The quiet, enormous satisfaction that moved across his grandfather’s face was something Patrick would remember for a long time.
Riley whooped. “I knew it! She’s yourcroie, isn’t she?”
“Of course she is,” Jack said.
“Now we just have to convince her to stay,” Riley said.
“Shouldn’t be that difficult. Pine Ridge keeps the people who belong here,” Jack said, pinning Patrick with the intense blue gaze he’d passed on to each of his sons and many of his grandchildren. “So do Callaghan men, when they put their minds to it.”
35
CORRIDORS & CLOSED DOORS
MORGAN
Morgan tookher coffee out to the porch, as had become her habit, and wondered if Patrick was up yet. Waking up in his bed, surrounded by his big body was preferable to waking up in Frank’s guest room with a dog who hogged the covers and snored, but it was what it was.
The problem was, she didn’t know what it was.
The sex had been great, but it had felt like more than just a physical release. That was what she was having trouble reconciling. So she did what she always did—filed it away to process later and focused instead on her most recent revelation.
Her grandfather’s housekeeper was—or had been—a CIA level operative, and had killed Anthony Varro because Varro had been sent to kill Morgan.
Even growing up in her stepfather’s world and literally making a career out of death, that was a lot to process. And yet, she wasn’t afraid, or horrified, or feeling any of the things she should have been feeling. No. She felt… grateful. Cared for.
Safe.
The sky had gone clear after a gray start. She could hear Frank at the wood pile around the back of the house, the rhythmic crack of the axe carrying cleanly in the still air. His strikes were slower and more deliberate than a younger man’s, but he was still fit and disciplined at the age of… Morgan paused. She didn’t know how old Frank was. Late 70s, maybe?
Morgan wrapped both hands around her mug and looked out at the property. That realization she’d had earlier that morning about being a part of something settled warm and deep in her chest. It wasn’t just about establishing roots, but about having the opportunity to thrive with new growth. She had a whole new understanding of why Patrick wanted to stay among family and friends.
She was beginning to think that maybe she did, too.
She was still contemplating that when the ax went quiet and Frank came around the side of the house, breath visible in the cold air, a stack of split wood balanced in the crook of his arm. He saw her on the porch and took the steps, setting the wood in the box beside the door.
He straightened. Looked at her. Silent knowledge passed between them.
He knew that she knew about Donna.
“You’re still here,” he said evenly.
“I’m still here,” she confirmed.
Approval shone in his eyes. He nodded once. “Good,” he said, and went inside.
Morgan finished her coffee and followed him.
Donna was already gonefor the day. The kitchen was clean, except for the Dutch oven that sat on the stove and the fresh loaf of bread on a cutting board, covered with gingham. Morgan ladled a bowl for each of them, then sat down at the table across from Frank.
Frank reached for the bread and cut off a thick slab for her, then for himself. That was one of the things she’d come to appreciate about him. He didn’t ask. He just did.
“Tell me about my father,” she said.
Frank was quiet for a moment. Considering.
“He had the Sullivan eyes,” Frank said. “Same as you.”
“And you,” she said.