Faith ruthlessly shoved the memory from her mind. Dwelling on the past would make her crazy. She had enough problems in the present without dredging up old hurts.

Except . . . this was a hurt that needed dredging. And then purging. She hadn’t been back to this place since that last horrible day. Never told her mother how angry she was. She’d never told anyone. She’d covered up her rage and hurt and fear and moved forward. Or so she’d told herself, but here she was, twenty-three years later. Still hurting. Still angry. And still afraid.

Time to deal, Faith. Do it now. Resolute, she walked around the house before she could change her mind, not realizing that she was holding her breath until it came rushing out.

There it was, off in the corner of the backyard. A respectable distance from the house, as Gran had always said. Someone had kept it tidy all these years, pulling the weeds, cutting the grass around the wrought-iron fence, fashioned in the same style as the one bordering the front. The historical society, Faith remembered. Gran’s attorney had told her that the local historical society paid for the upkeep because the O’Bannion cemetery was a historic landmark.

Her family was buried here, all the way back to Zeke O’Bannion, who’d died at the Battle of Shiloh in 1862. She knew who rested here, remembered all of their stories, because, unlike silver teapots, she’d found their stories riveting. They’d been real people, lived real lives. Like a faithful dog, she’d followed her mother whenever she visited the graves, helping her pull weeds, hanging on her every word as she talked about their ancestors.

Faith pushed at the gate, frowning when it refused to budge. A glance down revealed the issue—a padlock. Her grandmother’s attorney hadn’t given her any other keys, so she walked around the fence until she came to the most recent headstone, carved in black marble.

It was a double stone, the inscription on the left weathered over twenty-three years. Tobias William O’Bannion. Faith remembered her grandfather as a stern, severe man who’d attended Mass every single day of his life. Probably to confess losing his temper, she thought wryly. He’d had a wicked one.

The inscription on the other side of the black marble was crisp and new. Barbara Agnes Corcoran O’Bannion. Beloved wife, mother, grandmother. Philanthropist.

Most of that was true. Gran had been a strong supporter of a number of charities. And Tobias had loved her in his own way. I loved her. Enough, in fact, to have taken her name.