“Gah.” I dragged a hand through my hair and swiped the last T-shirt from the pile of clean clothes on my bed, taking it to the closet for a hanger. Then I carted the empty basket to the laundry room and headed for the kitchen.
The dishes were done. The fridge stocked. The entire house clean.
For the first time in months, I’d taken an entire day off.
Not a huge feat. The actual accomplishment had been not going into Knuckles on my day off. The restaurant had a tether on my mind and most vacation days, I’d stop to check in.
Mothering, according to Skip.
But today, I hadn’t left my home. I hadn’t even called to see how things were going. Mondays were a quiet day so I doubted there’d be a mad rush, especially at the end of October. Still, my fingers itched to dial the phone simply for the distraction. Simply to take my mind off the clock.
It was six. Shouldn’t Memphis be home by now? I wasn’t actually sure what time she came home—I was always at the restaurant—but her shift ended at five. Where was she?
Five days had passed since she’d told me about her family.
Five days and five nights without Memphis. The restaurant had been busy over the weekend with a rush of hunters staying at the hotel. Our paths hadn’t crossed. And each night when I’d come home after dark, the lights had been off in the loft.
Drake hadn’t woken me up.
With or without his crying, I’d be going over tonight.
I just . . . damn it, I missed her. I missed the sweet scent of her perfume. I missed her soft whisper. I missed the way she’d duck her chin to hide a blush.
I’d find an excuse to visit, even if it was just to stay hello.
To let her know that the story she’d shared about her parents hadn’t scared me away. No wonder she’d escaped to Montana.
What she’d gone through, alone, was unthinkable.
My family was nothing but supportive—borderline overbearing, but only because they cared. Not in a million years would Mom and Dad treat their daughters the way Memphis had been treated. Not in a million years would they not have held their grandchild.
Fuck, but she was strong. I respected the hell out of her for walking away. From the money. From the legacy. From the control. I admired her for putting her son’s life first.
Risky as it was, I had to see her. And hopefully I’d manage to keep from kissing her.
Because damn, did I want to kiss her. Like I’d almost kissed her the other night.
Six eleven. Why didn’t I know her schedule? What if she needed help? Who would she call? Did she even have my number?
The tap of my fingers on the granite counters filled the quiet house. I’d thought I’d miss this. The quiet. The solitude.
But I’d had this anxious knot in my gut all day, the place too still. Too empty. Where was she?
Housework hadn’t helped settle the nerves. Neither had cleaning out the garage. All three stalls were now clean, giving both Memphis and me plenty of space to park once the snow arrived. I hadn’t planned on cooking today. I had plenty of leftovers to pick at.
But I needed an outlet, anything to get my mind off the empty driveway, so I stalked to the pantry and took out a bag of semolina flour.
It shouldn’t have taken long to make pasta dough and roll it out. Except every thirty seconds I glanced down the lane, hoping to see a gray Volvo heading my direction. The only thing beyond the glass was a chilly fall day.
The grasses in the meadows had faded from green to gold.
The ponderosa pines were dusted with frost. The mountains in the distance were capped white.
Fall was my favorite season, and other than a small influx of hunters to the area, there were more familiar faces than not on Main these days. We’d be slow at the hotel until the holidays. This was the time to catch up on some rest.
But today had been anything but relaxing, and if I was going to feel this way on a day off, well . . . I’d mother Skip until Christmas.
With the pasta cut and ready, I found a pot and set it to boil. Then I pulled a bundle of baby spinach and mushrooms from the fridge. I was digging for cream to make a simple sauce when, outside, gravel crunched beneath tires.
The smart thing to do would be stay right here, my face buried in my refrigerator, but I slammed it shut and strode for the front door.
Memphis was unlocking Drake’s car seat when I stepped outside. She stood tall, hefting his carrier over an arm, and when she glanced over the Volvo’s roof, my heart dropped.
Her face was splotchy. Her eyes were rimmed in red like she’d cried the entire drive here. And Drake was screaming.