Page 50 of Open Arms

She arched an eyebrow. “You looked like someone walked over your grave. Bad news?”

“Nothing important.” I forced a smile, hoping it reached my too-wide eyes. She didn’t need to know. Couldn’t know. This was my burden, and mine alone.

“Okay . . .” She drew out the word, clearly not convinced. As a doctor, she had that intuition, the ability to sniff out when something was off. But for once, I needed her to be wrong. “If you need to talk?—“

“Really, Caroline, it’s nothing. Probably just a wrong number.”

“Alright, if you say so.” She hesitated but then nodded, giving me a small, reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaving me be, the empty lobby giving me room to breathe.

The weight of her concern settled on my shoulders, heavy as the humidity of the approaching afternoon. I watched her go,feeling the fissures in my facade widen with each step she took away from me.

“Stay calm,” I muttered, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me. Stay calm, even as the shadows of my past stretched out long fingers, threatening to drag me back into the darkness I’d fought so hard to escape.

21

Mason

The sun had dippedbehind the rolling hills of Whittier Falls, and the last golden streaks of light faded into a deep indigo as I pushed open the door to my house. My muscles ached from a long day of wrangling horses and cattle at Red Downs, but the weariness was quickly forgotten as the aroma of roasted chicken wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Abby must’ve helped with dinner; she loved sneaking in extra rosemary.

“Smells like heaven in here,” I murmured, my voice rough from the dust and shouting commands over the noise of the ranch.

“Wait ’til you taste it,” came a soft voice from the shadowed corner of the kitchen. Chloe stepped into the dim light, her blonde hair catching the last bit of twilight that seeped through the window. She wore a yellow dress that brushed against her knees, and I noticed how it contrasted sharply with her crystal blue eyes. Staring at her would never get old.

“Chlo,” I greeted, my heart doing that odd little skip whenever she was near. “You cook all this?”

She nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I found endearing. “I did. But, uh, I won’t be joining you for dinner.” Her eyes dropped to the floor, and I heard the hesitation in her voice. It was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of unspoken words between us.

“Oh?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light despite the sudden tightness in my chest. “Everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, Mase.” She gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach her blue eyes. “Just . . . come find me later.”

“Of course.” I agreed without a second thought. The mystery of her request gnawed at me, stirring a mix of concern and curiosity. I watched her say goodbye to Abby and promise to take her to get a muffin before school tomorrow, and then she was gone out the back door.

It shouldn’t have bothered me. We didn’t eat every dinner together, after all. But I was gettin’ used to having her here, and the sight of her retreating back did things to my insides I wasn’t quite sure I liked.

“Look, Daddy!” Abby’s little hands waved a colorful drawing in the air as I sat down at the kitchen table. “I made this for you!”

“Let’s see it, bug.” I took the paper, my fatigue washing away with her enthusiasm. It was a house, our house, with three stick figures holding hands under a big, loopy sun. “This is amazing. You’re quite the artist.”

Abby beamed, climbing onto the chair beside me. Her brown curls bounced as she settled in. “Miss Parker says we should draw what makes us happy. And I’m happy when I’m home with you and Chloe.”

My heart did a somersault. If pride were a tangible thing, it’d be busting through the roof.

“Tell me about your day,” I said, spooning some of Chloe’s mashed potatoes onto Abby’s plate.

“Okay!” She kicked her feet, not yet reaching the floor. “So, Missy and I played tag during recess, but then—oh! Then Tommy brought out chalk, and we all drew on the sidewalk!”

“Sounds like a party.” I laughed, digging into my own food. The chicken was tender, falling apart at the touch of my fork—a testament to Chloe’s cooking skills. “Did you win at tag?”

“Uh-huh.” A proud nod. “But don’t tell Missy. She thinks she won.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” I winked at her, and she giggled, a sound that filled the room like the warmth from the oven.

“Also,” she continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “we saw a squirrel, and it was doing this—“ She wiggled her fingers by her head, imitating squirrel ears.

“Doing that?” I mirrored her actions, pretending to be clueless.

“Yesss!” She laughed harder, her joy contagious. “Daddy, you’re funny.”

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