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He cleared a fallen log of snow with a few focused swipes from his gloved hands and sat, patting the spot next to him. “Come sit with me. Scout likes to explore for a few minutes before we turn back toward home.”
I pulled down the jacket to cover my rear and took a seat next to him.
“Hi, beautiful.” He draped his arm around me and leaned in for a kiss. His mouth, warm and dry and so familiar to me already, wakened desire I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling. How could any mouth be as delicious as his?
I murmured in contentment, happy to be exactly where I was right at the moment.
“Do you want to go into town?” Atticus asked. “The winter festival starts today.”
“They still have that?” Fond memories surfaced of peering at the vendors' displays and watching the tree lighting.
“Yeah, it goes all month now instead of just one weekend.”
“What about the photographers?” I asked.
He was quiet for a moment, staring out at the creek. “I’ve been thinking about all of that. We don’t have long together. Letting those people ruin the few days we do have is criminal.”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Meaning, I say we go about our lives. They’ve already donethe damage. Our family story is out. They already have photos of us. What more could they do?”
He made an excellent point. In LA, I’d grown accustomed to photographers appearing out of bushes and around alleyways. I hadn’t let it ruin my freedom. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I mind feeling trapped in my own home. I mind that you’re not able to explore your childhood town because of them.”
Trapped.A strong word. A sick feeling washed over me. He already felt trapped? It would only get worse the more times we were seen together.
I tried to push away my thoughts as we headed back to the house. When we arrived, a black truck had parked in the driveway.
“That’s Rafferty,” Atticus said. “He must have forgotten something yesterday.”
We left our wet boots and jackets in the mudroom. Rafferty was in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Hey, sorry to barge in,” Rafferty said. “But there’s something I wanted to talk to Annie about.”
“Me? Why?” I asked.
“It’s kind of delicate,” Rafferty said. “Not something I would normally share, but under the circumstances, I feel I have to tell you.”
My stomach lurched. Tell me what?
We all sat down at the kitchen table. Hidden beneath it, I squeezed my hands together. “Go ahead.”
“Is it all right if Atticus hears this too?” Rafferty asked.
“Yes, it’s fine. I’ll just tell him anyway.” I glanced at Atticus, whose forehead creased with tension.
“You sure?” Atticus asked me.
“Absolutely.”
Rafferty splayed his hands on the table, on either side of his coffee mug. “This morning, I was looking for a file of a deceasedpatient. His daughter needed some information on family health history. While I was in there, I happened to see your mother’s file. I don’t know what made me do it, but I pulled it out. Maybe it’s because the last few days have brought up memories of that time, but I felt this strange curiosity. So I read through her history.” He paused, wrapping his fingers around the steaming cup. “This is going to come as a shock, so take a deep breath. Your mother had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Inoperable, according to the specialist she saw in Bozeman. The tumor was in the frontal lobe. This part of the brain, as you probably know, controls our ability to regulate behavior and restrain ourselves from inappropriate conduct. If that’s damaged for any reason, a person could act in ways they normally would not.”
I stared at him, hardly able to follow him due to the thumping between my ears. “What are you saying?”
“Your mother’s behavior—planning to leave you and run away with her lover—could have been caused by the brain tumor.”
“But how could she have been sick and my dad not know?”
