Page 13 of All Along The Watchtower

The kid was about to balk. I could see it in the way she rocked slightly in her black Chucks, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her backpack like she was ready to bolt for the door at any second.

I lowered my voice, leaning in just enough to keep the conversation between us. “I’m guessing you don’t come from a small town. If you don’t want all your business all over the island before sunset, you’ll want to take this back to my office.” God knew how fast gossip traveled here—especially anything that had even the remotest hint of scandal. A daughter no one knew existed definitely qualified as that.

Sawyer materialized at my elbow, protective as always. “Everything okay here?” His steady presence was both reassuring and complicated, given how close he and Ford had always been.

I cut my eyes toward him, a silent plea. His gaze shifted to the girl, and I watched understanding dawn across his features. The same shock I felt was written all over his face—this kid was unmistakably Ford’s.

“She’s looking for Ford?” Willa’s voice was barely a whisper behind him, thick with the same disbelief I was struggling with.

“Yeah.” I touched the girl’s shoulder, gentle, not wanting to spook her more than she already was. “Let’s head back to my office.” Where I could figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with this bomb that had just been dropped in my lap.

The kid’s gaze darted between the three of us, wariness creeping into her expression. Smart girl. I’d have beensuspicious too, walking into a bar full of strangers, looking for someone who might not even want to be found.

“I’m Bree Cartwright. I own the place.” I gestured to the others, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. “This is Sawyer Malone and his wife, Willa. They’re old friends of your—of Ford’s.” The word caught in my throat, but I pushed past it.

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, some of the tension easing from her jaw. Good. Trust was important right now, especially given how young and vulnerable she looked standing there in her wrinkled hoodie and scuffed sneakers.

I guided her around the bar and through the door that led past the shiny row of brewing tanks toward my office, Sawyer and Willa trailing behind us like a protective detail. The weight of a dozen pairs of eyes pressed against my back, making my skin crawl with remembered anxiety. I knew what it was to be stared at. To be the unexpected surprise, the girl who showed up out of nowhere with a story no one quite believed. No matter what my beef with Ford, I’d do whatever I could to protect this kid from that.

My office wasn’t much—just a cramped space with a desk covered in invoices and a couple of chairs that had seen better days—but it beat having this conversation on the floor. I clicked the door shut behind us, blocking out the noise and curious eyes, grateful for even this small refuge from the weight of speculation I knew was already circulating through the bar.

The girl perched on the edge of one chair like a sparrow ready to take flight at the first sign of danger, while Willa claimed the other, Roy settling at her feet with a heavy sigh. The girl eyed him, and the dog gave a hopeful thump of his tail as he gazed up at her.

“He’s a big love muffin,” Willa explained.

The girl reached out a tentative hand toward Roy, letting him sniff her before he butted her hand for pets. The barest hint of asmile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she scritched behind his ears.

Sawyer leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, his presence oddly reassuring. I settled behind my desk, shuffling some papers to buy time to get my racing thoughts under control and tamp down the memories threatening to surface.

“What’s your name?” I kept my voice gentle, the way I used to speak to the scared strays that would show up behind Pop’s bar.

“Peyton Walsh.” The name came out barely above a whisper, her fingers twisting the frayed hem of her hoodie.

My chest tightened as I studied those features that were at once familiar and strange. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

I arched a brow, calling bullshit. The defiance in those sea-green eyes—so like Ford’s—flared, reminding me of another teenager who used to sit in my grandfather’s kitchen, full of that same stubborn pride.

“Well, I will be in two months,” she amended, lifting her chin in a gesture that was pure Donoghue.

My heart stuttered as I did the math. March. That meant… Jesus. That summer before Ford left for college. The summer Gwen Busby had disappeared. But who was her mother? I wracked my brain, trying to remember any girls Ford had been seeing then.

Had he known about this? The question rose like bile in my throat.

No. The answer came with absolute certainty, settling like a stone in my gut. Whatever Ford had done to me, whatever anger and hurt I still carried—and there sure as hell was plenty—I knew him down to his bones. If he’d known about this girl, she wouldn’t be standing here looking for him. He’d have been there, probably coaching tee ball and chaperoning school dances. Itwasn’t in him to walk away from responsibility. That had been drilled into him by both his moms.

“Okay, you’re here to see your dad.” If I kept repeating it, it would get less weird. Right? “Where’s your mom?”

Pain flashed across Peyton’s face, raw and fresh, like a wound that hadn’t had time to scab over. “Gone.”

The single word had me pushing away from my desk and crouching down in front of her chair until we were at eye level. My knees protested the position, but I ignored them. “She left you?”

“Sort of.” Again Peyton’s fingers twisted in the hem of her oversized hoodie. “She died.”

Oh God. The words struck me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. This child. This poor child. No wonder she had that haunted look in her eyes.

“Oh, honey.” The words came out rough, choked with memories I usually kept locked away. “I’m so sorry.”

---