Grace Green - Forever Wife And Mother

And Mrs. Kincaid’s sadness—which he himself had noticed—was what had brought it to the surface.

Well, neither he nor his daughter would be seeing the woman again, so they could both forget about her.

He dropped the kids off at school and drove home. Once there, he fetched Fang from the kitchen and took him out for a run. The day was polished to a bright sheen, the sky as blue as sapphire, with not one cloud to mar it.

He strolled down the grassy slope in front of the lodge, over the crest and down the hill. Fang romped ahead, making for the barbed wire fence that formed the boundary between Ryland property and Lockhart land. Gabe shook his head irritably as, just like every other morning, the dog made to wriggle under the lowest wire of the fence.

“Fang!” he yelled. “No!”

The dog paused halfway through. Then, just as he did every morning on their walk, he wriggled back and took off along the perimeter.

Damn dog! Gabe mused. You’d think he’d know by now that he wasn’t supposed to go in there.

His lips compressed to a thin line as he gazed over the forest, the only evidence of Holly Cottage being the three chimney tops—

But no. Not this morning.

This morning, marring the clear blue of the sky, a wisp of smoke rose from one of the chimneys; rose, and swayed in a gust of wind off the river, and rose again.

Gabe rammed his hands into his pockets and glowered at the smoke. As a child, he’d been ordered never to trespass on Lockhart land, but once, when he was seven, he’d dared to sneak down there, and he’d peeked in the kitchen window. He’d seen an old wood stove in the shadowy room, and he’d always remembered it because it had been so old-fashioned compared to the modern appliances they had at the lodge.

He imagined someone in that kitchen, a young woman from the city who would be lighting that stove every day.

And though he knew he was sending hostile vibes to the wrong person, he couldn’t help wishing that whoever had set that fire would vanish off the face of the earth, because any sign of life from the old log house was a reminder of something—and someone—he dearly wished to forget.

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