Mary J. - The Man From Montana

He hoped Ash rented the cottage to Rachel. For Daisy’s sake—and the boy’s—he hoped, even though Rachel’s questions would dredge up heartbreak like sludge out of a Texan oil well.

The snow fell harder. Every day Ash cleaned the walkways so Tom could wheel to the barns, see the new calves. And, dammit, that held a pain all its own.

He remembered a past he wanted to forget.

He dreamed a past he wanted to forget.

They had lived long enough in a house of mourning. Susie’s pictures everywhere collecting dust. The cottage sitting empty and cold. The summer trail riding business lying fallow.

A half decade of walking around in silence, fearing that one word, one name would break a heart again and again.

Silence couldn’t mend anguish. It couldn’t sew shattered legs and arms back onto a body. It couldn’t erase memory.

Tom knew.

Rachel Brant would change their lives and in doing so change her own. Ah, but she had her mother’s height, her eyes. And her father’s mouth and hair.

Yes, Miss Brant would discover the truth with these interviews. They’d all come to understand the truth.

Tom felt it in his gut.

Like when the VC waited in the trees above their trail.

The time had come.

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