Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Her belly tightened, and a flutter of nerves lifted inside of her. It wouldn’t be long now. Maybe even tonight, tomorrow. A small frisson of grief trembled through her, the knowledge that this birth—her second—would bring both celebration and heartache. Memories. Longing. Despite her happiness and the peace she’d found, for her, life would always be a tricky mixture of conflicting emotions that sometimes she just had to breathe through. She was prepared, and because she was, she knew it would be okay.
Josie clipped another sheet to the line, looking beyond at that field where her aunt had once brought her to pick wildflowers, the place she’d carried inside her through so many dark days. Her own, very real vision of hope. The thing she’d clutched to with all of her heart. Someday very soon, right in that spot, she’d gather bouquets with her own daughter, the little girl they’d named Arryn in honor of the brother Zach and his family had loved and lost. But as she’d learned, love didn’t end. Love never died. Love went on and on, like a swiftly moving river. No matter the obstacle, it continued forward, an unending force moving around, over, into—carving away at the rocky shores in its path.
Her lips tipped as she envisioned a toddling girl with brown curls and midnight eyes.
A shadow darkened one of the sheets, and her smile grew. She knew his form, his height, the way he moved, even through white cotton. He pulled it aside, a grin lighting his face as he caught sight of her. “Hey,” he said. “I would have done this.”
She picked up the empty basket. “I wanted to get outside. And”—she shot him a look—“I’m not an invalid.”
He gave her a boyish, chastised smile but took the basket from her anyway. “I know. I just want to make sure you’re resting enough. Pretty soon rest is going to be in short supply.”
Josie put her hand on her large belly where their daughter lay curled inside. Yes, rest was going to be in short supply, and she could hardly wait.
Zach laced the fingers of his empty hand through hers as they moved toward their house. In the end, they’d decided not to run it as a bed-and-breakfast, but instead—God willing—fill its rooms with their children.
Fill its dinner table with their cherished friends, and Zach’s loud, big-hearted family, now Josie’s family too. From the start, Zach’s mother had taken Josie under her wing and treated her like her very own daughter. Josie basked in the feeling of being mothered. She’d never felt it before, and it had healed another part of her that had long been broken.
As they stepped onto the porch, Zach’s cell phone could be heard ringing from inside. Jimmy, no doubt, calling to update him on the case they were working. “You get that,” Josie said. “I’m just going to sit out here for a few minutes and take some weight off my feet.” She offered him a wry smile, lowering her cumbersome body onto the porch swing they’d installed the summer before, right after she’d received her college diploma, fulfilling that long-awaited goal.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Okay. I’ll bring out some iced tea and join you in a minute.”
Josie used her foot to rock the swing slowly, gazing out to the sky, alight now with the fire of sunset. Her thoughts turned to Charles Hartsman as they sometimes did, and she wondered if he was watching the sunset—or perhaps the sunrise—from some distant shore and felt a small fearful pinching in her chest. Another one of those emotions she had learned to breathe through. He wouldn’t be back. She knew that, felt it in her gut. Someday perhaps he’d face justice. For the time being, she had to learn to live with that lack of closure. She’d come to it easier than her husband, which was interesting, but true. My sweet guardian. The man who would save the whole world if he could.
At least Marshall Landish’s name had been cleared, his sister given the peace of his vindication.
She thought of the ways in which humans could be filled with both terrible evil and such enduring love. Unspeakable violence and astonishing gentleness. Blame and grace. Her fingers went unconsciously to the scar she wore on her thigh, the declaration of her guilt. It no longer shamed her. She had been guilty. But not because she was evil or bad. Because she’d been hurt. Because she’d wanted so desperately to be loved that she’d forsaken her own pride. Her own sense of right and wrong. The same as Charles Hartsman and yet so vastly different.
Who is to blame? That was the question. And Josie’s heart had found peace in the answer.
Put simply: All of us.
All of us are to blame. For fighting to move on rather than lashing out, for choosing to stand up over and over again after we collapse, for working to heal the broken parts of ourselves so the shards don’t wound the world.