Ethan was clearly amused. “No tent tonight?”
“Uh-uh. Not after all the sneaking around in the woods I did today.”
“That’s not it.” He settled his black eyes on her, studying her, and she had the feeling he could slice right through all her defenses and see straight through to her soul. “You want to be close to your family. You might not ever live full-time in Vermont again, but it’s still home.”
“Oh, heavens,” she said. “I’ll become a flatlander.”
He grinned. “The flatlands aren’t so bad.” A gust of wind scattered orange leaves at his feet. “Ham’s parents have chartered a jet for him, and he’s offered me a ride to wherever I want to go.”
Juliet nodded. “You’ll go back to Texas.”
“Maybe.”
“Ethan—”
“I don’t know what comes next for me, Juliet. I have to figure that out. For the past year, I haven’t thought much beyond getting through the next twenty-four hours.”
“When do you and Ham leave?”
“As soon as he finishes up with the big three in there.”
She smiled at him. “Maybe I’ll land on your doorstep next time.”
Twenty-Two
Mia wore slim pants and a sweater to her meeting with President Poe one week after her ordeal in Vermont. She couldn’t bear to put on panty hose, tuck in a blouse, find the right brooch, the right earrings. Her doctors had told her to give herself time. They didn’t understand the world in which she operated.
“I recommend you not let Ethan Brooker slip away. He’s too good to lose,” she told the president. They were in a windowless room, at a surprisingly rickety table. “He’s finished with active military duty, but he’ll never be a rancher.”
Poe didn’t speak for a moment. Then he asked softly, “What about you?”
She raised her eyes to him, again noting what a remarkably handsome man he was. And a decent one. “You have to cut me loose.”
“Why?”
“Mr. President—” She looked at him as if he were being dense on purpose. “I got information from a vigilante mercenary. I was tortured. I endangered—” She stopped herself and added simply, “I screwed up.”
“You have a different perspective now. Your work isn’t all theoretical. The lives you and Mr. Carhill saved are the lives of real people.” He drummed the table for a few seconds with all ten fingers. “We only have the tip of the iceberg. We need to find Kelleher’s associates, the men who followed you to New York, who engineered Bobby Tatro’s escape. I realize you’re not an investigator, but we have a lot of work to do.”
Mia didn’t know what to say. She thought of Vermont and pumpkins and apples, and the Longstreets, especially Joshua, whose kindness to her, whose uncomplicated principles, continued to bring her comfort, and she found herself unable to speak.
“Mia?”
“I’m sorry…”
“No.” President Poe got to his feet. “No, I’m sorry. You’ve been through hell. Take some time off. All the time you need. Then, if you want to, we can talk.”
Joshua picked fallen leaves off the pumpkins he and Wendy had set out on each step to his porch. She hadn’t wanted to carve them. The air was frosty and clear, and the leaves were dropping fast, leaving behind the burgundy and rusts of the oak trees, the evergreens. The leaf-peepers had gone home, the skiers hadn’t yet arrived. The media and the federal investigators had finally left town. His corner of Vermont was quiet again.
And Wendy was going to be all right. Her mother had charged down from Nova Scotia but only spent a few days with her, because their daughter wanted her to go back—wanted, she said, for her to finish her yoga study, go after her own dreams. The three of them—mother, father, daughter—walked down to the lake one morning and scattered Teddy’s ashes together. Before her mother left, Wendy announced to both her parents that she didn’t want to be a doctor—or a cop or a landscaper, or a yoga teacher.
She didn’t know what she wanted to be.
That was fine with Joshua and his ex-wife. Wendy was just seventeen. Neither of them had realized just how much their daughter had anguished over her decision.
He dumped the stray leaves onto the yard. He didn’t know why he bothered. By morning, more leaves would have blown onto the steps, the pumpkins, up onto the porch. Barry swept every morning, but couldn’t keep up. But it gave him something to complain about.
A car pulled up to the curb in front of his house. A woman. Small, with dark auburn hair.
Mia O’Farrell. She got out and smiled at him over the top of the car. “I like the pumpkins.”
It’d been three weeks since she’d collapsed into his arms. She looked strong, and the terror and pain had gone out of her eyes. Joshua walked out to her. “What—”
“I’m not here on business,” she said quickly. “I took some time off. I’ve been staring at the walls of my apartment too long.”
Joshua was at a rare loss. “Um…come on in.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting—”