Page 44 of When Summer Returns

He’d known that house since childhood. Known to avoid it, known the whispers about old Jesse James’s temper, known that Jessie rarely invited friends over. But he’d never put the pieces together, never looked beyond the surface to what might have been happening behind those walls. The realization hit him with the force of physical pain.

Her scream cut across the distance between them—“I was a CHILD!”—and the raw anguish in her voice nearly brought him to his knees. Fifteen years of mystery suddenly clarified with horrific certainty. The awkward explanations for bruises. The long sleeves in summer heat. The way she’d flinch if someone moved too quickly near her. All the signs he’d been too young, too self-absorbed, too in love to recognize.

When she collapsed to the ground, Luke found himself moving before conscious thought formed. His protective instincts screamed at him to run to her, to gather her in his arms, to shelter her from whatever demons she was battling. But the Coast Guard had taught him to assess before acting, and something told him that rushing in now would do more harm than good.

So he approached slowly, giving her time to sense his presence, to prepare for his arrival. The sounds coming from her tore at something fundamental inside him—grief too long contained, pain too long endured.

He’d spent fifteen years nursing his own hurt, believing himself the wounded party in their story. Now, watching her broken on the ground outside the house that should have protected her, he understood how blind he’d been. Whatever pain her departure had caused him paled in comparison to what she must have endured.

When he finally reached her, he hesitated before touching her shoulder. Her reaction—the way she scrambled backward, eyes wild with terror—confirmed every awful suspicion forming in his mind. The woman he’d loved, the woman he’d never truly stopped loving, had suffered in ways he couldn’t fully comprehend. And he’d never known. Never suspected. Never saved her.

“Jess,” he said softly, making no move to approach her again. “It’s just me.”

She stared at him through tear-blurred vision, unable to form words. The question in her eyes was clear: How long had he been watching? How much had he seen of her breakdown?

“I came back to the house early,” he explained, keeping his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest. “When you weren’t there, I saw your footprints in the sand.”

Luke watched as she swallowed hard, her eyes darting between him and the devastated house behind. He could almost see her rebuilding walls, trying to reassemble the professional façade that had just shattered as completely as the windows. She looked feral, wounded, and utterly beautiful in her raw authenticity. The carefully constructed professional identity she’d shown since her return had cracked wide open, revealing the damaged core she’d spent years concealing.

“I inherited the house,” she managed, her voice raw. “My father’s final joke.”

Understanding clarified everything as Luke glanced from the devastated windows to her dust-covered clothing. He wanted to rage at a dead man, wanted to go back in time and intervene, wanted to erase fifteen years of misunderstanding. Instead, he offered what she needed most—normalcy without judgment.

“Remodel’s coming along nicely,” he said, deliberately keeping his tone light.

A sound caught between laugh and sob escaped her. “Not sure it’s up to code.”

“Ventilation seems adequate.” The small joke felt like throwing a lifeline across a chasm.

She seemed to grab it, sitting back on her heels and swiping ineffectually at the tears tracking down her face. “I should have called a contractor.”

“Might have been cheaper,” Luke agreed, slowly lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the ground near her. He maintained enough distance to be nonthreatening, close enough to offer support. His instinct was to gather her into his arms, but years of search and rescue work had taught him that survivors needed space before comfort. “Though less therapeutic.”

He watched his calmness disarm her, the absence of shock or censure creating an unexpected safe harbor. The boy he’d been would have raged and threatened, his protective instincts manifesting as immediate action or outrage on her behalf. But time and experience had tempered those impulses, taught him when presence was more powerful than action.

“I swore I’d never set foot in this house again,” she said, her gaze drawn back to the structure that now stood wounded and exposed, glassless windows like unseeing eyes. “But the hurricane’s coming, and I have to secure it, and then there’s insurance, and—” She broke off, realizing she was rambling.

“We’ll board it up,” Luke said simply, already planning the logistics in his head. “I’ve got extra plywood from the bar preparations. We can have it done in a couple of hours.”

“We?” The question held layers of meaning—surprise, doubt, hope.

“Unless you’d rather hire someone.” He kept his voice neutral, offering help without pressure.

Jessie looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me? After last night, after I ran?—”

“Is that what you think?” Luke felt genuine surprise warm his voice. “That I’m angry about last night?”

She met his gaze then, the question hanging between them. The vulnerability in her eyes nearly undid him.

“Jess, I’ve spent fifteen years angry about things I didn’t understand. I’m done with that.” He chose his words with the care of defusing explosives. “Something happened in that shed that scared you, and it wasn’t me kissing you. It was something else, something deeper.” He paused, watching her carefully. “I know what fear looks like. I saw it last night, and I’m seeing it now.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a physical manifestation of the tension stretching between them. The air had grown thicker, heavier with approaching rain and unspoken truths.

“It wasn’t you,” she whispered. “It’s never been you.”

Luke waited, offering silence as an invitation rather than a demand. He’d rushed too many things in his life, spoken too quickly, acted before understanding. Not this time. Whatever Jessie needed to say deserved the space to emerge at its own pace.

Her fingers dug into the sandy soil, and he watched emotions play across her face—fear, shame, resolve—as past and future seemed to collide around her. When she finally spoke, her voice was so faint he had to lean forward to hear.

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