More irony for him to tuck away and ponder later. Now wasn’t the time for deep thoughts. He just wanted to get home. Who knew, maybe things would be different with Dad. Maybe he’d gotten over himself and would greet James with open arms and a fatted calf.

A grey pallor suddenly dulled the landscape as storm clouds usurped the sunlight once again.

OK, then. Message received.

The truck lurched, sending James’s heart into momentary arrhythmia. He downshifted and slowed a few klicks per hour. The tires found purchase on the icy asphalt, and his heart found its steady beat. James cleared his mind and focused on the rhythmic tick of the wipers as the road disappeared beneath his tires. Keeping his mind clear of distracting memories was probably a good idea. Especially when he had so much of the present to manage.

As the cemetery came into view, James slowed the truck even more and then eased between the open gates. Sadness stalked him as he killed the engine and stepped onto undisturbed snowfall. The passage of forty-some-odd years didn’t make coming here any easier. His mother’s death had also marked the beginning of the end of his relationship with his father.

Wind buffeted his neck as he made his way to the grave. He shrugged a little deeper into the warmth of his favorite jacket—the only thing besides memories and faded photos that he had of his mother. How many times had she nagged him to do up the zipper? How many times had he sighed and rolled his eyes?

For her sake, he tugged on the slider, brought it a little closer to his chin. The action warmed him. Whether it was the thick fleece shutting out more of the wind or the memory of his mother, he didn’t know. Maybe it was a combination of both.

He closed his eyes and listened to silence. Peace washed over him. Snow dusted his face, weighted his eyelashes for the brief moment it took to melt onto his cheeks, but the arctic chill did not disturb him. He opened his eyes to the snow-covered headstone that told anyone who cared to know that his mom had been a loving wife and mother. All true. Etched in granite for a lifetime. He smiled. He was glad to be home. The familiar made him feel safe even in the midst of all the turmoil that awaited.

He could do this, rejoin his family. He’d start fresh, renew his family ties. He’d find old friends and cement new relationships with them, catch up on the past and go forward into the future. A tiny seed of hope for a new beginning took root in his heart.

He glanced at a plot of newly dug graves. Matching headstones and surnames told James who they were. With her voice husky and somber, his sister had told him about the fire—no, “The Fire.” Important. Capitalized. Emphasized. The only fire to define the entire town in all Kipling’s history.