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“You could say that.”

I carefully smooth the crumpled surface of the paper.

“Are you going to open it?”

“I planned to.”

“Want me to give you some privacy?” he asks, as he starts to push himself up.

I grab his wrist and pull him back down.

“No, stay.” I slide my eyes to him. “Please.”

He doesn’t question me and simply settles down again beside me, throwing me a kind smile before his gaze drifts back to the moving water.

Taking in a deep breath, I slip my finger under the flap and open the envelope. It’s a short note on a single sheet, one I have to read twice to process the brief message.

* * *

Don’t ever put off chasing your dreams.

I bought 14 Quarry Road from Dozer Combs in your name.

Contact Matthew Fife at Hendriks and Fife Law in Spokane for details.

Grab hold, Baby Girl.

Love you forever, Mom

* * *

Once the meaning settles in, I lower the note, stare out at the river, and scan my memory for a mental picture of the old house on Quarry Road. The last time I remember being up that way, I was in my teens and a group of us snuck into Lizard Creek Quarry—it was still operating then—with a bottle of tequila I had pilfered from my parents’ bar to celebrate our upcoming graduation. It was a rare show of rebellion on my part, since I rarely stepped outside the lines. The sheriff at the time—the father of my best friend, Savvy—surprised us and sent us running for the woods. I got as far as Dozer Combs’s driveway when Sheriff Colter’s cruiser caught up with me, and I only have a vague recollection of the two-story farmhouse with the large front porch. What remained clearer in my memory was the reception I received when the sheriff dropped me back off at The Kerrigan.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the dressing-down I received, standing in my mother’s kitchen, bruised and scratched up from my run through the woods, and more than a little intoxicated.

It makes me wonder if Mom never forgot either and this final gesture she left me was meant to be a message in itself.

Dozer Combs’s house is mine?

I inhale deeply, clutching a hand to my chest, the ache of loss and a niggling excitement battling inside.

“I told her my dream,” I softly share out loud. “I always wanted to buy an old property, fix it up, and make it my own. It was more of a pipe dream, you know? One of those things you don’t really expect to ever come true because real life gets in the way.”

I turn to face him and read confusion on his face. “Here, read it,” I offer, handing him the letter, which he quickly scans.

“She bought you a house.”

I take a deep breath and blow it out. “It would appear that way.”

“Dozer Combs…wasn’t he a suspect in a murder case? I remember hearing something about that when I first joined the department.”

“Ben Rogers,” I confirm. “He was a nasty drunk who beat up on his wife, Wanda. Turned out Wanda and Dozer had had a thing going for a while. They weren’t involved in Ben’s death, but I guess in a small town you can never quite get away from wagging tongues, so they ended up moving to Florida a while ago.”

“And Dozer sold his place to your mother. For you,” he adds.

“Yeah.”

I’m still stunned, having a hard time getting a grip on my feelings around it, and turn my head once more to the fast-moving water. Then I feel an arm settle around my shoulders. It doesn’t feel invasive, but rather supportive.