That thinking—or rather not thinking—was exactly how she’d gotten tangled up with Tessa’s father. And this guy was a descendent of Duke Hunter.
* * *
Windshield wipers beating a steady rhythm, Grady applied the brakes as he rounded another wet curve on the way back from visiting his mother at the hospital Sunday evening. She’d had an adverse reaction to her medications a few days ago, but seemed to have stabilized and might soon come home. Then would begin the long haul of postsurgery physical therapy and chemotherapy treatments.
Man, he hated to see her go through that. Dad, too.
Please, God, heal Mom. We need her.
Now, halfway between Canyon Springs and Hunter Ridge, twilight had given over to darkness, and clouds from a late-season monsoon rain hung low. The days were rapidly growing shorter and summer was pretty much over as the nighttime temperatures dropped into the midforties. Elections would soon be upon them. Would Mom stick it out or withdraw from the race?
He lowered the volume of the country tune belting out of the stereo speakers. It was a mournful love song that, for some irritating reason, made him think of Sunshine.
He’d been relieved that after their conversation a few days ago, she’d made no further attempts to visit the Hideaway or to try to see his mother. Nor had she pressed him to show her the old family cabins that appeared to have captured her imagination when he’d mentioned them. So his family’s concerns that she had ulterior motives were unfounded.
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