by Stone, Kyla
“Can I help you with anything?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, heavens no!” Gran said loudly as if she’d been personally insulted. “Absolutely not. Have a seat, chit chat, try not to let Loki attack your toes.”
“No one is allowed to even sniff Gran’s honey cornbread and pineapple chili before it’s ready,” Quinn said. “It’s her secret recipe she refuses to share.”
Liam raised his eyebrows. “Pineapple chili? That’s something I need to try.”
“You’ll never be the same, I promise. It’s amazing.”
Hannah took a seat on the sofa, the baby asleep in her arms. Liam sat beside her. He helped her out of her coat, laid it across the sofa arm, then settled next to her.
Quinn couldn’t help noticing how close they sat, how comfortable they seemed with each other. She also noticed the bulge of a pistol at Liam’s hip beneath his sweatshirt. How his eyes never rested on any one thing, but continued to roam, checking the windows, the door, the hallway. Like he was always on the lookout for danger.
Bishop had said he wasn’t a man to mess with. Quinn believed it.
“Milo and Noah have told me all about you, Quinn,” Hannah said. “You’re very important to both of them.”
Despite her best intentions, Quinn blushed. She cleared her throat, resisting the urge to say something sarcastic. “Yeah. Well. The feeling’s mutual.”
“I remember you,” Hannah said. “You used to sit right at that window and wave to me when I went running with baby Milo in his jogging stroller. You were smaller, then. And your hair was a different color.”
Milo shot Quinn a look, his eyes widening. She’d never told him that story. “Really?”
“Really,” Quinn said. “See? We were destined to be friends.”
Milo smiled at that. A real, genuine smile. “I knew it,” he whispered under his breath.
“What’s all this?” Liam pointed at the leaves arrayed across the coffee table and stacked neatly in a cardboard box on the floor next to the table.
“Those are Gran’s toilet paper leaves.”
“Say what now?”
“These plants are called Lamb’s ear,” Quinn explained. “They have soft, absorbent leaves that are big and broad. They’re edible and medicinal. They can be used as bandages and have anti-bacterial properties. They’re best known as a good toilet paper alternative. Mullein works great, too, with its larger leaves.”
“Oh, cool,” Hannah said. “That’s going to come in handy real soon.”
“The leaves are dried flat to preserve them for year-round use. The leaves will remain absorbent even after being dried. They take up a lot less space to store than packages of toilet paper.”
“How does she grow them in the middle of winter?” Liam asked.
Quinn explained the winter garden boxes Gran tended in the backyard. “Lamb’s ear can be grown indoors in small pots in winter, too. Once you dry them flat, you put them in a jar or Ziploc baggie to use whenever you need it.”
“That’s a genius idea,” Hannah said. “What about homemade diapers?”
“Those too. And menstrual pads.”
“Oh gross,” Milo muttered.
“If Molly has a few seeds to spare, I’d love to grow some of our own,” Hannah said.
Milo made a face.
“It won’t be that bad,” Hannah said. “Trust me.”
“For what it’s worth, Gran says it feels like a cloud. Personally, I have yet to try it out.”
Hannah grinned at Milo. “A cloud, huh? You sure you don’t wanna try?”
Milo let out a shy giggle. He blushed and looked away. “Maybe later.”
“Toilet paper was only invented a hundred years ago,” Quinn said, proud and thankful for all the knowledge that Gran and Gramps had taught her. “People have used plants for centuries. It works fine—as long as it’s not poison ivy.”
“We’ll need to learn to make things from scratch,” Hannah said quietly. “With manufacturing plants down and the supply chain disrupted, there is a finite supply of everything we’re used to. A lot of things will be going back to the old ways.”
“Not everything, I hope,” Quinn said. “I’d like to keep at least a few technological advances.”
“Speaking of technology.” Liam gestured to the cords draped around her neck. “What do you have there?”
Quinn grinned broadly. “Music.”
Hannah was rocking the baby in her arms. She went still. “Music?”
“My grandpa put an old iPod in a Faraday cage to protect it. The EMP didn’t hurt it. I have a solar charger, too. And even a nifty little speaker to play it loud.”
“Me and Quinn sing and dance sometimes,” Milo said shyly.
Hannah swallowed. Her face had gone pale. Liam was watching her intently, a concerned look on his face. “Can you—do you think—can we listen to something?”
Quinn fished the iPod out of her pocket.
The baby gave a little cry. Liam reached for her. “I’ll take her.”
Without a word, Hannah handed Charlotte to him. The baby almost disappeared beneath the soldier’s big, calloused hands.
Surprisingly gentle, he cradled the infant to his chest and patted her back.
She squirmed, then relaxed, settling into the crook of his neck. Almost instantly, she was asleep again.
“Will the noise bother her?” Quinn asked.
“She sleeps through just about everything,” Hannah said. She hadn’t taken her eyes of Quinn’s iPod since it had appeared.
Quinn plugged the iPod into the speaker on the mantel. She clicked through the various artists, searching for something good. She skipped over “Eye of the Tiger,” “Dancing Queen,” and “I’m a Believer.”
She stopped on a Beatles song, remembering how Milo had told her they were his mother’s favorite band. She hesitated, then pressed play.
The soft strums of “Blackbird” filled the room. Paul McCartney’s haunting voice and acoustic guitar blended in perfect harmony.
Hannah expelled a sharp breath and closed her eyes. Her features softened.
Quinn couldn’t take her eyes off her. She looked so beautiful, so serene.
Everyone listened intently until the last notes faded. No one moved.
A strange look crossed Milo’s face. He glanced at Hannah, his eyes wide and bright. “You sang this song. You sang it to me at bedtime. You changed the tune a little, though.”
“I did. It was our favorite.” Hannah scooted forward off the couch and sank to her knees, her expression so full of hope that it hurt Quinn’s heart. Her hands knotted in her lap. “You remember?”
Milo nodded. “I remember.”
Hannah’s chin quivered. In a shaky voice, she began to sing acapella. “Blackbird, fly, blackbird, fly…Into the light of a dark black night…” Her voice grew stronger, more confident. “Blackbird singing in the dead of night…Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”
Quinn stopped breathing. Milo and Noah hadn’t exaggerated. Hannah Sheridan had the most beautiful voice she’d ever heard—pure and rich and powerful.
The song hit her straight in the heart, in her very soul.
Milo joined in. They sang together, their voices sweet and harmonious, echoing beautifully in the small room.
“Blackbird, fly…into the light of a dark black night.” Tears streamed down Hannah’s face. She sang the last line. “All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.”
Milo went to her. Not hesitantly, not awkward or uncomfortable or nervous, but full tilt. Arms opened wide, he flung himself at his mother.
Hannah wrapped her arms around him and drew him close, burying her face in his dark curls. They held each other tightly, like they never wanted to let go.
Quinn’s chest filled with warmth. Her eyes were wet. She felt like crying and laughing at the same time.
She knew how much this meant to Milo. She knew how much Hannah must need this.
She couldn’t i
magine what Hannah had gone through to get here, the battles she had fought and won to make it back to her family.
What a gift this was: to have lost something precious, and after all hope was gone, to find it again.
Quinn knew about pain. She knew about loss. She had her own grief and nightmares to contend with, her own missing mother who was never coming back.
She would never begrudge them their happiness. Their happiness was her own.
She loved Milo. She liked Hannah, had always liked Hannah. It was good that she was here. More than good—it felt right.
Quinn glanced at Liam. His gaze was locked on Hannah, his eyes dark, his face shadowed with emotion. Whoever this man was, it was clear to anyone in the room that Hannah meant something to him.
In the doorway between the kitchen and living room, Gran leaned on her cane, watching them. Quinn couldn’t be certain, but it looked like Gran had tears glittering in her eyes, too.
“Come, friends,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Dinner is served.”
40
Noah
Day Thirty-One
Noah hesitated in the doorway of Molly and Quinn’s house. He’d let himself in the front door but found himself strangely reluctant to enter.
“You’re letting all the heat escape!” Molly called from the kitchen. “Either crap or get off the pot!”
Laughter echoed from the kitchen. Milo’s voice, high and bright. And Hannah’s, pure and sweet as chiming church bells.
Noah smiled. He shook the snow from his coat. He shut the door behind him, removed his boots, stuffed his gloves in his pockets, and strode through the small living room into the kitchen.
The fire flickered merrily in the wood stove. A blast of warmth greeted him. The delicious scent of cinnamon and baking dough filled his nostrils.
The kitchen exuded peace and joy. Everyone was together, happy.
Molly’s old ranch was much smaller than his new house in Winter Haven. Cramped, a bit shabby, and plain. Somehow, it didn’t feel like it.
Noah’s chest tightened, a twinge of envy pricking him. In here, it was warm and inviting. Easy to forget the chaos and anarchy that raged just outside these walls.
The last few days had been rough. His mind was burdened with so many worries—the greedy overreach of the militia, the devolving state of the town, the rising tensions between Julian and Bishop. Gavin Pike’s death, and how Rosamond Sinclair might or might not be unraveling. He had avoided her until now, a part of him afraid that she would see the truth written all over his face.
Then there were the disconcerting news reports regarding the violent attacks on towns in the region. It was only a matter of time until Fall Creek became a target, too.
How would they stand against an attack from outsiders if they were too busy turning on each other?
Fall Creek was a powder keg waiting to explode. Another outburst like the assault on Winter Haven, and the militia might kill even more citizens. The militia were edgy and uptight. The townspeople were rebellious, resentful, and angry.
The residents might hate him for it, but Noah was doing his best to placate everyone, to keep things stable. He’d made the hard choices so the people he cared about could have this. Food and warmth. Shelter. Fellowship and community.
Too bad most of them didn’t appreciate it.
He tried to push it all out of his mind. For tonight, at least, he could be present with his friends and his family.
His son. His wife.
“You hungry?” Molly stood at the counter, flour everywhere as she kneaded dough. “I’m making my famous cinnamon bread.”
She glanced back at him. Flour smudged her round, wrinkled cheeks. Her blue eyes danced. “Your son put peanut butter on it, which is a sacrilege in this house. He’s lucky he’s cute, so I forgave him.” She winked at Milo. “This time.”
“He didn’t get the peanut butter thing from me,” Noah said, forcing brightness into his voice.
“It’s from my side of the family,” Hannah said. “My brother, Oliver. He slathered that stuff on everything he could.”
The sofa was still in the kitchen, shoved against the window with the round table beside it. Liam sat at the table across from Milo, a chess board between them. Quinn squeezed next to Hannah on the couch. She was rocking the baby in her arms while Hannah watched.
Quinn gave him a wry grin, her piercings glinting in the firelight. “Hey, Noah the Cop.
I put Charlotte right to sleep. Turns out I’m not half bad at this kid stuff.”
“You’re better than I am,” he said with a pang. He’d meant it as a joke; it didn’t come out that way.
Hannah’s huge dog, Ghost, lay sprawled on the small rug before the woodstove, his paws sticking straight out, his long, plumed tail thumping rhythmically.
Odin was curled up between Ghost’s paws beneath his muzzle. Thor, the fluffy orange one always begging for affection, sat on the dog’s haunches, licking his paws. Loki crouched behind him, his yellow eyes locked on Ghost’s tail, the cat’s butt wriggling in the air as he prepared to pounce.
Ghost ignored the cats’ antics completely. He didn’t growl, but he turned his head, ears pricked, his gaze alert. He didn’t take his eyes off Noah.
Noah paused in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, hesitant again. The dog made him nervous.
“He’s a friend,” Hannah said to Ghost. “Don’t bite him.”
Ghost’s ears tilted toward her. He let out a low petulant whine, like he was voicing his disagreement.
“I don’t think he likes me.” He waited for Hannah to assure him otherwise, but she didn’t.
He glanced at Milo. His son’s ankles were wrapped around the chair legs less than a foot from the dog’s powerful jaws. Noah imagined those teeth could bite clean through a leg or an arm.
He cleared his throat. “Is he safe?”
“Not at all,” Hannah said.
“Don’t make him want to bite you,” Liam said gruffly. “That’s the trick.”
Hannah flashed Liam a smile. “Is that the trick? Are you sure? I recall him nearly taking a chunk out of you a time or two.”
Liam’s rugged face creased. His lips twitched. “I don’t remember that at all. You must have been delirious.”
Hannah laughed again. High and sweet and musical.
Noah stiffened. The sound filled him with joy and pain in equal measure. How he’d loved her laugh. How he’d missed it, once it was gone.
He’d thought he’d never hear it again. Now, here it was. A miracle.
But it wasn’t Noah she was laughing with.
Hannah turned her gaze on Noah. Those emerald green eyes shining with mirth. That delicate, beautiful face seared into his memories—right here, alive, not ten feet away from him.
It might as well have been an ocean between them.
“You’ll be fine, Noah,” she said, laughing. “It’s okay. I promise.”
Milo patted the empty chair beside him. “Sit with us, Dad. Liam is teaching me how to play chess. It’s really fun! I took out his rook with my knight. That’s the cool horse-shaped one.”
Noah wanted to sit next to his wife, but that seat was already taken.
Liam sat at the far side of the table, his chair next to the edge of the couch, half-turned so his back was against the wall, facing the room. An AR-15 leaned against the table within his reach.
Less than a foot from him, Hannah was curled up on one end of the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, a handknit afghan blanket pulled over her lap.
She looked content and at ease, not tense and nervous the way she’d been at the Winter Haven house. The way she was around him.
“Your turn!” Milo said.
Liam made a move. Milo leaned forward, seized his queen, and knocked one of Liam’s black pawns off the board.
“Another one bites the dust!” he crowed.
“Nice move,” Liam said.
Milo beamed at him.
Something dark and ugly sprouted in Noah’s chest. With shaking hands, he unzipped his coat, took it off, and draped it across the back of the chair. He sat down stiffly and folded his hands on the table to still them. He pasted a smile on his face.
He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to be the luckiest guy on the planet.
How many thousands of times had he dreamed of this? His wife alive, as beautiful as ever, right here in front of him.
And yet, he felt numb. Discouraged. More than a little disillusioned.
It wasn’t how he’d imagined it—how they’d fall into each other’s arms. How they’d cling to each other like each was the other’s life raft, their salvation. The past forgotten, erased. A new start. A new future.
Even in the midst of all this, they could make it work as long as they were together. He believed that.
Hannah was back from the dead— that was all he’d wanted for the last five years. He’d begged God, bartered his soul. He’d never even looked at another woman. He’d never removed his wedding ring.
She was here. He was here. They didn’t feel together.
She wasn’t even sleeping in the same bedroom. He’d offered her the master, but she and the baby had taken the guestroom instead.
An invisible wall stood between them. He’d tried to hug her, to hold her. When he’d reached out to touch her, the big dog had gotten in the way.
It wasn’t just the dog. Or the baby she was always holding. She’d shied away from him like he was a stranger.
He wasn’t a stranger. He was her husband.
Liam Coleman was the stranger. The tall, muscular soldier, the loner with haunted eyes. This man who had a connection with his wife.
Hannah and Liam had barely touched each other since Hannah’s return, but they didn’t have to. It was more than just gratitude he saw flashing in his wife’s eyes whenever she looked at him.
Noah couldn’t pin down exactly what it was, but he couldn’t dismiss his suspicions, either.
He was a cop. He trusted his instincts. And his instincts were screaming a truth he wasn’t sure he could face.
Every time Hannah smiled at Liam, every time Noah caught the soldier watching her with that look in his eyes, that look every man recognized in another—desire, longing—the claws of jealousy dug deeper.
