Rain had swallowed the Montana valley by the time Silas Mercer saw the woman beside the road.
At first, he thought she was a broken fence post leaning through the storm. Then, lightning flashed across the hills and the shape moved.
Silas pulled hard on the rains. His black horse stopped in the mud. 20 yards ahead, a young woman stood beside a cottonwood tree with one hand pressed against the trunk.
Her dark dress was soaked through. Mud covered the hem almost to her knees. One shoe had split open, exposing bleeding skin beneath her toes.
Yet the strangest thing was the small leather locked against her chest. She held it as though everything left in her world was inside.
Silas rode closer. The woman lifted her head. She looked no older than 24. Wet brown hair clung to her cheeks, and her face had gone pale from cold.
Her lips were cracked. Her brown eyes looked exhausted enough to close forever, but they stayed open.
“Where are you headed?” Silas asked. For several seconds, she only stared at him. Rain streamed down her face.
Then her mouth moved. “I don’t know anymore.” Silus looked toward Willow Creek. Town was nearly 6 mi away.
His cabin was less than two. He had spent 12 years avoiding other people’s problems.
He lived alone, worked alone, ate alone, and preferred it that way. At least that was what he told himself.
He reached down, “Take my hand.” The woman stared at it. “You don’t know me?”
“No. How do you know I’m safe?” Silus almost smiled. “I don’t.” Another flash of lightning split the clouds.
She looked toward the empty road behind her, then back at his hand. Finally, she took it.
Her fingers were colder than the rain. By the time they reached the cabin, she was barely conscious.
Silas carried her from the horse and pushed open the door with his shoulder. The inside looked exactly like the home of a man who had stopped expecting visitors years ago.
Dirty plates sat near the wash basin. Two shirts hung from chairbacks. Dust covered the window sills.
A cracked coffee cup had been sitting beside the stove since spring. Silas suddenly noticed all of it.
He set the woman near the iron stove and fed wood into the fire until flames began licking beneath the black metal.
Then he found an old wool blanket. Wrap yourself in this. She accepted it quietly.
Still, she would not release the silus poured coffee into a tin cup and handed it to her.
She held it between both palms. Her hands shook. Not only from cold. What’s your name?
He asked. Faith Bennett, Silus Mercer. She nodded. For several minutes, neither spoke. Only the storm spoke for them, hammering against the roof while firelight slowly returned color to Faith’s face.
Then Silas noticed something tied around the handle of the Vise. A bundle of letters.
You come from somewhere far? Ohio. Silas looked at her ruined shoes. Walk from Ohio.
For the first time, something almost like humor crossed her face. No, it disappeared quickly.
She stared into the flames. My parents died when I was 17. Fever took both of them before winter.
Silus said nothing. I worked in a sewing mill outside Cincinnati. 12 hours most days.
Her fingers tightened around the cup. Then I answered an advertisement. Silas already knew what kind.
There were plenty of them in western newspapers. Men with land but no wives. Women with nothing waiting for them back east.
Promises sent across thousands of miles in envelopes. Faith reached toward the vise and untied the letters.
He said his name was James Hollister. Silas went still. Faith did not notice. He said he owned cattle east of Willow Creek.
Said the house was lonely. Said he wanted a wife who wasn’t afraid of hard work.
She swallowed. We wrote for almost 4 months. Silas stared at the fire. James Hollister.
He knew that name. Everyone in Willow Creek knew it. Faith continued. He told me to come west.
Said he would meet me at the depot wearing a blue [music] neckerchief. Her voice began to thin.
I sold everything for the ticket. Silas slowly lifted his eyes. What happened? Nobody came.
The fire popped between them. I waited until dark the first day, then all through the second.
Her face remained strangely calm. That third morning, the station master told me there was no rancher named James Hollister waiting for anyone.
Silus felt something cold settle beneath his ribs. Faith looked directly at him, so I started walking.
How far? Maybe 35 mi, maybe 40. Silas glanced at her feet again. Why didn’t you stay in town?
I had seven cents left. That answer was enough. Faith touched the letters. Do you know him?
Silas hated what he had to say next. He looked toward the fire because looking at her felt worse.
Yeah. Faith stopped breathing for a moment. Silas continued. James Hollister runs the merkantile. Violence.
He doesn’t own cattle. No. Her fingers loosened around the cup. Silas forced himself to finish.
He’s married. Faith’s face changed. Not dramatically. That made it worse. No scream came. No tears.
Only a small tightening around her mouth. Silas looked down. Two children. Faith stared at him.
The rain continued striking the roof. Finally, she stood. She picked up the first letter.
Silas watched her cross the room and opened the stove door. She fed the letter into the flames.
Then another and another. Every promise vanished the same way. Paper curled. Ink blackened. Words became ash.
When only one letter remained, Faith held it longer than the others. Silas could see several lines through the trembling paper.
I promise you will never be alone again. Faith pushed it into the fire. This time her hand shook.
You can stay here, Silas said. She looked back. Until you figure out what comes next.
Faith studied him almost suspiciously. What do you want in return? Nothing. I don’t believe in nothing anymore.
Silas understood that better than she knew. Then call it shelter tonight. She said nothing, but she did not leave.
Faith slept nearly an entire day. When she finally came from the spare room the following morning, Silas was already outside repairing a corral rail.
He returned near noon, then stopped in the doorway. The cabin looked different. The dishes were clean.
The floor had been swept. His shirts had been folded. And Faith stood at the stove making cornbread.
She had tied her hair back and found one of his mother’s old aprons hanging behind the pantry door.
Silas had not seen anyone wear it in [music] 15 years. Faith glanced over her shoulder.
I work for my meals. You should be resting. I rested. Not enough. That’s my decision.
Silus stared at her. She stared back. Then he sat down. The cornbread tasted like something he had almost forgotten.
Home. Over the next week, Faith refused to remain a guest. She mended torn shirts, scrubbed windows, made soup from dried beans, and the last onions in Silas’s cellar.
One afternoon, Silas returned from the barn and found her sitting beside the window with a needle moving through his oldest work shirt.
Sunlight touched the loose strands of her brown hair. For one painful moment, he remembered his mother sitting in that same chair, same window, same patient hands.
Silas walked back outside before Faith could see his face. 3 days later, she asked him for something.
Can I plant flowers? Silas lowered his coffee. Flowers by the porch. He glanced through the window at the dead strip of dirt beside the steps.
Why? Faith shrugged. Because nothing has grown there in a long time. He looked at her.
Somehow he knew she was not talking only about dirt. Plant whatever you want. That afternoon, Silas spent nearly an hour pretending to repair a fence rail that had never been broken.
Faith knelt beside the porch, digging small holes in the soil. At one point, she looked up, caught him watching.
Silas immediately hammered a nail into the rail. Faith smiled, a small smile, but real.
That evening, something changed. Faith carried her leather valvelise from beside her bedroom door into the main room.
Until then, it had never left her reach. She placed it in the corner. Silas watched from beside the stove.
Faith pushed it against the wall with her foot. I’m tired of carrying it. That was all she said.
But Silas understood. The cabin felt different that night. Less like a place where two strangers happened to sleep.
More like somewhere both of them might still be tomorrow. Then Faith asked to go into Willow Creek.
Silas’s stomach tightened. She wanted to send a [music] letter to an old friend in Ohio.
There was no good reason to refuse. So the following morning, they rode into town together.
The moment they stepped inside Martha Perkins General Store, every conversation stopped. Three women stood near the counter.
All three looked at Faith, then at Silas, then back at Faith. Martha smiled without warmth.
And who might this be? Silas felt the trap in the question. This is Faith Bennett.
Martha waited. Silas added nothing. Faith stepped forward. I need to mail a letter to Cincinnati, please.
Martha accepted the envelope. Her eyes dropped toward Faith’s dress, her shoes, then toward Silas.
Of course, Faith paid. Silas bought grain and kerosene. They were nearly outside when a voice floated through the open window behind them.
Mail order bride. Faith stopped. Another woman whispered something. Then laughter. God abandoned at the depot.
I heard. Silas’s jaw tightened. Another voice followed. And now she’s living alone with Silas Mercer.
Faith’s back went rigid. You know what that means? Silas turned toward the store. Faith caught his wrist.
No. He looked at her. Her face had gone pale, but her chin remained lifted.
Don’t. Silus slowly faced forward. They climbed into the wagon. Neither spoke until Willow Creek had disappeared behind them.
Then Faith looked at him. They think I’m ruined. Silas kept his eyes on the road.
They can think whatever they want. They’ll think the same about you. Already do. Faith studied his face.
Something softened in hers. Silas thought the worst had passed. He was wrong. Seven mornings later, an old rider appeared on the road.
Wilbur Hayes, the mail carrier. He stopped beside Silas’s fence, but never dismounted. His eyes moved toward Faith, who was sweeping the porch.
Then back to Silas. Bank got robbed last night. Silus straightened. How much? More than $3,000.
Wilbur hesitated. Sheriff’s questioning everyone who’s come through Willow Creek recently. His gaze shifted toward Faith again, only for a second, but Silas saw it.
And in that single glance, he understood something before Wilbur said another word. The town had already found someone to blame.
Silas watched Wilbur ride away until the old male carrier disappeared behind a line of cottonwoods.
Faith had stopped sweeping. The broom hung loose in her hand. “What happened?” Silas turned toward her.
The bank was robbed. Her brow tightened. “Was anyone hurt?” “No,” she nodded once. “Good.”
Then she went back to sweeping. The steady scrape of the broom across the porch should have calmed him.
It did not. Wilbur’s look stayed in his mind. That quick glance toward Faith, the kind of glance men gave when a rumor had already reached them.
Silas went back to the barn, but work would not settle him. His bay mare had an infected hoof, and the medicine he needed was in Willow Creek.
He hated the thought of returning so soon, but the horse needed help. I’ll be back before dark, he told Faith.
She looked up from the stove. Should I be worried? No, he answered too quickly.
Faith noticed. Silas pulled on his hat. Keep the door latched. The ride into town felt longer than usual.
When he reached Willow Creek, the streets were crowded. Men stood outside the bank. Women gathered in small groups.
Sheriff Harlon Pierce spoke with two deputies near the broken front window. A wooden board covered the glass where the thieves had smashed their way inside.
Silas avoided them. He bought the medicine from Dr. Miller and headed toward his horse.
Then Pete Tucker stepped from the saloon doorway. Silas. Silas stopped. Pete walked over quickly.
Come inside. Something in his voice made Silas follow. The saloon was nearly empty. Pete lowered his voice.
Ezra Jenkins has been talking. Silas’s face hardened. What about? He says he saw a brown-haired woman near the South Road the evening before the robbery.
Silas felt his stomach turn cold. Pete continued. He says she was talking to two strange men.
Silas already knew what came next. He says it was Faith. Silas stared at him.
Jenkins can barely see his own boots. I know. Last winter he mistook a mule for his brother.
I know that, too. Pete glanced toward the window, but people are scared. Silas’s jaw tightened.
Scared people like easy answers. Pete nodded. Martha Perkins is spreading it harder than anyone.
That name made Silas’s blood heat. She says Faith arrived with no family, no references, no one who knows her says it’s strange timing.
Silas’s hands curled into fists. Pete noticed. Don’t do anything foolish. Silas stepped toward the door.
They’re the ones being foolish. He rode home angry enough that he barely felt the hot wind on his face.
Faith had supper waiting. Beans, cornbread, coffee, the good plates with tiny blue flowers around the edges.
Silas sat across from her and watched her cut her cornbread into small squares. Her hands were steady.
Her face was calm. Nothing about her looked frightened. Nothing looked hidden. Yet the rumor had planted something ugly in his mind.
Not belief. Never belief, but fear. Fear of what frightened people could do. After supper, Faith washed the dishes while Silas sat on the porch.
The sun sank behind the ridge. Orange light stretched across the grass. He heard her moving behind him, plates touching softly, water shifting in the basin, a match scratching.
Then the warm glow of the lamp appeared through the window. Silas looked back. Faith stood beside the table, adjusting the flame.
For a moment, he saw his mother there. Same window, same soft gold light, same feeling that someone waited inside.
Silas looked away. The thought scared him more than the rumors. Sunday morning, Faith put on her best dress, dark blue calico, clean cuffs, hair pinned neatly.
Silas watched from the table. I want to go to church. He had expected it.
Still, his stomach tightened. You sure? Yes. She looked directly at him. I’ve hidden enough.
Silas stood and reached for his hat. They rode into town without speaking. The church stood white beneath a bright Montana sky.
Wagons filled the yard. Families climbed the steps. Children ran between horses. Then people began noticing Silas and Faith.
Heads turned. Voices lowered. Silas felt Faith stiffen beside him. But she kept walking. They entered the church.
The hymn stopped. Not slowly. All at once. Every face turned toward the door. Faith froze for half a heartbeat.
Then she walked down the center aisle, her back straight, her chin high. Silas followed.
They sat in the last pew. The singing began again, thin and awkward. Faith opened the himnil.
Her lips moved. No sound came out. The service dragged. The preacher spoke about mercy, forgiveness, judgment.
The words sounded different that morning. When the final prayer ended, people rose. Families moved toward the doors.
Nobody came near Faith. Nobody shook her hand. Nobody welcomed her. They moved around her as though she carried sickness.
Martha Perkins stood near the entrance. Faith approached. Martha turned her back deliberately. Faith stopped.
For one moment, Silas thought she might break. Instead, she stepped outside. The ride home was silent for miles.
Finally, Faith spoke. There’s something you haven’t told me. Silas kept his eyes on the road.
He hated himself for delaying it. Jenkins says he saw a woman the night before the robbery.
Faith went still. He says it was you. The wagon rolled forward. Faith’s face slowly lost color.
I was here. I know. I have only been to town once. I know. She turned toward him.
You believe me? Silas looked at her. I do. No pause. No doubt. Two simple words.
Faith looked away, her fingers loosened around the handkerchief in her lap. That evening, she sat alone on the porch.
Silas watched through the window. She did not eat, did not speak, did not move much.
He found an old wool blanket in his mother’s chest and carried it outside. Faith did not look at him when he placed it around her shoulders.
He turned to go. Silas. He stopped. Why do you believe me? For a moment, he had no answer.
Then he looked toward the dark valley. Because people who plan bank robberies don’t spend their afternoons fixing another man’s socks.
Faith made a small sound, half laugh, half broken breath. Silas went inside. From the kitchen window, he saw her shoulders begin to shake silently.
Faith had not cried when James abandoned her. She had not cried when the women whispered.
She had not cried when the church turned away, but now tears ran down her face because someone believed her.
Silas stood frozen beside the window. Something inside him shifted. Tuesday morning brought trouble to his doorstep.
Sheriff Harlon Pierce rode into the yard on a gray horse. Faith came onto the porch with flower on her hands.
The sheriff removed his hat. Miss Bennett, I need to ask you some questions. Faith wiped her hands on her apron.
Go ahead. Haron opened a small notebook. When did you arrive in Willow Creek? September 16th.
Where were you before that? Cincinnati. Anyone around here who can prove that? Faith’s face tightened.
I have letters. She went inside and returned with the few she had kept. Harlon read them, then handed them back.
These prove someone wrote to you. His eyes hardened. They don’t prove where you were the night before the robbery.
Faith lifted her chin. I was here. Harlon looked at Silas. Silas stepped forward. She was all night.
All night. Harlon closed the notebook. I haven’t decided anything yet. He mounted his horse, then looked down at both of them.
Don’t leave the county. His gaze lingered and keep your doors locked. That night, Silas woke to movement.
He walked into the front room. Faith was packing. Herise lay open on the floor.
Clothes spilled around it. What are you doing? She kept packing. I’m leaving. No. She turned.
Her eyes were red. You don’t get to decide that. No. They’ll destroy you because of me.
They can try. Silus. Her voice cracked. You have land, a name, a life here.
When she she pressed both hands against the edge of the valley. I have nothing.
That’s not true. I am not worth losing everything for. Silus stared at her. The words hit harder than any fist.
He walked to the doorway and stood there, blocking it. Move. No, please. No. Her face tightened.
I’m trying to protect you. Silus shook his head. Sit down. Faith stared. What? Sit down.
He pointed toward the kitchen. I’m making coffee. Hours later, they still sat at the table.
The lamp burned low. Their coffee had gone cold. Faith stared at her hands. I used to believe everything happened for a reason.
Silas listened. My mother believed it, too. Faith swallowed. She said God could make something good out of anything.
Her eyes lifted. But what good came from this? Silas said nothing. A man lied to me.
I crossed half a country for nothing. A town decided I was guilty because I was easy to hate.
Her voice fell. Where is the good? Silas looked at his cup. He had spent years avoiding his own story.
Tonight, he told it. My mother died when I was 14. Faith went still. My father died soon after.
Silas rubbed one thumb against the cup. My older brother sold the cattle, sold the tools, sold nearly everything our family owned.
He looked around the cabin. He left me this place because nobody wanted it. Faith watched him quietly.
I learned young that people leave. Silas lifted his eyes. So I stopped needing them.
His voice roughened. Then you showed up in the rain. Faith did not move. Silas leaned forward.
Maybe you’re right. Maybe there ain’t a reason for every cruel thing. He paused. But maybe the road still puts people where they need to be.
Faith’s eyes filled. Silas stood. You stay because you want to stay. He pointed toward the door.
You leave because you want to leave. His voice hardened. But don’t you leave because some frightened town tells you what you’re worth.
He walked toward his room, then stopped. Because they’re wrong. Silas closed the door behind him.
He lay awake in the darkness, waiting. A minute passed, then another. He heard footsteps, not toward the front door, toward the spare room.
The door closed softly. Faith had stayed. But outside, beyond the quiet cabin, a rider was already heading toward Willow Creek.
And before long, the truth about the robbery would finally come out. The truth arrived 7 weeks after Faith had first stepped into Silus Mercer’s cabin.
Sheriff Harlon Pierce rode into the yard shortly after sunrise. This time, he did not look suspicious.
He looked tired. Faith stood on the porch with a watering can in her hand.
Small gold flowers had begun opening beside the steps, bright against the weathered wood. Silas came from the barn.
Harlon dismounted. He removed his hat. We caught them. Faith’s hand stopped above the flowers.
The bank robbers. Four men. Harlon nodded. Sheriff down in Ridgewater caught them trying the same thing again.
They confessed to Willow Creek, too. Silus felt the tightness inside his chest begin to loosen.
Harlon looked at Faith. There was no woman helping them. Faith remained still. Ezra Jenkins saw someone that night, the sheriff continued.
But she was blonde. Wife of one of the robbers. Faith’s face revealed nothing. Harland shifted his hat between his hands.
Miss Bennett, I was wrong. Silas watched him carefully. The sheriff continued. So was Jenkins.
So were a lot of people. Faith looked toward the road. For weeks, that town had stripped pieces from her, a whisper here, a stare there, a church door that opened without welcome.
Now, four words were supposed to repair everything. I appreciate you coming, she said. Nothing more.
Harlon seemed to understand. He put his hat back on before leaving. He looked at Silas.
You trusted her when nobody else did. Silas glanced at Faith. Wasn’t difficult. Harlon mounted and rode away.
Faith watched the dust settle. Silas stepped beside her. Neither spoke. Then his fingers brushed her elbow, only briefly.
Faith did not move away. 3 days later, Martha Perkins arrived. She drove a small wagon into the yard wearing a clean Sunday dress and carrying an apple pie.
Silas nearly laughed when he saw her. Martha climbed down. Faith waited near the porch.
I brought this. Martha held the pie forward. Faith accepted it. Thank you. Martha twisted her hands.
I suppose I should say. Her voice died. Faith waited. Martha looked toward the flowers, then the barn.
Anywhere except Faith’s face. We acted too quickly. Faith’s eyes stayed steady. You did. Martha’s cheeks reened.
Silas leaned against the fence, watching for once. Martha Perkins had no words. Faith looked at the pie.
I’ll return the plate. Martha nodded quickly and left. That evening, Faith cut two slices.
Silas took a bite. Good pie. Faith took another bite. Still don’t like her. Silas nearly choked on his coffee.
Faith smiled. A real smile. The sound that came from Silas surprised them both. He laughed.
Not loudly, not for long, but enough. Faith stared at him. I didn’t know you could do that.
Neither did I. Two days later, Reverend Hollis visited. He stood beside the flower bed with his Bible under one arm.
The congregation would like you to come back Sunday. Faith’s expression changed. Not anger, something quieter.
They would they know they failed you. Faith looked toward the road leading into town.
Silas knew what she was remembering. The silence, the turned backs. Martha refusing to look at her.
I’ll think about it, Faith said. Sunday came. Faith did not go. Instead, she spent the morning planting more flowers.
Silas did not ask why. Some wounds needed time. A week later, Ezra Jenkins sent a letter.
His handwriting shook across the paper. Faith read it at the kitchen table. My eyes are bad.
I believed I saw what I saw. I was wrong. I am sorry. She stared at the words for a long time.
Silas sat across from her. You going to burn it? Faith folded the paper carefully.
No. She placed it inside a small wooden chest. Forgive him. Not today. Silus nodded.
That answer seemed right. Autumn moved slowly across the Montana valley. The grass turned gold.
Cool wind came down from the mountains. Faith’s flowers spread along the porch until bright color surrounded the cabin.
Inside, new curtains hung over the windows. The floors shone. The old rocking chair had been repaired.
Silas’s shirts no longer had missing buttons. And every morning, the cabin smelled of coffee and cornbread.
Silas stopped pretending none of it mattered. He found himself returning from the barn earlier, taking longer meals, sitting on the porch while Faith worked in the garden.
Sometimes she caught him watching. He no longer looked away. One evening, Faith sat beside him on the porch bench.
Her hair was loose. Silas had only seen it that way a few times. Brown waves fell over her shoulders, glowing copper beneath the setting sun.
Their shoulders nearly touched. I’ve been thinking about James Hollister. Silas’s jaw tightened automatically. Faith noticed.
You still want to hit him? Sometimes. Only sometimes. Silas looked at her. Faith smiled.
Then she looked across the valley. I used to wonder why he did it. Silas waited.
I thought if I understood, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. Did it work? No.
The wind moved through the grass. Faith folded her hands in her lap. But I don’t wonder anymore.
She turned toward him. If he had been waiting at that depot, I might have married a man who lied before he ever touched my hand.
Silas said nothing. Faith continued. I would have spent years wondering which words were true.
Her eyes moved toward the cabin. I would never have come down that road. Something tightened inside Silas.
No, I would never have met you. Silas looked toward the sunset because he did not trust himself to meet her eyes.
Faith smiled softly. I think I got the better ending. Later that night, she carried her leather valvelise to the kitchen table.
Silas stood by the stove. Faith opened it. Inside were the last letters from James Hollister, the ones she had kept as proof.
She lifted the bundle. For a moment, Silas thought she might return them to the Vise.
Instead, she opened the stove door. One by one, she fed them into the flames.
The paper curled. Ink disappeared. Promises turned black. Faith watched until nothing remained. Then she reached into her apron pocket.
She placed three things inside the val. A worn handkerchief Silas had given her. A pressed yellow flower from the first bloom beside the porch and a small folded piece of paper.
Silas stepped closer. What’s that? Faith opened the paper. One word had been written across it.
Home. Silas stared at it. Faith closed the val. Starting over. That night they sat beneath a sky crowded with stars.
Their shoulders touched now. Neither moved away. Faith looked upward. My mother used to say, “People sometimes enter our lives exactly when they are supposed to.”
Silas smiled faintly. “Sounds like something mothers say.” Faith looked at him. “I used to think so, too.”
Silus felt her hand resting on the bench between them, close to his. He stared at it longer than he should have, then moved his fingers across the wood slowly, carefully until they touched hers.
Faith did not pull away. Instead, her fingers turned beneath his. Their hands joined. Silas looked forward.
He had spent years believing loneliness was safer. Nobody could abandon a man who needed nobody.
Nobody could break what had already closed itself off. Then a woman had appeared in the rain with ruined shoes, a broken promise, and a val she refused to release.
And somehow she had walked straight through every wall he had built. Faith leaned her head against his shoulder.
Silas swallowed. “Faith? Yes.” He searched for words. None seemed good enough, so he squeezed her hand.
She squeezed back. Maybe that was enough. Dark clouds gathered beyond the ridge. Faith lifted her face.
It’ll rain tomorrow. Silas looked toward the horizon. Reckon it will. Faith smiled. Good. Why?
The flowers need it. She stood. Their hands separated. Faith walked toward the cabin door, then stopped.
Good night, Silas. Night. She disappeared inside. The door closed softly. Silas remained on the porch.
A few months earlier, silence had filled that cabin because nobody was there. Now silence meant something different.
It meant Faith was sleeping in the next room. It meant her flowers waited beside the porch.
It meant cornbread in the morning. It meant another chair beside his. It meant tomorrow.
Silas looked toward the road where he had found her. Rain had nearly killed Faith Bennett that night.
A lie had brought her west. Cruel people had almost driven her away. Yet every broken road had somehow ended here at his cabin beside him.
And for the first time in many years, Silas Mercer was no longer afraid of having something worth losing.
Because somewhere between the storm and the flowers, two abandoned people had stopped surviving alone.
They had begun building a life together.
