Chapter 23
The porch light was on when Sarah pulled up, gold and warm against the dark, smoke curling from the chimney.
She sat in the truck for a second longer than she needed to, letting the day fall away.
Walter’s radio chatter. The Henderson fence dispute had required a follow-up visit.
Search grids until the lines blurred together.
Headlights had followed her at a careful distance the whole way out from town—Walter. He’d peeled off once she’d turned safely into her parents’ driveway.
She hadn’t seen Hudson since last night.
He’d been out checking logging roads with Walter since dawn, while she’d been buried under everything else the day had decided to throw at her.
Whenever she’d caught herself thinking about him, she’d found something else to think about.
There had always been another call. Another report. Another decision waiting for her.
She climbed out of the truck, the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat drawing her up the porch steps.
She let herself in through the mudroom. Warmth hit her first. Then the smell—pot roast, rosemary, her mom’s buttery rolls.
She kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the hook.
“Sarah.” Her dad appeared in the kitchen doorway, dish towel slung over one shoulder, and pulled her into a hug. “Hey, baby girl.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Rough one?”
“Long one.” She buried her face in his flannel shirt and breathed him in.
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Food fixes most things. Your mother made enough pot roast to solve international disputes.”
“I’ve never heard you complain about portion sizes,” her mom called from the kitchen.
Ty grinned and wandered over to Sophie, sliding an arm around her waist. He kissed her temple.
Her mom nudged him backwards with her hip without missing a beat as she stirred the gravy. “Ty. I’m cooking.”
“I noticed.”
“Then stop distracting me.”
“I’m moral support.”
She snorted. “You’re in the way.”
He kissed her again anyway, before finally retreating.
Sarah smiled to herself. Some things in this house never changed.
Caleb waved from where he leaned against the counter, stealing carrots off the cutting board. Sophie swatted his hand away with the wooden spoon without even looking.
Through the open kitchen door, Sarah spotted Josie shrieking with laughter somewhere near the living room floor, where Grace chased her on hands and knees. Wyatt was sitting on the couch, Jen beside him, her feet tucked up under her.
“No Ryder and Ivy?”
“Ryder was called out this afternoon—boat took on water off the point,” her mom replied. “Ivy’s got Ellie down for the count at their place. She’s having an early night.”
Sophie turned and smiled at Sarah. “Wash up, honey. We’re eating soon.”
“Smells incredible.” Sarah leaned in and kissed her mom’s cheek.
“It always smells incredible. Ty, we’re out of logs.”
“We are?” Her dad craned his neck toward the wood stove in the dining room.
Her mom’s hands landed on her hips. “We are. We have a guest tonight.”
Ty smiled. “I’m married to the only woman who can run out of firewood before dinner.”
“Yet somehow you’ve stayed all these years.”
“Food’s good.”
Sophie pointed toward the back door with the wooden spoon. “Logs.”
Still smiling, her dad grabbed his jacket and hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
As he headed for the back door, Sophie’s expression softened. “I heard about Petey, sweetheart.”
Sarah nodded. “He’s shaken up, but he’ll be okay.”
“Poor boy.”
“Louisa and Harold have taken him in until he gets used to managing with the cast. He’ll probably put on ten pounds before they let him leave. Louisa is convinced pie is a recognized medical treatment.”
Caleb snorted. “She’s not wrong.”
Sophie smiled. “He’s in good hands.”
Sarah crossed to the sink, bumped shoulders with Caleb, stole one of his stolen carrots, and felt the tightness in her chest loosen another notch.
She hadn’t realized how much she needed this. Especially with Hudson joining them for dinner, which she refused to examine.
She didn’t look at the clock. She washed and dried her hands, then leaned against the counter with a glass of water, just to have something to hold while she let herself sink into the familiar noise of Meyer life.
Grace scooped Josie up to put her in the high chair, then pulled a face. “Oh, wow, that’s—okay. That’s a big one.”
Her mom wiped her hands on her apron. “You can change her upstairs.”
“I’ll grab wipes,” Jen said, unfolding herself from the couch.
Sarah headed for the dining room, the same reflex that had her moving toward any crisis, large or small. “I can?—”
“You’re fine.” Wyatt followed her into the room, beer in hand. “Sit down, Sarah.”
Her mom, Jen, and Grace disappeared up the stairs, Josie’s protests fading behind them, and the dining room became unnervingly quiet.
Sarah pulled out a chair and took a seat.
Caleb poured a beer, the bottleneck clinking against his glass.
Wyatt took a slow drink.
She recognized this setup. Clear the room. Isolate the target. Let the silence do the work. Nobody seemed in any hurry to fill it. Sarah almost admired the restraint.
“Saw Hudson this afternoon,” Caleb said, far too casually, examining his fork as if it had suddenly become fascinating.
Her fingers tightened on her glass. “Did you?”
“Mm.” Caleb turned the fork over thoughtfully. “Little bit... discombobulated.”
Wyatt shook his head. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
“He’s working a case, Caleb.”
“That’s probably it.” The smile Caleb had been suppressing made it halfway onto his face before he wrestled it back under control.
Sarah sipped water so she didn’t have to talk.
“He didn’t even wave.” Caleb wasn’t done. “Man’s normally sharp as a tack. Didn’t even see me.”
Both of them looked at Sarah. She met their scrutiny with the flattest expression she owned, the one she used on drunks and men who thought badges were negotiable. “I have absolutely no idea what either of you?—”
“Course you don’t,” Caleb said.
“None at all.”
“I’ve genuinely never seen that man distracted.” Caleb eyed the ceiling.
“Me neither,” Wyatt said.
Caleb cleared his throat. “Guy’s like a Swiss watch. Today he looked like somebody unplugged him.”
Two pairs of eyes landed on her.
Sarah picked up her water glass again and drank from it very deliberately, refusing to give either of them the satisfaction of a reaction, even as heat crept up the back of her neck with treacherous speed.
Wyatt let the silence sit a beat longer, and then his voice shifted—the teasing replaced by something quieter. “You okay?”
She met Wyatt’s gaze. Fifteen years ago he’d found her crying in this house. He’d never mentioned it again.
Sarah gave him a small smile. “I’m okay.”
Wyatt held her eyes a second longer, and something in his face eased, as if that had been the whole answer he needed.
“Good,” Caleb said. “Because you’re exhausting when you’re brooding.”
Sarah grabbed the nearest napkin and threw it at his head.
He caught it, laughing, and tucked it into his collar like a bib. “See? Impossible.”
“I hate both of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Wyatt said.
She didn’t. That was the trouble with brothers.
The back door banged shut, and her dad came in with an armful of split logs. He stopped in the dining room doorway. “Everything all right?”
“Yep,” all three of them said at once.
Her dad studied them over the top of the logs.
Sarah knew that look. He’d raised four Meyer children. It was the expression he wore whenever one of them was lying badly enough that correcting them wasn’t worth the effort.
“Right,” he said at last.
Wyatt got up. “Let me help you with those, Dad.”
Interrogation unsuccessful.
But Caleb was still grinning into his beer as her mom came back downstairs with a squealing Josie.
Home was exactly what it had always been—warm, noisy, familiar.
Tires crunched over the stones outside.
Sarah looked toward the front door.
Hudson.