Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

Why should he have everything when Connor Hale had been my father too? Even if he didn’t want to be.

We didn’t have to get lawyers involved.

It didn’t need to get messy.

My pulse slowed and I felt more in control. Tap, tap, tap. Relief descended.

Why not? Even if there was a small possibility of Haven staying, she had walked away from me tonight, showing me that I meant little to her. I had simply been her friend with benefits . . . temporarily . . . something I had done to others many times if I was honest. All over Pelion, women would be—justifiably—laughing their asses off if they knew the pain I was in. Despite what Burt said, Haven would not be the one to fill or complete me. The hope of that potential future had died. If I was going to lose it all—again—this time, why not grab what I could before all of it was gone?





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE




Travis



“I’m glad you made it. But you should have taken the time to change into something more comfortable,” Bree said, eyeing the uniform I was still wearing and handing me a fistful of skewers as we walked down the hill toward the bonfire I could already see dancing on the beach below. “Your uniform is going to get all smoky.”

As I’d sat in my truck, holding the documents and considering what I was going to do, I’d remembered that Archer and Bree had invited me to roast marshmallows with them and the kids down by the lake. I’d been so wrapped up in Haven that I’d completely forgotten. Perfect timing, I’d thought, tossing the albums and the paperwork onto my passenger seat. And I’d driven right over.

“I’m off tomorrow,” I said. “I have time to wash it.”

“All right. Well Archer’s getting the fire going, so go on and join him. I need to change the baby and then the boys and I will gather the supplies. We’ll be down as quickly as possible.” She paused, considering me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.” I didn’t want to look at her. She’d be disappointed in me once she found out what I wanted. Oh well. I’d handled it once, and I could handle it again. “I’ll see you all in a bit.”

Archer looked over his shoulder as I approached, raising his chin and using a poker to adjust a piece of firewood. Firewood I knew he chopped himself even though he could’ve easily afforded hiring someone else to do it.

Maybe old habits died hard.

I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs flanking the fire, across from Archer, setting a file folder and one of the albums on a rock next to me.

Archer tilted his head, his gaze flicking over my uniform. Is this an official visit? he asked.

“No. I came straight from work.”

He looked at the items I’d placed on the rock questioningly. What’d you bring?

I cleared my throat, going for the file, but instead, sliding the album out from underneath and handing it to Archer. He took it with two hands, frowning slightly as he held the photo album up and then set it on his knees.

I saw him swallow, the scar on his throat raising as he turned the page slowly. The scar that had taken his voice and submerged him in a world of silence. An odd hollow formed between my ribs. He looked up at me and I recognized the emotion in his eyes: surprised wonder. These are pictures of my mother.

“Yeah. My, uh, mother gave it to me. It was with our father’s things. Alyssa must have given it to him at some point. I’m surprised my mother didn’t burn it.” I attempted a rueful laugh but it petered out.

Archer looked back down to the photos, flipping a few more pages, his gaze moving from one picture to the next. He ran his hand gently—lovingly—over the plastic-covered page. I only have one photo of my mother, he said, raising his hands but not his gaze, seemingly unwilling to look away from the treasure in his lap.

The expression on his face reminded me of the way Haven had looked as her eyes had moved over the antique photographs of someone else’s family. Yearning.

“I know,” I said. I’d seen the picture of Alyssa Hale in a place of honor on the mantel in Bree and Archer’s home. I knew his mother hadn’t had much family to speak of, if any. Archer had his memories of her, good ones, I assumed, and the knowledge that she’d loved him, but no tangible items other than the one lone photograph.

I remembered how beautiful I’d thought she was. I remembered how she’d kneel down to my level when she spoke to me, and that she’d always listened closely to what I had to say, even though I was only a kid. She had loved my father and I was the child of another woman, his wife. She had to have had mixed emotions, and even pain, regarding my presence, but she’d never once treated me as though she did.

And I remembered my mother’s raging fury at her very existence, the woman who owned her husband’s heart no matter how many tricks she deployed or whatever manipulative plans she devised.

I remembered that I wished Alyssa Hale was my mother, instead of the one I was given.

Archer spent a few minutes turning the pages, his gaze falling from one photo to another.

Thank you, he said, and by the look on his face, I sensed the gravity of his appreciation.

“Yeah, of course. It’s yours.”

He closed the book, but kept it in his lap. He nodded to the file folder I’d placed on the rock. What else did you bring?