Page 90 of 15 Summers Later

Again, she breathed a silent prayer that this pregnancy might be the thing to help heal all that was broken between her and her husband.

Even as she thought it, Ava warned herself to be cautious in her optimism. She knew friends who had become pregnant in hopes of healing a troubled relationship. It never worked out as they planned and always only complicated the situation, tangling together two people forever, trapped in their misery.

She hadn’t become pregnant on purpose. She hoped Cullen understood that. When they must have conceived the baby, they both had been as deeply in love as ever, with a future that seemed bright and wonderful. Five or six weeks ago, Ava had no inkling how the foundation of their marriage could crumble away like chalk left out in the rain.

“Have you told Grandma about the baby?” Madi asked.

“No. I knew I had to tell Cullen first. And then it only seemed right to tell you next.”

“I suspect she won’t be too surprised. Leona is pretty wise, with a sixth sense about things like that.”

When Ava considered the gentle care with which Leona had treated her since she returned to town, she had to agree with Madi. Perhaps her grandmother had sensed all along.

“I’ll tell her soon. Maybe even tonight, if she’s still awake when I make it back to the house.”

Ava climbed into her car, suddenly more exhausted than she ever remembered being in her life.

Stars spangled the sky, a vast, awe-inspiring display. Living in the city, she forgot how very many of them one could see in more rural areas without all the light pollution.

“I hope everything works out with Cullen,” Madi said. “He’s a great guy. No matter how angry he is with you right now, I’m sure he’ll want to be involved with the baby.”

Yes. She knew that was true. Whether he wanted to be involved withherwas another story. She sincerely hoped she wouldn’t end up having to raise this child by herself.

“After you have the chance to check on the dogs through the camera, will you let me know how they are? You can text me anytime. I want you to, actually. I’ll sleep better if I know they’re okay.”

“We can look now, if you want. I have an app on my phone.”

“Do you mind?”

In answer, Madi pulled out her phone, tapped the screen a few times, then held it out for Ava. The two dogs were both asleep, she saw, curled up next to each other on the respective side of the wire fencing that separated them.

“I truly hope we can find their owners.”

“So do I. We’ll start digging tomorrow. If not, we’ll find a good home for them.”

Ava could adopt them.

The impulse to offer took her by surprise and it was all she could do not to blurt out the words.

She couldn’t. It was impossible. She lived in an apartment that didn’t allow anything but tiny pets. Beyond that, she was about to have a baby. She had no idea how she would managethat. She certainly couldn’t take on two dogs at the same time.

“Can I visit them at the vet clinic tomorrow?”

She saw Madi’s eyes widen in surprise. “I’m sure Luke wouldn’t mind, but I would guess they’ll be coming to the shelter tomorrow or the next day. You’ll definitely see them when you come to volunteer.”

She supposed that would have to do, though she wasn’t sure she could wait that long.

“All right. Well, have a good night. Thanks again. I owe you.”

“I’ll make sure you pay me back when I put you to work at the sanctuary. Don’t think being pregnant will get you out of walking the dogs.”

“Of course not.”

She wouldn’t have believed it a few hours earlier, but Ava was almost smiling as she started her car and drove away under that vast sky glimmering with stars.

The following days slipped into a pleasant routine for Ava. She worked in the garden with her grandmother in the mornings, when birdsong filled the air and dew clung to the leaves in glimmering droplets.

In the afternoons, she would go to the animal sanctuary, where Madi would indeed put her to work walking the dogs, feeding the potbellied pigs or playing ball with Sabra, the Jerusalem donkey, who loved to bat a beach ball around her corral.

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