Page 13 of Stolen for Keeps
He burrowed closer, as if knowing I needed the contact as much as he did.
By the time I laid him in his crib, he was out cold, his one hand curled by his face, his breath steady.
Then I heard the front door open. Claire’s voice carried down the hall, warm and welcoming, followed by two or three cheerful replies.
Dylan stirred, his little forehead scrunching up.
“Hey, no need to be alarmed, bud. Just guests.” I ran a hand over his barely-there hair. “Nothing that concerns us.”
I stepped back, easing the door closed, but not before I caught a glimpse of the guests.
Two women stood by Claire’s workbench, chatting about bouquets. They had to be the bridal party.
And that one woman with her dark hair twisted up like she was ready to step straight into a fairy tale? Yeah, she had to be the bride.
She had on a fitted plaid shirt, knotted just above her waist, jeans that hugged curves I had no business noticing, and that smile, bright, effortless, and the kind that could make a man forget what he was doing.
Maybe it was the fresh air out here. Or maybe I’d spent too long in the city, surrounded by the same polished, predictable faces. It was true what the folks said. Country girls had something in them.
And that was a distraction I didn’t have time for.
Thank God she’s getting married.
I came back to Dylan, and he pulled at the cuff of my shirt.
“I know, I know. I gotta get my shit together, right?” Then Icorrected myself. “Forget the word ‘shit.’ I mean…well, you get it.”
Dylan giggled, bouncing while holding onto my wrist. The tiniest judge, yet the most effective.
“Wait until you’re seventeen, and you’ll know.”
I shut the door and stayed right where I was until Dylan fell back asleep and the bridal party left.
Back in the living room, I sank into the worn leather couch, taking a sip ofValley Wolf, a beer that bent the alcohol law, but still found its way into fridges all over the county. Luckily, we hadn’t discovered it as teenagers. Might’ve fried what little brain cells we had left.
“It’s not as strong as Dad’s old moonshine,” Elia smirked over the rim of his bottle.
I huffed out a chuckle. Turned out, our brains had been screwed anyway.
“I remember.”
We carried on, drifting into memories of the old barn, Dad’s favorite, where we’d spent hours playing hide-and-seek, convinced it was haunted. The times we’d raced through the pastures, dead set on proving who was the better rider. Spoiler alert:It was always me.
“I still can’t believe you walked away after that fall near Widow’s Creek,” Elia said, shaking his head. “It should’ve broken your spine.”
I smirked. “Good thing I was made of steel back then.”
He snorted. “Steel? You screamed like a banshee when Tessa had to pull that thorn out of your leg.”
The air shifted.
And Elia knew. We both did. We always did when conversations turned to Tessa.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
His expression was careful, measured. I wasn’t sure ifhe’d said her name on purpose to push me toward a conversation, to get me to open up. Or if it had just slipped.
“Hey, it’s okay. She’s our sister. We’re bound to talk about her at some stage,” I said, convincing no one.
