Birthright by Judith Arnold Page B

Callahan, and of all the improvements he’d made to the cabin, it was the one that made him the proudest. Insulating the attic, replacing the old windows with thermal windows, putting in an energy-efficient wood-burning stove had all been practical renovations, necessary if he was going to live full-time in the place. But the deck…well, it was his favorite part of the cabin, used more than any room. During the day he could see the river through the trees. At night, he could hear it.
    “So, you were walking along the river,” he said when she didn’t speak. “You like taking nature hikes in the dark, wearing a dress?”
    The candle nearest her flickered, the yellow flame making her cheeks glow like burnished gold. “I was at a party,” she explained, glancing at her dress and picking at the twigs and bits of leaves that clung to the fabric. “I got…I don’t know, sad. I just needed to leave.” She turned her eyes to him and he swallowed, as if he could choke down the keen longing he felt when he gazed at her. “I came to the river because that was where I used to hang out when I was a kid,” she continued. “I hadn’t been back since…”
    “Since your husband died,” he said. Blunt, maybe cruel, but he wasn’t going to sit quietly while sheshadowboxed with herself, jabbing and parrying and dancing away from whatever was bothering her.
    Unruffled, she stared at him. “Yes. Since my husband died.”
    He felt contrite. He shouldn’t have pushed her—except that he wanted to push her away, to protect himself from his own inexcusable desire. But she was tough. He’d come at her aggressively, and she hadn’t flinched.
    “You used to hang out with all those other kids,” he recalled. “The River Rats.”
    She nodded and grinned. “Yes, that was what we called ourselves. I don’t even remember where the name came from, other than that we always spent our time together down by the river. This was Old Man Miller’s fishing cabin. He used to yell at us when he saw us.”
    Aaron shrugged. He’d never met Old Man Miller. The guy was in a nursing home near his daughter in Terre Haute now. She’d sold him the cabin through a broker, dirt cheap and worth every penny. The place had been dilapidated, but the location was heavenly.
    “You’re right, though—it was foolish to go walking along the river dressed like this.” She plucked another twig from the hem of her skirt, then touched her glass to her lips without drinking.
    She had beautiful lips, at least as beautiful as her eyes. Her husband might have died young, but before he died he’d gotten to kiss those lips, and for that alone Aaron envied him.
    “I guess you must miss him. Your husband, I mean,” he clarified when she looked bewildered. Hersmile vanished and he felt like a jerk for having mentioned her loss. “I mean, you said you were sad. I guess going to a party without him must be hard.”
    Her eyes filled with tears and she lowered her glass to the table with a trembling hand. He swore silently. Thinking of himself as tactless was too kind. He’d just skewered the poor woman.
    A quiet sob escaped her and he launched himself to his feet. He had tissues in the house somewhere—in the bathroom, he was pretty sure. He raced through the house, found a box, tore off the cardboard seal and brought the tissues outside to her. A good thing, too. She was weeping as if her husband had just died yesterday, as if she would never recover from it.
    “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.
    She shook her head, wiped her eyes, sniffled and wiped her eyes again. “No— I’m sorry.”
    “I shouldn’t have mentioned—”
    “No. I don’t care. You should have.” She pressed the tissue to her wet cheeks and let out another muted sob. “I don’t miss him at all,” she confessed, her voice so soft and shaky he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
    But then she looked at him with her watery eyes, and he saw the truth shining through her tears. She