Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

We’d married at sunrise in the orchard behind the barn, the air redolent with the scent of apple blossoms. Easton had walked Haven down an aisle of clover, delivering his sister to me, as he’d done in more ways than one. My eyes had burned when they’d reached the place where I’d waited, gripping his scarred hand in mine and promising to take care of her always.

As for Easton, he was moving up quickly in the firehouse that served three counties, but despite his busy schedule, he always made time to help at the nursery when asked. For the most part, he’d changed his wicked ways—the respect of the community was important to Easton and motivated him to act accordingly—but he was still very much a single man.

Only Bree, Archer, their children, and Easton had attended our marriage ceremony, but we’d thrown a big party that evening in the old red barn, decked out with twinkle lights and tables adorned with pots of sunflowers that we later planted along the fence. The sight of those grand, happy flowers still reminded me of that beautiful day filled with love and, thanks to the crew, plenty of homemade hooch.

I had arranged for Mrs. Kim to be there as a surprise and when she’d arrived, she and Haven had sobbed and held on to each other until there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. She’d already been back once since then, to visit and help Haven plan and conceptualize the garden behind our home.

Clawdia limped over, breaking me from my reverie, rubbing her body against my leg. I leaned down, picking her up as I walked toward the barn where more heavy lifting awaited. Clawdia often spent her days at the nursery, lounging in the sunshine of the loft, far out of reach of potentially trampling feet.

“Do you two need help?” I called as Connor and Charlie walked by, each hefting a bale of hay.

“No, we’re good. Thanks, Uncle Travis,” Charlie called. I ran my hand over Clawdia’s fur, turning and watching as they added what they were carrying to the other bales that would be sold to customer’s seeding grass, but also used as part of a display of vibrant red, yellow, orange, and white chrysanthemums. My eyes narrowed slightly as Connor gave a covert head nod to his brother, pointedly looking out to the dock where Juliette Moretti sat at the edge, legs dangling, as she leaned forward watching her feet swish in the water. Juliette’s mother did the accounting for the nursery and often brought her daughter with her if she was only working for an hour or two on a Saturday. Juliette was a pretty girl with a sweet disposition who enjoyed helping plant flowers and arrange displays. But in her innocent smile, I also caught the glint of mischief and perhaps just a dash of devilry. I understood the qualities well. After all, it took one to know one.

Charlie gave his brother a head nod back, and they began slinking toward her in unison, stopping when she turned her head slightly, moving again when she looked away. Clawdia’s purr vibrated, my hand moving idly on her back as I took in the scene.

Something was about to go down.

My nephews moved swiftly behind her, obviously up to no good, likely plotting on pushing Juliette into the water. For a moment I considered stopping the obvious crime in progress, but . . . well, I knew for a fact Juliette was an excellent swimmer and all lake kids needed to learn to expect being pushed in when standing on the very edge of a dock where a mere finger nudge could pitch you in.

The twins made it to her simultaneously when very suddenly, Juliette reached behind her, giving a hard yank to the towel she was sitting on, the one currently directly under the boys’ feet. With dual yelps, both boys went flying off either side of the dock, belly flopping onto the surface of the lake. Juliette turned around slowly, bringing her hands to her cheeks in feigned surprise. “Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes round with faux innocence. And yes, a spark of that devilry. Again, it took one to know one.

“Try to be more careful,” she said, looking down at them, her lips curling into a saucy smile.

Well, well. Juliette Moretti had just taken on both my nephews with apparent eyes in the back of her head and the singular flick of one slim wrist.

Connor and Charlie were very clearly outmatched.

I worked to hold back a laugh as they glared up at her, floundering with outrage, and what I thought might be a hint of . . . awe. And perhaps love. Uh-oh.

The boys dragged themselves out of the lake, their fists clenched as they walked onto the shore. “No time for a swim when there’s so much work to do, boys,” I said as they approached me. “Better go lay out back in the sun to dry off for a little while and then get back to it.”

“Sure, Uncle Travis,” they said, both attempting a nonchalant smile that Charlie pulled off better than Connor, who still looked, in equal parts, bitter and bamboozled. I waited until they rounded the corner of the barn before breaking out in laughter. Clawdia meowed in agreement.

My laughter dwindled, but the joy remained. I took time to revel in the moment, the beautiful season of life I was living, thinking of Clarice and her prophecy, and realizing the truth it’d contained.

I had lost it all.

Willingly. Joyfully. While following my heart.

And because I’d lost it all, I’d gained . . . everything.





Acknowledgments




Seven years ago, I wrote a book called Archer’s Voice. My only editors were two friends who read with a critical eye, a good grasp of grammar, and—most importantly, I think—a personal understanding of my heart. The latter meant that in many areas they knew what I was probably trying to say but had come up short, and showed me where they believed I had more to offer. Notably with the instruction, “make better.” Angela Smith and Larissa Kahle helped me find my voice in those early days, and in turn, I helped Archer find his. All of you, the many hundreds of thousands of readers, bloggers, Instagrammers, and now TikTok’ers worldwide, helped amplify it, and continue to do so. The success of that book changed my life, and my gratitude is endless and forever.