him restless. It reminded him that once, a long time ago, he’d had dreams. It also made him think about what he’d given up all those years ago. Is this what it took to get him to finally face the past? He thought about their kiss on that winter night, just the two of them with ice crystals floating around them.
“You damn fool,” he said to himself and yet he couldn’t help smiling. He’d always wanted to go to the New Year’s Eve Masquerade Dance in Whitehorse. The idea of showing up and surprising Chloe... Just the thought of seeing her again...
At the sound of a truck approaching, he cursed and stood. He had someone else’s cattle to feed, someone else’s fence to mend. He shoved his worn Stetson down on his head, aware that he needed a haircut. A shave wouldn’t hurt either. But what was the point of even thinking about making a change—let alone trying to go back to what could have been? Chloe didn’t need him. So why had he said that he might show up at the party?
Worse, why was he thinking it was time to make things right?
* * *
AT THE EDGE of town, the wind whipped the new snow, swirling it around the empty cemetery. The huge old pine trees creaked and swayed. His tracks filled behind him as Bert Calhoun made his way to the granite tombstone.
He hated this trek through the cemetery each year. He knew he should come more often, but it was too painful. He felt old, forgotten, his heart as bleak as the winter landscape around him.
His footsteps faltered as he neared his oldest son’s final resting place. A large pine stood like a sentinel over the grave. He read what had been carved into the granite as if the words were carved into his own flesh.
Andrew “Drew” Calhoun
July 4, 1982–December 10, 2013
Bert Calhoun removed his Stetson and squatted down next to the grave, his bad knee aching. The wind whipped at his too-long gray hair and beard. He was glad he was alone on this cold winter day. He kept to the ranch except when forced to come in for supplies. He knew people talked about him. They stared and whispered when they saw him. He could well imagine what they said.
Other than this yearly visit, he couldn’t bring himself to even drive by the cemetery. He never knew what to say to his son. Drew had had so much promise from the time he was born. He was the one Bert had always depended on to take over the ranch and keep the Calhoun name and brand going.
That Drew had been taken from them so soon was still dynamite to his heart. There’d been days when he thought he couldn’t go on breathing at the thought of his oldest son under six feet of dirt. Had there been anyone else to take over the ranch, he would have blessedly taken his own life. Instead, the circumstances of his son’s death had him dying slowly from the pain. It had made him into a tired, bitter old man.
The wind whipped snow past, rocking the metal container holding the faded plastic flowers on the grave next to Drew’s. He looked over at the headstone and felt the weight of his guilt. Pushing to his feet, he moved to his wife’s graveside.
Mary Harris Calhoun
May 11, 1954–December 21, 2002
Losing her so young had made him hold on even tighter to Drew, since Drew resembled her the most. Now he was just glad she hadn’t been around to see what had become of the family she’d loved so much. He knew how disappointed she would be in him. No more than he was in himself.
The promise was on his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice it. It wasn’t the promise Mary would have wanted to hear. But it was the promise he’d made since Drew’s murder five years ago this month. He would see that their oldest son’s killer was brought to justice—one way or another.
But he hadn’t been able to do even that.
The promise Mary wanted was one he couldn’t even bring himself to utter let alone make happen even for her. Each time he came here, he could hear her as if she spoke from the grave.
Bring our son home. Make amends for what you’ve done.
Just the thought of his youngest son, Justin, doubled him over. When he closed his eyes, he saw Justin standing over his brother, the gun in his hand.
Hot tears ran down his cheeks. He felt even more guilt because his tears were for himself, and Mary knew it. From her grave, she blamed him as if he was the one who had pulled the trigger and ended Drew’s life.
He shook his head. He wanted justice like his next breath. But some days he wasn’t sure what justice would look like. Maybe he was already getting it and this was his punishment for the mistakes he’d made.
And yet he couldn’t let go of what he felt in his heart. Justin had killed his brother. It felt like the truth, one that ate at him, fueled by his grief and his guilt.
He brushed at his tears now freezing to his cheeks and rose. He didn’t need Mary to tell him the part he’d played in this tragedy. He’d always loved Drew more and everyone knew it—including Justin. And this was the price he paid.
No, not even after five years could he promise Mary that he would make things right with Justin. Not as long as he believed his youngest son was a killer.
The moment they walked into the local soup kitchen, Chloe spotted Nicole Kent and groaned. “What is she doing here?” she whispered to her sisters.
“Apparently arguing with Edna,” Annabelle said. “Edna Kirkland is the kitchen supervisor. Do not argue with her.”
Chloe had no desire to argue with anyone, especially the large woman who was towering over Justin’s old girlfriend, Nici.
Nici held up what appeared to be a hairnet and said in a strident voice, “I’m not wearing this.” She was still short and cute in a rough sort of way with dyed black hair cut in a pixie that suited her.
Edna crossed her arms over her abundant chest and narrowed her eyes. “You’ll wear it or I’ll call the sheriff and have you thrown in jail.” She smiled. “Your choice. Community service or jail. Those are your only options.”
“No one mentioned I had to wear a hairnet.” Nici cursed again before going into the restroom and slamming the door.
“Community service,” TJ whispered. “I wonder what she did.”
“You three come here to chat or to work?” Edna barked from across the room.
“Work,” Annabelle said quickly and hurried forward to be handed a hairnet and a soup ladle.
“We’re about to open,” the supervisor said. “You,” she said pointing at TJ. “You’re in charge of buns and you,” she said pointing at Chloe, “you’ll be helping run dishes. When we run out of soup, we all help clean up this place. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” Chloe and TJ said in unison as Nici came out of the bathroom.
“And you,” Edna said. “You’re going straight to the dish room and start cleaning. And,” she said as Nici started to complain, “if you say one word, I’m
