That wasn’t true. He’d left because he loved her. He’d leave again for the same reason. But he couldn’t tell her that any more now than he could then. Just because Emerson Watley had shaken his hand didn’t mean anyone else would.
In Three Harbors, Owen would always be the delinquent son of a crazy drunk-druggie. Just as Becca would always be the daughter of one of the founding families. People used the word doctor before her name. Just because he carried the rank of sergeant before his wouldn’t change anything. If he lost that rank, then what would he be?
No one all over again.
“It was a long time ago.” Becca stared out the passenger window where the tip of one of the silos on the Carstairs farm had just become visible.
“Feels like yesterday.” She looked the same, smelled the same; he wanted to kiss her … just the same.
“Sometimes it does,” she agreed. “Then other times it all seems so long ago, so far away, so hazy, like it happened to someone other than me. As if you were a story I told myself.”
He didn’t care for that at all, but who was he to judge? He’d coped with the loss of her by throwing himself into his training. Becoming so exhausted he could do nothing but move forward with little energy left to look back. Because looking back hurt so badly he could hardly breathe.
Owen turned into the long, gravel lane that matched the one at Watley’s and led to a similar farm at the end. House, barn, sheds, machinery, all pretty much the same, though in slightly different locations.
A big, floppy tan mutt came racing out of the barn, braying either a welcome or a warning. From Reggie’s grumble, he thought it was the latter.
Owen set his hand on the dog’s shoulder. “Easy, boy. His place.”
“Moose is harmless,” Becca said.
“Reggie isn’t.” He didn’t play well with dogs not of the working variety. Probably because he’d never had much chance to. Or maybe because, to Reggie, work was play and vice versa. He had no time or patience for anything else. He lived to sniff out bombs and terrorists. But, hey, so did Owen. He rubbed his bad leg.
Becca rolled down the window a few inches. “Barn, Moose!”
The dog appeared crushed, but he went where he’d been told, leaving a looming, waiting silence behind.
Owen shifted the truck into park. “Becca, I’m sorry—”
“Me too,” she interrupted, then took a deep breath. “I know I asked you to breakfast…”
His lips curved. “I wasn’t going to come.”
She nodded as if she’d known that. She probably had. She’d always known him better than anyone. And despite other people treating him as if he were a completely different person than the one who’d left, he wasn’t. Deep down he would always be the same.
Just like his mother.
“It’s probably best if we don’t see each other any more than we have to while you’re here.”
Owen blinked. Hadn’t seen that coming.
“Not at all would be my vote.” She scrubbed her nails lightly between Reggie’s eyes. The dog practically drooled. “However, with the problem at your house, that probably isn’t going to happen.”
“You kissed me,” he said stupidly.
She gave Reggie one last pet and got out of the car.
“Won’t happen again,” she said, and slammed the door.
*
Kissing Owen had definitely been a mistake. Despite how good it had been, how right and familiar, I’d known that the instant I’d done it.
Because now all I could think of was doing it again. Which would only lead to a much, much bigger mistake. Sleeping with him. And that would be a lot harder to forget than a mere kiss.
“Mere.” There’d been nothing “mere” about it. Not now. Not then. Not ever.
The thunderous swoosh of my shoes through the ankle-deep fallen leaves seemed to announce my presence even louder than Moose had.
The door wasn’t locked. Never was. No one got past that dog.
A steaming cup of coffee sat on the table. At Moose’s first bray Pam Carstairs would have glanced out the window and seen that someone was coming. She would have stayed at that window until she knew just who. I had seconds before the questions began.
Where had I been? What had I done? Whose truck had I arrived in?
I sat at the table and slurped from my cup as if I’d been lost in the desert and just found an oasis. Sometimes coming home felt like that. My mother’s coffee definitely tasted as good as clear spring water after a long summer’s drought. No matter how hard I tried to replicate it, I’d never been able to.
“What’s new, baby girl?”
I hadn’t been a baby for years, and I wasn’t “the” baby, but Mom had always called me that, and I let her. I liked it. Mostly because it annoyed Mellie. Her nickname was “squirt.” Drove her bonkers, which meant that the boys and I called her that as often as we could.
“Twin calves at Watley’s,” I said between slurps. “Heifers.”
“Nice.” She began to line her cast-iron skillet with thick strips of bacon. First came the sizzle, then came the scent, and I wanted to lick the air the way Moose did whenever he smelled it. Seriously, what wasn’t better with bacon?