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“Dusty, I’m not here to replace your mom.”
I shot bolt upright and stared at her. “Uh… Why… why would you say that?”
Meryl lifted her shoulders, her fingers laced over her knee. “I felt like you needed to hear it. I loved Marci Walker for as long as I can remember—way before she married your dad. I’d never want to dishonor her memory or step into her shoes. I couldn’t fill them.” She gazed at me, her eyes soft and eloquent. “But I love your dad. And I love this family.”
The back of my throat burned and tightened, and my eyes tried to sting again. I blinked it back and sniffed casually. “You’re welcome in this family, Meryl. Dad loves you, and we all gave our blessing.”
“I know that. But you… you were Marci’s favorite.”
I snorted and grabbed the throw pillow again to clutch it to my chest. I didn’t like how vulnerable she made me feel. “Mom didn’t play favorites.”
“No, she didn’t, and that’s not how I meant it. I guess what I’m saying is that you were the one who took after her. That tender side of you, the others don’t share it. She understood you like she never could with them, and I think you had a special connection with her.”
I looked away and had to scratch something off my cheek. “Maybe,” I mumbled. “Why are you saying this?”
“Oh, I probably shouldn’t, but I think she would, if she were here.”
“I don’t understand.”
Meryl’s face was a contortion of doubt. I could see some internal struggle etched in the lines of her jaw, but finally, she brushed it off and plunged ahead. “Marci used to talk to me about you. She was so proud of you, you should know that, but she also worried. She used to say you would hang your heart on the things that were most likely to break you.”
I gave her a skeptical look. “Huh?”
“You always picked the runt puppies to train, the lost cause horses to fix. You’d have the money to buy a new truck, but you’d buy an old beater instead.”
I shrugged. “What can I say? I like rooting for the underdog.”
“Or you don’t think you deserve to win.”
That was something I couldn’t process. My arms sagged around that pillow until it drooped, and I just gazed blankly into the fire for a few minutes, those words hanging between us.
“Can you…” I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “Can you explain what that means?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached for the coffee table to brush through the newspapers and stuff. “I suppose it means that when you want something, it’s okay to take a risk for it.”
“Like Luke buying stupid-expensive horses on the off-chance they won’t be crippled,” I grunted.
She grinned. “Yeah, kind of like that. Or like this.” She held something up, and my heart skipped a beat. It was the newest issue ofStockman’s, flipped open to the section in the back.
“Wyatt Chandler,” she mused. “Now, there’s a guy who knows how to translate feeling into words.” She scanned down the page, then lifted her gaze to me. Steady, patient. And absolutely supportive.
My throat closed and all I could do was blink stupidly.
“Does your family know?”
I shook my head. “As far as I know, you’re the only one to put it together.”
She nodded and cradled the journal in her lap to read it once more. “Marci would have known. She wouldn’t have even had to figure out that pen name. She’d just feel it in the way you phrased your words because you’re a perfect echo of her.”
“I am?”
“Mmm-hmm. She used to write, too, you know.”
“I didn’t know that, actually.”
“We had a little creative writing club after school, founded by Marci, of course. We all had fun with it, but she had a gift.”
“And what happened?”
