“Don’t just stand there, Gary,” the Colonel barked in a raspy, weak voice. “Get Hope a chair.” He coughed, the effort of issuing orders clearly taxing his lungs.

Grant rounded the bed and set a visitor chair behind Hannah. His hand on her shoulder steadied her legs.

This visit is for the Colonel, not for me.

She willed her disappointment away. It slunk to the wings and sulked, waiting. She knew it would be back.

Her father turned his hand over. His fingers curled in a Come here gesture. Hannah closed her hand over his, leaned over, and kissed his cheek. The strength of his grip around her fingers surprised her. She eased onto the plastic seat.

“Beat it, Gary,” the Colonel said with a slight jerk of his head. “I want to be alone with my girl.”

Wiping tears from her cheeks, Hannah laughed. Even impending death couldn’t break the Colonel’s fighting spirit.

With a sad smile, Grant bowed out, but Hannah knew he’d be lingering in the hallway, within earshot, in case she needed him.

“I’ll walk again. I promise,” the Colonel said.

He thought it was 1991, and he was just returning from Iraq. How often did he have to relive that awful time?

He squeezed her hand. “Don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

And, oddly, it was. Hannah wiped her cheeks. He was too weak for much conversation, but he seemed to be content to sit in silence and hold her hand. When he fell asleep, his face was relaxed and peaceful. She waited until his breathing leveled out before slipping from the room.

“He thought it was just after the explosion.” Hannah stopped at the nurses’ station to pluck a tissue from the box on the counter.

“That happens. Are you all right?” Grant wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her down the hallway toward the exit.

“The best visit I’ve had with him in years, and he thought I was someone else.”

“He can’t help it. I know you’re hurting, Hannah. But he had a really good hour, and you gave it to him.”

“I know,” she sighed. Outside of her hometown, she fared better, but here in Scarlet Falls, painful memories overwhelmed her. She was instantly reduced to a nine-year-old girl left behind while her father took her brothers on an outing in the woods. He usually let her go if she asked, but he’d never been happy about it. And the fact that she always had to justify her inclusion spoke volumes of their relationship.

Her therapist had not been surprised she had trouble forming attachments.

Grant pushed the door open, and they walked out into the daylight. The breeze swept cool over her face, but the sun rallied for warmth on her skin. Her brother started toward the truck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Hannah said.