Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
After the final prayer, family and friends disperse toward their vehicles. No one stays next to Fletcher’s grave as he did with Ruthie. I carry Benjamin to the limo and place him in his seat next to Pauline and Jolene.
“I’ll walk,” I say.
Jolene returns a curt nod before I close the door. When the limo pulls away, I meander to a dead oak tree, facing the hill where Fletcher’s casket has been lowered into the ground, where two men are covering it with dirt.
And then I see her.
A bright flowing sundress that sweeps to her knees.
Cowboy boots.
Hair floating on the breeze. A single rose clenched in her fist.
Thunder sounds in the distance while angry clouds converge into thick, dark mountains in the sky. The earthy, musky smell of impending rain permeates the air.
She stands over Ruthie’s grave for a few minutes. I lean against the tree and watch her. Taking a step forward, she lowers, kneeling on Ruthie’s grave, and places the rose on her headstone.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty minutes pass.
Then she slowly stands. Touching her fingers to her lips for a long second, she reaches for the headstone and presses her fingers to it.
Passing Fletcher’s grave, she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t give it the tiniest of glances. It’s as if he’s not there. It’s as if she’s not acknowledging he ever existed.
Gaze angled at her feet, Indie makes her way down the hill. Brushing the hair from her face, she glances up. And she stops—eyes on me.
Indie has never looked more beautiful. More free. I should have given it to her years ago.
Her eyes fill with unshed tears, and she smiles. It’s blinding.
“Indie girl.” I push off the tree when she runs toward me.
“You’re alive,” she whispers in my ear with her arms around me.
Lifting her from the ground, I bury my face into her neck and breathe. She’s lavender and sunshine. She’s hope.
Easing her to her feet, I frame her face in my hands. Regret strangles me. I need to know if she’s okay. I need to tell her that she’s safe. Ty’s dead. No other man will ever touch her again. And I’m so fucking sorry for failing her.
“Hey …” Her brow furrows while her hand presses to my cheek. “What’s wrong?”
Slowly, I shake my head, forcing a hard swallow past that lump in my throat. “I’m sorry … I let him hurt you. But he’ll never touch you again.”
Indie squints for a second before her head inches side to side. “He didn’t hurt me.” Her thumb brushes my lips. “He took me to my brother.” Her mouth bends into a tiny grin. “I’d blocked out that time in my life. I have a brother and a sister.” Indie’s smile fades. “Are you okay?”
It takes me a few seconds to let the gravity of her words snake around my conscience—a poison to my already questionable soul. I manage a nod.
I lie.
Today I’m supposed to be free.
I’m not.
“Come back to Dallas with me?”
Holding her as tight as possible, I kiss the top of her head. “I have a few things to do. I’ll be there tomorrow. Okay?”
“I don’t want to leave without you.” She pulls back a breath and grips my jacket’s lapels.
My knuckles skate along her cheek while I dig deep for a reassuring smile. “It’s just one day, baby.” I see the concern, the doubt, in her eyes. “I’m yours.”
Still, she’s conflicted. And I don’t know how to ease her mind. It’s like she feels everything I’m feeling. Regret is a deep scar that never disappears. And maybe it’s not supposed to disappear. Perhaps regret is what keeps us from repeating the past. Regret is the ultimate accountability.
“Milo …”
I kiss her, closing my eyes to hide the pain that she doesn’t need to bear with me. Her fingers find my hair, and she kisses me with a need that envelopes me. It digs its claws into me.
My hands slide to her butt, squeezing and bringing her closer to me. So close, but not close enough.
She buries her face in my neck. “I’m happy he’s dead. I hate that kind of happiness.”
40
THE UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH
INDIE
Milo said he’d come to Dallas today. It’s nearly eleven at night, and he’s not here. I don’t know his number. I haven’t called Milo Odell in over four years and three phones ago.
What if something terrible happened? What if Ty got angry at him? Or Jolene did something terrible? What if he was on his way and got into an accident? How would I know? When would I know?
Over the past ten hours, I’ve prepared for his arrival—a clean apartment, fresh bedding, and a bouquet from the floral shop. I owed it to Lincoln to let him know I’m alive. He was relieved but angry that I wouldn’t give him the details.
The weight of his anger quickly dissipated by the time I got back to my apartment because I knew Milo would be here soon.