9. Avery
Chapter nine
Avery
Here on the sofa, in the living room, it feels oddly empty now that I’ve cleared away all of Maddie’s things. The silence is thick, pressing in around me.
Clara walks in, carrying a tray with a cup of hot chocolate and a slice of cake. She sets it down on the coffee table next to me, then leans in, whispering, “That poor child. So upset.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, staring into the steam. “I can only guess what she must be going through.” My voice feels small. “I was… was about the same age when I lost my mom.”
Clara’s expression softens. “Oh my, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “But at least I still had my father and brother. I don't think Maddie's father is anywhere on the scene. She must feel so lost.”
Oh honey, you don’t know? Clara gently lays her hand on my shoulder, “Maddie has no father, Nichole wanted a child and got tired of waiting for the right man. She used a sperm donor to have Maddie.”
Before I can say anything else, Gray walks in.
Clara straightens immediately, stepping back. My heart stammers in my chest. Gray and I haven’t said more than two words to each other since he got home.
Clara doesn’t linger. She hurries off, leaving just the two of us.
Gray stops a few feet away, his shoulders tense. “As you know, the funeral will be tomorrow at noon.” His tone is distant. Cold.
I nod. “Yes, Clara told me yesterday.” I hesitate. “Does Maddie know?”
“No, not yet.” His face is unreadable. “I’ll tell her tomorrow at breakfast.”
I glance toward the door, then back at him. “What will she be wearing?”
“Beth will be over first thing. While we were in Florida, she got Maddie a black dress. I only hope it fits.”
He turns to leave.
I swallow hard. “Gray?”
He stops but doesn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry about… well, your sister.”
His jaw tightens as he turns away again, muttering, “Yeah, so am I.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me sitting alone with my hot chocolate, my cake, and way too many thoughts.
Of course, he’s distant and cold. God, Avery, you are so selfish. His sister is dead, his niece is shattered, and you’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself because he barely looks at you? Grow up.
But still… I feel so uncomfortable here, especially after—after…
Jesus. I want him so much, but it seems like to him, I don’t even exist anymore.
I push the thought away, taking another bite of cake. It’s rich and sweet, but it might as well be dust in my mouth.
I finish my hot chocolate, set the mug down, then gather my plate and cup and stand. The room feels even heavier now, like it’s pressing in on me, so I don’t linger.
I walk into the kitchen. It’s dark, and I’m guessing Clara has gone to bed. The quiet is almost suffocating.
I flip the light on, the yellow glare sharp against the empty space.
At the sink, I turn the tap and start washing my plate and cup, the warm water running over my hands. It’s something to focus on, something to do. I rinse them off, set them on the drainer, and wipe my hands on a towel.
Then I turn off the light, step out of the kitchen, and make my way up the staircase, every step more thought-provoking than the last.
Tomorrow is the funeral, and I have no idea how Maddie will handle it.
I pause outside my bedroom door, my hand gripping the knob, and glance down the landing. Gray’s door is shut. There’s no sound from inside, no indication he’s even still awake. I tell myself I don’t care, that it doesn’t matter, but my stomach twists anyway.
I step into my room and flick on the small lamp beside my bed. The warm glow barely reaches the far corners of the space.
Peeling off my clothes, I tug on my comfy shorts and tank top, switch off the light, and crawl under the covers.
But sleep doesn’t come.
I roll onto my side. Then my back. Then my side again. The night outside stretches endlessly beyond my window, the faint hum of Westhaven’s quiet streets filling the silence. But my mind refuses to shut off.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. My thoughts tangle on themselves, looping back to the way he barely looks at me now.
I let out a sharp breath, throw the covers back, and sit up. If I’m not going to sleep, I may as well do something.
I switch the lamp back on, push myself out of bed, and walk to the table in the corner.
Flipping open my laptop, I hit the power button, the screen flickering to life in the dim room. My fingers hover over the keys for half a second before they start moving as if they have a mind of their own.
***
Westhaven, Oregon, 1880
Avery pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she followed Grayson down the muddy street. The rain had eased into a fine mist, clinging to the curls escaping from beneath her bonnet.
“Your boots are a lost cause,” Grayson remarked, glancing at the mud also soaking into the hem of her skirts.
“Nothing that can’t be cleaned.” She kept pace with him, lifting her chin. “It’s hardly the worst thing to happen to me today.”
He let out a low sound—almost a laugh, but not quite, more like an acknowledgment that she had a point.
They reached the blacksmith’s, the warm glare of the forge flickering behind the wooden slats.
Grayson’s horse, a magnificent chestnut stallion, was tied up just beyond the entrance, shifting its weight as they approached.
He stroked its neck, murmuring something she didn’t catch, before turning to her.
“Ever ridden double?”
She hesitated. His profile, etched against the dancing light, was striking. The rain had plastered his dark hair to his forehead, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the strong line of his jaw.
His eyes, when they met hers, held a warmth that softened the ruggedness of his features. Avery’s breath caught. He was undeniably handsome, a man carved from granite and fire, and for a fleeting moment, she forgot the urgency of her situation.
But then, the image of her father’s pale face swam before her eyes, and the weight of her worry settled back upon her shoulders like a shroud.
Handsome men were a dime a dozen, she reminded herself, but fathers were irreplaceable. She couldn’t afford distractions. Not now.
Grayson untied his horse, patting its nose as it whickered softly. With a fluid grace that spoke of long years in the saddle, he swung himself up and extended a hand down to her.
“Come on. Let’s get you to the Matheson estate. Time’s a-wasting.” A wry smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “To be honest, I was headed there anyway.”
Avery placed her hand in his, his grip firm and steady. He pulled her up effortlessly, her skirts catching momentarily on the saddle horn. “You are? I don’t understand. Why?”
She settled behind him, her body pressed against his back, and felt a jolt of awareness that had nothing to do with the bumpy ground.
His coat smelled of leather and wood smoke, an intoxicating combination that filled her senses. Tentatively, she placed her arms around his waist, her fingers barely brushing his broad back. The warmth of his body seeped through her thin cloak, a welcome comfort after the chill of the rain.
He clicked his tongue, and the stallion surged forward, hooves striking the rain-slicked ground in a steady rhythm.
Avery clung to him, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs—a mixture of fear for her father and something else entirely, something unsettling and unshakable.
“Jimmy McCullum,” Grayson called over his shoulder. “An old friend of mine.”
Her breath caught. “What? You know my father?”
***
I have no idea how long I’ve been writing—two hours? Four? The navy hue of morning creeps through my window, and my back aches from hunching over.
I glance at the time in the right-hand corner of the screen.
5:53 AM.
Sixty pages.
I let out a slow breath and save my work, shutting the laptop with a quiet click.
Damn, I have to get Maddie up in an hour, but right now, my body feels like lead.
Stumbling back to bed, I barely manage to crawl under the covers before flopping down onto the mattress.
Knock-knock.
I jerk upright so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Holy shit. What time is it?
Fumbling blindly for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers finally close around it. I squint at the screen.
8:32 AM.
Damn it.
Knock-knock.
“Okay, one moment!” I call out, my voice croaky with sleep and pure panic.
From the other side of the door, I hear, “Avery, it's me. Clara.”
I throw the covers back and scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over my own damn feet in my rush to the door.
When I yank it open, Clara stands there, a smile not quite covering her annoyance. “I think someone overslept, didn’t they?”
I barely register the joke. My brain short-circuits to one thing. “Maddie?”
“It's okay. I've just taken her down to breakfast. Come on, get dressed. I think you should be down there when Gray tells her about the funeral.” The smile is gone from her face, worry etched into every subtle wrinkle.
Shit!
I nod, exhaling as some of the tension eases from my chest. “Thanks, Clara.” I reach out and squeeze her hand briefly before shutting the door again.
I stand for half a second, brain still half-asleep, staring at the closet like it holds the answers to life’s biggest questions.
What the hell am I gonna wear?
My reflection in the mirror looks as lost as I feel.
Jeans and a T-shirt for now. I’ll figure the rest out later.
I grab the first pair of jeans I see, a half-decent T-shirt, and hurry to the bathroom. A quick splash of cold water to my face wakes me up enough to function, and then I’m dressed, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.
No time to overthink.
I throw open the door, step into the hall, and rush downstairs.
The house is already alive with movement. Funeral caterers weave through the hall, chafing dishes and cutlery in their hands, voices low but urgent.