Chapter Twenty
Sara
Every mile closer to Maplebridge felt like a mistake.
My hands were slick on the steering wheel, my stomach a tight knot of dread.
What was I doing? Driving into the heart of his new sanctuary with a living, breathing reminder of a promise he probably wanted to forget.
This wasn’t a plan; it was an impulse, an act of desperation disguised as kindness.
But I kept driving.
When I pulled into the long, gravel driveway of the Walker’s farmhouse, the place looked exactly like O’Dooley had described it. A big, white house with a wraparound porch, surrounded by beds of flowers that exploded with color. It looked peaceful. Safe. The last thing it needed was me.
I killed the engine and the silence that rushed in was deafening, broken only by the gentle panting from the passenger seat. I looked over at Sparkles. She’d been a perfect traveler, curled up and quiet, her old, wise eyes occasionally blinking up at me.
Taking a deep breath, I got out of the car. Before I could even make it to the porch steps, a man came around the side of the house. He was older, with a kind face that was currently set in a hard, unyielding line. Gene. It had to be.
He stopped at the bottom of the steps, planting his feet like he was blocking an intruder. He was.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a low, quiet rumble that carried more weight than any shout. “Haven’t you done enough?”
The accusation hit its mark, a direct blow to my already bruised conscience. The old me, Agent Linde, would have had a retort, a justification. But I had nothing. Only the truth.
“I understand why you wouldn’t want me here,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’m not here to cause more trouble. I just . . . I have something for Ashen.”
His eyes narrowed at the name, the one I’d given him. “After everything you’ve done, the last thing I’m going to do is help you give that boy a gift.”
I didn’t argue. I just turned, walked back to my car, and opened the passenger door. Sparkles lifted her head, then slowly, gracefully, hopped down to the ground. I clipped on her leash and led her back toward the steps.
A blur of gold shot out from behind the house.
A younger, boisterous retriever came bounding over, skidding to a halt a few feet away.
There was a moment of tense, nose-to-nose sniffing.
The young dog, Stanley, dropped into a playful stance, tail wagging frantically.
Sparkles, unimpressed, gave him a gentle but firm smack on the muzzle with her paw, a clear signal that she was in charge.
I watched them, a lump forming in my throat. “This is Sparkles,” I said quietly to Gene. “Who’s . . . who’s your friend?” A sudden, cold spike of doubt hit me. Is that Ashen’s? Had he had a dog all along? Had I read everything wrong, projecting my own need to save something onto him?
Gene’s gaze softened slightly as he watched the two dogs. “That’s Stanley. He’s Dylan’s, but Dylan travels a lot, so Mark usually ends up watching him here and . . . voilà, I have a dog.” He looked from Stanley to the old, gentle dog at my side. He asked, “And what’s her story?”
I told him everything. About the bookstore, the diner, the walk in the park. About finding Sparkles at the shelter, and the look on Ashen’s face when she’d rested her head in his lap. I told him about the promise he’d made to come back for her.
“I don’t want him to not keep his promise because of something I did,” I finished, my voice thick. “I don’t have to see him. You can take her to him. And if he doesn’t want her, I’ll take her back. I’ll keep her. But I had to make sure he had the choice.”
Gene was quiet for a long time, his eyes searching my face, weighing my words. He looked down at Sparkles, who sat patiently by my side, a picture of quiet dignity.
Finally, he let out a long breath and nodded.
“He’s back at the sugar shack, cleaning it out for me,” he said, gesturing toward a path that led past the house and into the woods. “You can go on back.”