That memory leads to thoughts of Lance; not as he is now, but as he was then. It leads to Lance at sixteen, recklessly and bravely asking Robbie for something Robbie didn’t have to give, and then fleeing the farmhouse, disappearing into the dark.

Robbie has never been sure whether he made a mistake by not following Lance that night. It seems like anything he could have done or said would have hurt more than it could have helped. But he’s pretty fucking sure he made a mistake by not following Lance this morning.

Maybe it should be no surprise that his feet are carrying him toward that point in the tree line where he got so accustomed to seeing Lance appear as a slip of a kid with a head of messy curls, clear blue eyes, and a wide, shy smile. Robbie only ever wanted the ranch to be a safe place for Lance, and that hasn’t changed. But the role that Robbie has to play in that safe harbor has.

He thinks it should feel more strange than it does, his shift in feeling. Maybe some people wouldn’t understand, but in his own head and heart, it feels clear. Right.

Robbie has almost reached the shallow part of the creek where he knows the boys liked to cross when he hears the high, lilting voice of a child, and freezes, wondering briefly if he’s stepped back in time. But, no, it’s not one of the three boys whose shouts and cries kept him worried for a decade—and still, to an extent, do; it’s an unfamiliar little girl in a pastel snowsuit.

In the same instant he spies her, she seems to see him, and after a half-second’s stare, she bolts like a rabbit, leaving Robbie on his side of the creek while she flees from hers.

Lance must have been right about someone staying in the house. Robbie pauses at the edge of the ice and looks down. Then, seized by some strange impulse, he steps onto the slippery surface. He holds his balance with a careful reorganization of his weight, keeping one toe skimming a piece of fallen wood that’s half-buried in the ice.

It feels symbolic, standing upon the creek like this. If he looks ahead, he can trace the winding path in his mind that leads all the way to the river.

He’s still thinking of that, of the way tributaries find their way, and all the little drops of water that feed and flow to them, when a familiar voice calls his name like he’s been conjured by the magic of ice and land and sheer force of will.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lance

Lance throws open the trunk of the blue Mercedes without even waiting for the guy who showed him onto the lot to walk away. He fishes through his smaller piece of hand luggage, knocking aside bottles of lotion and shampoo that have frozen solid…until he finds the scarf. The silk is cold when he clutches it.