Page 77 of Colton's Secret Weapon
She’d pay that too, if she could…
But she was getting ahead of herself. First release papers. Then ride to the house she owned.
And from there, make short order of cleaning up and finding the quickest way out of town.
It was the only option she could see.
So the only one she believed in.
At least she had that. Something to believe in. Count on. That which she could see.
It wasn’t a lot.
But it was going to have to do.
It was all that she had left.
All that she’d ever had.
She just hadn’t seen it.
Chapter 23
No way was Mitchell going to just walk away to leave Dove to grieve alone. He got why she’d felt like she had to make that choice. In some ways, she’d been alone since the day she was born. Her mother and father had had their bond, before her and through her, too.
And when she’d grown up, been old enough to forge her own relationships, she’d been—due to the way she’d been raised—an outcast in her own society.
The woman had understanding beyond anything Mitchell was ever going to know, but he knew one thing. In order to heal, she needed family. Lots of it.
She also needed the news he had to give her. Maybe more than the rest.
It was that with which he was armed, just before sunset that night. He’d read the note she’d had Welding give to him after she’d insisted on leaving the hospital—through a back door—on her own. The detective had already dropped her off at home before driving back to the hospital to deliver her short missive to Mitchell.
Our time is through, Mitchell. I’m not who I thought I was, nor one who, with eyes opened wide, can continue to pretend. Please believe that while most of what I said wasn’t real, mygratitude to you was, is and always will be. I wish you the best life has to offer. Dove.
Whether Welding had read the note scribbled on that back of a blank hospital prescription sheet, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. Peter was a good man. Had done his job with professionalism, compassion and seriously impressive skill.
Mitchell could hardly blame the guy for being attracted to Dove.
In jeans, a button-up long-sleeved shirt and boat shoes, he presented himself at her front door with her container of leftover greens in one hand, and her satchel over his shoulder. Her suitcase was in his car, too, if things digressed rapidly to the point of her asking for it.
Neither bag was packed. He hadn’t been able to look at her things, not without tears shed. And he wasn’t comfortable yet being that kind of guy. Even knowing he could be was taking some getting used to.
She looked out the window before opening the door to him. Applauding her caution—she didn’t yet know the security detail that was supposed to have been switched from her father’s house to her own had been dismissed—he was also patting himself on the back for thinking of the satchel and greens as a way to get her to give him a second of her time.
The things themselves wouldn’t matter to her. Burdening someone else with her mess would.
She’d taught him more than she’d probably ever know during her time with him.
Without looking at him directly, she took the bowl from his hand saying, “I’ll wash this and get it back to you” and then reached for the satchel.
He didn’t give that up as easily as he had the container that he only wanted back if he had her to go with it.
“They found a match for the spit on your father’s shirt,” he said baldly, completely unlike himself, and yet seemingly right, too. He’d rather have had his speech all thought-out, but with Dove, planning didn’t work.
Living authentically did. And while he had no idea how to do that, he at least got that he had to just let it all come out of him as it willed, with no forethought.
The way her hand reaching for the strap of the satchel faltered gave him hope. The first bit he’d had since he’d seen her pulled out of the totaled truck earlier that day and had been told she’d be okay.
