averted and feigning ignorance of the occurrence. He’d never lay claim to being one of those guys who knew what to say in a regular situation, much less one where he was front-row center to a woman’s tear-stained face. But this was Susan.
Susan Kelley. He’d watched Susan grow up from an awkward little girl to an outgoing, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed little charmer who somehow managed to be completely oblivious to the fact that she was as beautiful as all get out.
Susan was the one who cheered people up. She never cried. Not that he was much of an expert on what Susan did or didn’t do. He just heard things. The way a man survived was to keep his eyes and his ears open, and his mouth shut.
Ever since his twin brother Damien was hauled off to jail because everyone in town believed he had killed Mark Walsh, Duke saw little to no reason to socialize with the people in Honey Creek. And Walsh was no angel. Most people had hated him. The truth of it was, if ever someone had deserved being killed, it was Walsh. Mark Walsh was nasty, bad-tempered and he cheated on his wife every opportunity he got. And Walsh and Damien had had words, hot words, over Walsh’s daughter, Lucy.
Even so, Damien hadn’t killed him.
Duke frowned as, for a moment, fifteen years melted away. He remembered watching the prison bars slam, separating him from Damien. He didn’t know who had killed that evil-tempered waste of human flesh, but he would have bet his life that it wasn’t Damien.
Now, like a magnet, his green eyes were riveted to Susan.
Damn it, what was she crying about?
He blew out an impatient breath. A woman who was that shaken up about something shouldn’t be sitting by herself like that. Someone should be with her, saying something. He didn’t know what, but something. Something comforting.
Duke looked around, hoping to ease his conscience—and not feel guilty about his desire to get away—by seeing someone approaching the sobbing little blonde.
There was no one.
She was sitting by herself, as alone as he’d ever seen anyone on this earth. As alone as he felt a great deal of the time.
Damn it, he didn’t want to be in this position. Didn’t want to have to go over.
What was the matter with him?
He didn’t owe her anything. Why couldn’t he just go? Go and put this scene of vulnerability behind him? He wasn’t her keeper.
Or her friend.
Susan pressed her lips together to hold back another sob. She hadn’t meant to break down like this. She’d managed to hold herself together all this time, through all the visits, all the dark days. Hold herself together even when she’d silently admitted, more than once, that one conclusion was inevitable. Miranda was going to die.
Die even though she was only twenty-five years old, just like her. Twenty-five, with all of life standing right before her to run through, the way a young child would run barefoot through a field of spring daisies, with enthusiasm and joy, tickled by the very act.
Instead, six months ago Miranda had heard those most dreadful of words, You have cancer, and they had turned out to be a death sentence rather than a battlefield she could somehow fight her way through.
Now that she’d started, Susan couldn’t seem to stop crying. Sobs wracked her body.
She and Miranda were friends—best friends. It felt as if they’d been friends forever, but it only amounted to a tiny bit more than five years. Five years that had gone by in the blink of an eye.
God knows she’d tried very, very hard to be brave for Miranda. Though it got harder and harder, she’d put on a brave face every time she’d walked into Miranda’s line of vision. A line of vision that grew progressively smaller and smaller in range until finally, it had been reduced to the confines of a hospital room.
The room where Miranda had died just a few minutes ago.
That was when the dam she’d been struggling to keep intact had burst.
Walking quickly, she’d made it out of Miranda’s room and somehow, she’d even made it out of the hospital. But the trip from the outer doors to the parking lot where she’d left her car, that was something she just couldn’t manage dry-eyed.
So instead of crossing the length of the parking lot, sobbing and drawing unwanted attention to herself, Susan had retreated to the bench off to the side of the entrance, an afterthought for people who just wanted to collect themselves before entering the tall building or rest before they attempted the drive home.
But she wasn’t collecting herself, she was falling apart. Sobbing as if her heart was breaking.
Because it was.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair to die so young, wasn’t fair to have to endure the kind of pain Miranda had had just before she’d surrendered, giving up the valiant struggle once and for all.
Her chest hurt as the sobs continued to escape.
Susan knew that on some level, crying like this was selfish of her. After all, it wasn’t as if she was alone. She had her family—large, sprawling, friendly and noisy, they were there for her. The youngest of six, she had four sisters and a brother, all of whom she loved dearly and got along with decently now that they were all grown.
The same could be said about her parents, although there were times when her mother’s overly loud laments about dying before she ever saw one viable grandchild did get under her skin a little. Nonetheless, she was one of the lucky ones. She had people in her life, people to turn to.
So why did she feel so alone, so lonely? Was grief causing her to lose touch with reality? She knew that if she picked up the phone and called one of them, they’d be at her side as quickly as possible.
As would Linc.
She and Lincoln Hayes had grown up together. He’d been her friend for years. Longer than Miranda had actually been. But even so, having him here, having any of them here right now, at this moment, just wouldn’t take away this awful feeling of overwhelming sorrow and loss.
She supposed she felt this way because she was not only mourning the loss of a dear, wonderful friend, mourning the loss of Miranda’s life, she was also, at bottom, mourning the loss of her own childhood. Because Death had stolen away her own innocence. Death had ushered in an overwhelming darkness that had never been there before.
Nothing was every going to be the same again.
And Susan knew without being told that for a long time to come, she was going reach for the phone, beginning calls she wouldn’t complete, driven by a desire to share things with someone she couldn’t share anything with any longer.
God, she was going to miss Miranda. Miss sharing secrets and laughing and talking until the wee hours of the morning.
More tears came. She felt drained and still they came.
Susan lost track of time.
She had no idea how long she’d been sitting on that bench, sobbing like that. All she
