Page 8 of The Locksmith's Promise

Face stricken, she nodded.

I looked away, my face flushing with guilt. Her parents messed her up as much as Baxter’s dad tried to destroy him.

Sucking in a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and faced her.

I was still angry, so angry with her for betraying me the way she did. I don’t know what compelled her to do it, but at some point, I had to leave it in the past and move on.

I sighed.

Should I try once more? See if Baxter wanted to meet his son?

Her sad eyes met mine. “From what little I’ve heard from Miller, he’s different now. Calmer. It’s not too late.” She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. “The past doesn’t have to dictate the future.”

I grimaced, half my brain snorting in disbelief that I was confiding in her. “He might not want anything to do with me.”

He might even despise me.

Or, unlike me, he may have never thought about me at all.

She tilted her head and smirked. “Do you really believe that?”

I crossed my arms, my thumb caressing the promise I carried on my ribs through the heavy fleece.

“Can I—” I cleared my throat.

Silly me, I thought I’d have control over the narrative.

As if Corwin’s parentage wasn’t stamped all over his freckled face.

I swallowed. “Can I think about it?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

I assessed her with wary eyes.

She huffed out a bitter laugh. “You have nothing to fear from me. I’ve long since stopped thinking I know anything. I’m not going to take that decision away from you.” She gave a nod toward the street. “Miller, though? He might think different.”

I paled as the man himself walked in, his eyes widening slightly as he took me in. Up until now, in spite of the fact Corwin had become fast friends with Miller’s oldest son, Mikey, I’d managed to avoid this meeting.

Which in a town as small as Moose Lake took some work.

Here in Buns and Biscuits, I had neither a hope nor a prayer.

Clad in worn jeans, a navy, thermal Henley, and a plaid lumberjacket that passed for a uniform up here, he was simply a slightly older, slightly thicker version of the boy who pushed me off the swing in the second grade, punched an older boy who pulled my pigtails in the sixth grade, and stole me my first beer.

After a brief pause, he let the door close behind him and opened his massive arms.

My eyes filled. We’d been the best of friends at one time. When I walked away, I walked away from everybody.

I melted into his embrace and wrapped my arms around his broad back.

He chuckled. “It’s good to have you and Cor home. He’s a great kid. Mikey loves him.”

I stilled, but he continued. “You here to stay?”

I nodded as I drew back and met the challenge in his eyes.

It was now or never.

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