Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“I can’t tell. He’s got a baseball cap on.” She fiddles with the knobs. “Why are these so shitty?”
I bite my tongue against the urge to scold her for her language. She’s emerged from the emotional I-have-no-friends-and-my-life-sucks awkward teenager stage, and I’d rather she keep talking openly to me than go silent because I’ve pulled the mom card. “Because you dropped them.”
“Oh. Right.” She plays with the knobs some more. “Do you think he hooked up with a dude?”
“What?”
“In prison. You know, because of the sausage fest? Maybe he had a boyfriend.”
“Uh …,” I falter on my response.
“’Cause there aren’t any women to—”
“I get it.” It’s far too early for these kinds of questions. “If he did, good for him. That’s his business, not ours.”
Logan’s restrictions are standard: Check in with his parole officer, a curfew, and no drugs or alcohol. I’m sure he’ll find his way to the Bale House—the popular local watering hole and pickup joint—to make up for all those years of forced abstinence. I just hope he doesn’t break any rules while he’s at it because, as Cold River’s Ontario Provincial Police detachment commander, it puts me in a tough spot.
“Yeah, I know. I’m just—” Isla gasps and jumps back.
“What’s wrong?” Panic laces my voice.
“He looked right over here,” she hisses.
Shaking my head, I chastise, “All right, let them be. That family has a lot of catching up to do, and they don’t need an audience.”
Isla tosses the binoculars onto the counter, earning my glare of exasperation—it’s a wonder the lenses aren’t smashed. “Aren’t you going over there?”
“Now? No.” My pulse races with the idea of seeing Logan again after all these years. Isla’s inquisitive gaze bores into me.
I school my expression. “What time’s your game?”
“Two.”
“So, you need to leave here by eleven to make it for warm-up. Your dad knows this?” As Cold River’s mayor, Dillon gets caught up talking to people whenever he leaves his house and often loses track of time. It’s a good thing he loves watching his daughter on the ice, so he’s usually reliable when it comes to her.
“Yes,” Isla says with forced patience, pouring herself another cup of coffee. “Donna’s taking me. She’s letting me drive too.”
“Well, that’s … good practice.” I smile, trying my best to sound positive. For all the things I dislike about Dillon’s new wife, I will admit she is a good stepmother.
“Only six more months until I get my G2 and then I can go wherever I want, whenever I want, without a babysitter.”
“With whose car?” If I had my way, Isla would keep her G1 learner’s designation for two more years before having that kind of freedom.
“Dad said I can have Grandpa’s.” She smiles smugly as she stoops to scratch Duke’s head. The retired K9 German shepherd spends his days commuting between the kitchen’s heat grate and the woodstove when it’s burning.
My expression sours. Why am I not surprised that Dillon would make that offer without discussing it with me first? I already know how the conversation will go. I supplied the car so you can pay for her insurance. It costs him nothing. Meanwhile, I have a new monthly bill.
Isla fills her fist with Cheerios before sauntering off with a haphazard “Love you!” tossed over her shoulder, the ties of her robe dragging along the weathered hardwood.
I watch her go with a mixture of awe and trepidation. Six months until my baby is alone behind the wheel and my worries grow tenfold. Less than two years before she’s packing her bags for university. She’s made no secret of the schools she’s considering—York, Queen’s, Waterloo. All so far from home.
Only yesterday, she was a rambunctious seven-year-old, racing her bike down the driveway as fast as her feet could pedal. How did the years evaporate so quickly?
Maybe it’s because I spent so many of them “moving on.”
My attention veers out the window and across the field again, the itch to reach for those binoculars hard to ignore as I watch the silhouette in the distance.
Logan Landry still permeates all my earliest memories. He was quiet with strangers, kind of shy. Smart, but he hated school. Loved engines and horses and the wide open but couldn’t wait to get away from life on a ranch. And he idolized his idiot of an older brother.
As children, we rode the bus to school together and spent our summer days riding across the vast expanse of Landry land that surrounds us—and then some, much to the farmers’ annoyance. He was my sidekick, my companion, my twin in mischief. Eventually, he became my rock.
When we were thirteen, a coyote spooked my horse, and it tossed me from my saddle. Logan, so much bigger than me already, cradled me in his arms as we rode home, his heart a steady, fast drumbeat against my cheek as he told me over and over in a voice that was deepening that I’d be okay, that my leg would mend, and the scrapes and bruises would vanish like they never existed.