Page 29 of Taken Away

He led her toward the front pew reserved for family. One seat. Just one.

The sight hollowed her out. Her mother wasn’t there. Not even now. Aubrey swallowed hard against the burning in her throat and slid into the pew alone, her charcoal suit jacket buttoned tight like armor.

Movement stirred behind her.

Mary Lou, June, and Helen rose as one. Without a word, they moved into the front pew and sat shoulder to shoulder beside her. Mary Lou took the spot closest and patted Aubrey’s hand twice with soft, cool fingers.

“Well,” she whispered thickly, eyes already swimming beneath an antique black lace veil, “you’re certainly not sitting up here by yourself, sweetheart.”

Aubrey almost lost it right there. Their fiercely protective grace scraped at every hard edge she’d brought with her from Pennsylvania.

As the sanctuary filled, the low murmur of voices died away. Sheriff Burke Scott stood near the side aisle speaking quietly with a dark-haired woman Aubrey hadn't met. Eleanor Harper spoke with several mourners near the front, while farther back, Red Stephens stood beside several men from the cattle operation, his weathered hands clasped in front of him.

A shadow fell over the aisle.

Aubrey looked up.

Bennett McCrae stood there. He wore a crisp black suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His six-foot-two frame looked imposing, all hard lines and hollowed-out exhaustion—a man barely holding himself together. He moved past her row and took a seat on the opposite side of the aisle next to Red.

Behind him, near the aisle, stood a woman Aubrey hadn't seen before—tall and composed, with a fitted black raincoat draped over a dark dress, rainwater still glistening at the shoulders. Her dark hair fell in smooth waves, understated diamond studs catching the sanctuary light when she turned her head. She did not look like someone who belonged to this town, and she stayed a few feet back as if she knew exactly where not to stand.

She didn’t go to Bennett right away, but her attention kept returning to him. When he finally stepped back from the casket, she moved in close enough to touch his forearm once, a brief, quiet press of fingers that seemed to steady him more than comfort him. Bennett covered her hand for a heartbeat before she stepped away again.

The exchange was so familiar it made Aubrey wonder if she’d missed something—if the woman was simply close to him, or if this was the kind of grief that came with history.

Behind them sat Declan O’Rourke, his sharp blue eyes scanning the congregation rather than the casket. When his gaze landed on Aubrey, he gave her a slow, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t comfort so much as acknowledgment.

The service began with Pastor Townsend stepping to the pulpit. Beside the piano, Anna Townsend rose in a simple black dress, her voice floating beneath the stained-glass windows as she sang an old hymn.

The pastor spoke of Mabel’s generosity, her stubbornness, and her fierce love for the mountains and the people in them.

“And if Heaven wasn’t prepared for Mabel Blackwood,” he said with a faint smile, “I suspect she’s already reorganized it.”

Laughter rippled through the pews. Even Aubrey smiled through her tears.

Later, when the congregation filed past the casket, Aubrey found herself standing beside Bennett and Red near the altar. For a long moment, neither man spoke. Red touched the edge of the polished mahogany with rough fingertips and looked away quickly, emotion tightening his weathered face.

Bennett stood motionless. Aubrey saw the raw tears in his eyes. Not hidden. Not embarrassed. Absolute grief.

Everyone here belonged to Mabel.

She wasn't sure she belonged here at all.

Then Declan O’Rourke stepped forward.

Deck rested one massive hand on the pulpit and looked out over the crowded church, eyes gone suspiciously red.

“Mabel Blackwood could curse a man flat, feed him fried chicken, and have him fixing her fence by sunrise, so she could.”

Gentle laughter rolled through the sanctuary.

“And the worst of it was,” he added with a small huff of a laugh, “you’d thank her for it.”

The humor faded into something quieter.

“But somewhere along the way,” Deck said, “she became one of the best friends I ever had. Your aunt loved this town fierce, lass. And the people in it loved her right back. Mabel Blackwood never gave up on the people she loved. Not once.”

The service ended in a blur of rustling programs. Aubrey waited until the sanctuary had emptied before she stood. She couldn’t face the receiving line, couldn’t handle one more well-meant stranger saying they were sorry.