She looked around. “It’s a shame we have to get moving soon. But we’re still high on the pass and we got a long way back to town.”

“That’s right. The good news? ‘Rain only goes one direction—’”

“‘Down,’” we said together, and laughed.

She set her fork next to her plate. Her expression shifted, and I could tell she was thinking of her father.

“He had a thing with your mom in high school, you know,” she said. “They were sweethearts.”

It took a moment for me to process that one. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

I tried to picture Sheriff Blanton with my mom when they were younger, but my brain wouldn’t compute the image. “There’s no way.”

“Oh, yeah. They were gonna get married, have kids, the whole thing. Then Dad broke up with her after graduation. I don’t know what it was. Cold feet, fear, whatever. But he never forgave himself for it. Or her.”

My face burned with indignation. “He never forgave her? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“The heart doesn’t make any sense, Chance. Its job is to not make sense.”

I looked across at Patrick’s black cowboy hat where I’d dropped it on the bed and kept my mouth shut.

She stood. “I’m gonna indulge in a shower before we go.”

She searched through the bureau some more but only came up with a man’s undershirt and a pair of boxers. She shrugged. “I’ll take what I can get and put my dirty clothes on over it again.”

When she disappeared into the bathroom, I poked around the cabin, trying to process what she’d just told me about my mom and her dad. That explained why Sheriff Blanton had disliked me and Patrick all these years. Why he’d hated our family name so much.

I found myself drawn back to that photograph of the older couple. How content they looked sitting there, umbrella drinks in hand. What was it like to grow old with someone that way? To know the other person was by your side. Not just for the big romantic moments but the day-to-day stuff, too. My mom and dad had it like that. Uncle Jim and Sue-Anne, too.

It didn’t seem like something I’d ever have.

I set down the framed picture, then went to do the dishes. It seemed important somehow, a gesture of respect for the folks who’d owned the place, who’d once taken a trip to enjoy each other’s company in the sun.

Alex came out, dirty clothes over clean, toweling her hair.

She paused by the bed, leaning a hip against the mattress, still looking a bit weak from her ordeal. “You cleaned up the kitchen? Why?”

I finished wiping down the counter. “I don’t know,” I said.