“We brought Hannah home.” Erin rested a hand on her mother’s arm, her birdlike bones frail beneath her skin. “I’m sorry, but Markham’s dead.”
“Dead?” She seemed more confused than hurt by the news. “How?”
“We’ll wait for Dad, if it’s okay. I only want to tell it once.”
“Yes, of course. He should be the first to hear.”
She hadn’t meant that at all, only that emotional exhaustion would only carry her through one explanation.
“I should see what I can do to help your sister.”
Erin nodded, witnessing once more the way of things.
As her mother went to help her husband with Hannah, Erin leaned with Morgan against the spotless Formica counter, standing on the freshly mopped linoleum. The cabinets retained a scent of Murphy Oil Soap. The pink chintz curtains were pressed right up to the crisp gathers. Gwen Reilly loved keeping house.
Leaning there, Morgan closed his eyes, fatigue catching up. Neither of them had slept in more than a day. He and William had spent the night meeting with the FBI and lining everything up.
In the Bureau’s version, the critical incident team would have been first on the scene handling the hostage situation with the other agents waiting on William’s jet, if it went that far. But Morgan and William privately agreed he had a better shot at a positive solution by going in under the radar and working with Markham’s demands.
In the end, Markham went off the rails altogether. She wondered what pushed him over, but it didn’t matter. Though she hadn’t wished the end that came, he’d chosen it. She asked Morgan, “Do you want to sit?”
For an answer he put his arm around her, sensing the fine tension keeping her upright. “Nope.”
“Should we drop Hannah and run?”
Eyes still closed, the corners of his mouth deepened.
She said, “I don’t think they’ll miss me.”
He opened his eyes, angling his face to her. “The problem is, you don’t fit here. They probably had no idea what to do with you. The best they came up with was hiding your light under a bushel.”
She stared into his face, touched and heartened by his perception. “Are you tired of hearing I love you?”
“Try me in forty years or so.”
From the bedroom, she heard Hannah crying. It was going to be a while. “Let’s come back in the morning.”
He searched her face, then straightened off the counter. “Okay. Where to?”
Her chest quaked. “Pops’ house.”
“Erin.”
“I know.” She suppressed a sob. “I just want to be in his place. To say good-bye.”
Morgan released a breath. “Okay.”
They drove the short distance to the tiny turn-of-the-century house by the river they’d fished. She couldn’t stop the tears as she climbed the porch stairs and turned the old knob. Pops had never locked it. How she wished now that he had.
The house smelled of lemon oil and shirt starch and faintly of fried chicken. It seemed impossible she’d never see him with an iron skillet at the stove again. A wave of pain closed her eyes, twisting her brow like a hook in her forehead.
And then a voice broke the silence. “Stand right there. By Patrick and all the saints, you’ll not catch me unawares again.”
“Pops?” Her legs gave out.
Morgan caught her going down. The light came on. All the emotion of the whole horrific affair burst from her in sobs.
Morgan said, calmly, “Is there somewhere she can sit?”
A bandage wrapped his head, and Pops moved jerkily as he ushered them into the parlor, but his voice was strong, his tone insistent. “Be still, lass. Be still.”
She dropped to the velveteen sofa. “I thought you were dead. Markham said—”
“And that should have been your clue. Take more than that scurvy weasel to crack this Irish skull. Did more damage to the rock.”
She caught the amusement in Morgan’s eyes, a matching high spirits in Pops’s.
“This isn’t funny. I’ve been in agony over you.”
“Well, about time,” he said. “If it takes bumping my head to bring you back, I’ll do it myself. And a better job of it.”
She dropped back against the couch with a hint of exasperation.
Pops shifted his attention. “You must be Morgan. Great name, that. Welsh bones in it.”
Morgan rose and offered his hand. “Morgan Spencer.”
“Corlin Reilly.” Pops returned Morgan’s firm grip. “You’re a lucky one, getting my Quinn.”
“Don’t I know.” Morgan took his seat again. “But . . . she goes by Erin now.”
She studied her grandfather for a reaction.
“Oh?”
“We changed it when we married to elude Markham, but . . . I like it that way.”
Pops gave Morgan a long stare, then said, “Just as well. I only gave her Quinn to nettle my son. Erin, though. That came from the heart.”
Morgan shot her a look that said he’d told her so.
She raised her chin. “Pops, tell me the truth. Are you really fine?”
“A wee concussion. My neighbor found me almost right away, got me off the river shore into my kitchen. We had a stiff drink and toasted Markham straight to hell.”
She couldn’t help thinking he’d gone there. But she raised her brows. “I thought you didn’t believe in hell.”
“No, lass. I believe that right well.”
“Then, why are you so against God?”
To her surprise, he pondered it. “It’s not so much I’m against God as I don’t think he’s got much use for me.”
“But, Pops . . .” Surely there was hope in this.
He gripped the chair arms with his gnarly hands. “I did things in my youth. Killed a man in a bar fight. He had it coming, but it turned me somehow. Never saw myself the same again.” His brow furrowed. “Lately, though, and maybe while I lay there, contemplating my demise, I thought there might be room for conversation. God and I.”
She crossed her hands beneath her throat, tears brimming. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty to say. Both of you.”
“Aye.” He pressed his palms to his knees. “But I’ve said enough for now. Take your pick of the rooms upstairs . . . Erin. Just don’t keep me up all night.”
She drew a sharp breath.
But Morgan stood and took her arm. “We’ll hold it down, Pops.”
She held her peace all the way up, then hissed, “Hold it down?” when he closed the door behind them.
Morgan laughed out loud.
Epilogue
May I ride the horsey, Daddy?”
“Well.” Morgan lifted Livie onto the pristine white fence of the corral, perching her next to the equally pristine white mare with soft gray muzzle and rippling creamy white mane. The purebred Andalusian might have been over the top as a first horse for a not-yet-three-year-old, but as Erin said, he just couldn’t help himself. “Let’s ask Mommy.”
He turned as Erin approached, one hand resting on her protruding belly. Nowhere near as pronounced as it would get in her two remaining months, it still amazed him watching their child grow inside her.
His glance shifted to Noelle walking beside her, his infant nephew tucked under her chin. He had a feeling these two babies would be as close as Liam and Livie, even if they didn’t live in the same house. The amount of time they spent in one place or the other would keep them together enough.
“Ask me what?” Erin said.
“May I ride the horsey, Mommy?”
Bella trotted up and put her paws on the fence rail as Erin stroked the horse’s head. “I think the one you need to ask is Princess Snowflake.”
His mouth pulled. That was what came of a two-year-old naming a horse—not quite the registered version.
Livie put her face almost onto the mare’s. “May I ride you, Princess Snowflake?”
“I definitely think she says yes.” Erin’s eyes gleamed. “As long as Daddy rid
es too.”
He leaned his forearm on the fence. “You know Celia would disagree. She’d put her on bareback.”
“Yes.” Erin stroked the dove-gray muzzle. “But you asked Mommy.”
He sent a glance to Noelle, who shrugged. “Rick would agree with Erin. Especially when you buy a sprite a war horse.”
“She’s a show horse.”
Erin stretched up and kissed him. “It’s your call.”
Which meant he’d saddle up and take Livie for her first ride on Princess Snowflake—an opportunity he wouldn’t miss since he’d be flying out in the morning.
The spread they’d found comprised scenic acres surrounding an hacienda-style house that immediately gained Consuela’s approval. It was farther from the mission but closer to her heritage. Erin and Livie didn’t seem to mind the seven-minute drive to the sparkling shore they viewed from their large, arching windows, and Bella thought anywhere they ended up heaven.
With an arm around Livie on the fence, he pulled Erin up and kissed her longer. The baby would be born before their first anniversary, but it was good spacing for Livie, and Erin glowed. He hadn’t seen this coming, might have missed it, locked in his gloom. But Erin and Livie had conspired, with a little of Rick and Noelle. He felt pretty sure Jill and Kelsey approved. And he no longer wondered but was wholly convinced the matter was God ordained.
“You know as soon as this one’s born, it’ll be you in the saddle.”
“Can I nurse the baby first?”
He nudged her. “Wise guy.”
“Wise girl, Daddy.”
“Wise woman.” Erin looked into his face, the essence of her—like Livie—catching his breath as it might for the rest of his life.
His chest expanded. “Definitely.” His mouth found hers with a will of its own.
“Kiss me, Daddy!”
He and Erin broke their kiss and as one covered Livie’s cheeks and neck with all the kissing she could bear.
Acknowledgments
Many heartfelt thanks to the people who helped make this book:
My editorial team at Bethany House, Karen Schurrer, David Horton, and all those who took a pass at this. Thanks to marketing, production, cover design, and all of you behind the scenes. Such a joy to work with you.
My agent, Donald Maass. Fantastic insights for unrelenting improvement, solid representation, and great advice.
My readers, Jane Francis, David Ladd, Kelly McMullen, Melodie Fry (don’t talk to me; I’m in Paris), Devin Heitzmann, Jessica Rae Lovitt, and my husband, James. Every one of those comments, questions, and answers made it that much better.
A most special thanks to Everleigh Grace Lovitt for inspiring Livie and putting the wonderful in every day. And for little Greyson, whose turn is coming.
As always, profound thanks and praise to God—Father, Son, and Spirit—all for your glory.
Kristen Heitzmann is the bestselling author of historical and contemporary romantic suspense novels, including Colorado Book Award finalist The Still of Night and Christy Award winner Secrets. She lives with her husband, extended family, pets, and wildlife in the Rocky Mountain foothills.
Visit her at: www.kristenheitzmannbooks.com
Facebook: Author Kristen Heitzmann
Twitter: Kristen Heitzmann
Books by Kristen Heitzmann
* * *
DIAMOND OF THE ROCKIES
The Rose Legacy
Sweet Boundless
The Tender Vine
A Rush of Wings
The Still of Night
The Breath of Dawn
Secrets
Unforgotten
Echoes
Twilight
Halos
Freefall
The Edge of Recall
www.kristenheitzmann.com
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
Facebook: Bethany House
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