THE MUSICAL RUMBLE of the motorcycle’s engine eventually soothed Baba’s churning stomach and frazzled nerves, and she slowed down somewhat from the bone-jarring speed she’d been traveling at to a more reasonable pace that allowed her to check the surrounding scenery to get some idea of where she was.
Tall trees lined either side of a country lane, with the occasional white farmhouse and red barn dotting either side. Black-and-white cows lifted their heads to peer at Baba as she rode by, then returned to their munching, unimpressed by this strange noisy animal. A red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead, as if leading her on, and it was with more resignation than surprise that she spotted Liam’s cruiser parked just inside the gate of what looked to be a small, ancient cemetery.
Apparently even when she didn’t want to see him, the handsome sheriff was so strongly rooted in her spirit it was as though some invisible cord tied them together. Given free rein by her mindless driving, her treacherous subconscious had led her straight to him. She was going to have to have a little chat with it, as soon as she had more time.
For now, she coasted to a stop by the pair of weathered stone posts that marked the entrance to the nameless graveyard, flipped down the BMW’s kickstand, and parked her motorcycle next to the car. Under the gloomy late-afternoon sky, Liam’s figure stood alone in front of a tiny granite headstone, head bowed, a ragged bouquet of yellow-white daisies and pink and purple wildflowers crushed and forgotten in his large hands.
Baba hesitated for a moment, not sure if she would be intruding, but eventually she trudged past leaning moss-covered stones and a scattering of better tended, more modern monuments in the shape of angels, crosses, and in one case, a towering black marble obelisk, until she arrived at Liam’s side.
There she stood, gazing mutely at the simple tombstone, carved with the name Hannah Marie McClellan, and dates for a birth and death that fell far too close together. Underneath the dates, there was a single word: Beloved.
Hannah hadn’t even lived to see her fourth month. Baba closed her eyes in sympathetic pain and silent respect. When she reopened them, it was to see Liam gazing at her stoically, one eyebrow raised in unspoken question. The wind blew his too-long hair into his eyes. He ignored it, untouched for now by mere human annoyances.
“Hi,” Baba said, her voice soft, as seemed fitting for their surroundings. Despite the sadness all around them, there was also a kind of restful beauty in the quiet, out-of-the-way place. A single crow cawed as it flew overhead on its way to somewhere cheerier.
“Hi,” he said. “What are you doing here?” He looked at the road and back at her. “For that matter, how did you find me? More magic?”
She shrugged, the leather jacket she wore making a low rasping noise as it slid across her shoulders. “Magic of the heart, maybe. Nothing I did on purpose.” An ironic smile tweaked at the edges of her lips. “To be honest, it was just as much a surprise to me as it was to you when I wound up here.”
The eyebrow lifted even higher, but he didn’t say anything. They stood there for another few minutes in companionable silence, looking down on the place that marked all that remained of his daughter except bittersweet memory.
“It’s a nice cemetery,” Baba offered, finally. “Calm. Peaceful.”
“Yeah.” Liam bent and put the slightly mangled flowers down on top of his daughter’s stone. “Melissa and I had our first big argument about this place. She wanted Hannah laid to rest in town, where she could stop by and see her every day on her way to work. But my whole family is buried out here; going back to the days when this area was first settled by a bunch of people with more hope than sense.”
He gave a wry smile, as if to include himself in their ranks. “After that, it seemed like we argued about everything: Whether or not to give away Hannah’s clothes and toys, or turn the nursery into some other kind of room. Whether or not to try and have another baby right away. Or ever.
“And then she began drinking and doing whatever drugs she could get her hands on, so long as they numbed the pain. By the time she started in on the indiscriminate sexual encounters, I’d given up fighting.” His hazel eyes were shadowed by guilt and remembered anguish. “So maybe part of this new thing is my fault; her just trying to get back at me for giving up on her.”
“Sounds more like she gave up on herself,” Baba said practically. “I suspect you kept trying long after most men would have given up and written her off entirely.”
She was rewarded with a wan half smile. “Maybe,” he said. “But it still wasn’t enough.” He gazed down at the pitifully small grave. “I never cried, you know.”