit there and let me.”

He leaned back. Waited.

“You know about Jonathan. I told you that at the hospital. But you don’t know the why behind it. You don’t know how someone like me ended up with someone like him. And I need you to understand, not because it excuses anything, but because you deserve the full picture.”