He scrolls, brows drawing together. “Fuck. They’re all dead?”
“Every single fuckin’ Walker,” I say, voice low. “Mom. Grandparents. Even a brother. All buried out in Serenity Falls.”
“What about her dad?”
“Don’t know who he is, and trust me, I looked deep.” I shrug, grimacing as my mind flits through all the connections I reached out to for information. “Lorna had a rough upbringing. Parents were religious, but the kind of religious where they lean on God and use it as an excuse for the bad shit they did.”
He scoffs, nodding, no doubt thinking about his late father who was the same.
“Anyway, from what I could dig up,” I continue, referring to the locals in Heart Springs and Serenity I regrettably talked to. “Lorna escaped from home the only way she could, lookin’ for love or happiness or whatever, in all the wrong places. Had a lot of boyfriends—a lot of them were older men, too. When she got pregnant, I assume it went badly at home, so she ran.”
Though, I can’t prove any of that. At this point, it’s speculation.
From what gossip suggested, Lorna was a promiscuous young girl from a bad home. When she ran away, her parents wrote her off as no longer being their child—a pregnant, unmarried seventeen-year-old high school dropout.
They went on with their lives, never looked or asked for help, and Lorna…
Lorna died alone a few states over.
And Georgia… my Georgia, paid the price of everyone's mistakes.
“Damn,” he breathes, handing my phone back. “That’s gonna kill her.”
I nod, slipping it into my pocket. “She wanted roots. Answers. Now there’s no one left to ask. No one to tie her to this place. And when her contract’s up in a few months... I don’t know, Sarge. I’m terrified she might go if she knows what she came here for is all dead and buried.”
“You think she will?”
“I hope not.” I glance at the empty room around us. “All I can do is keep building something here that feels like home. Something worth staying for.”
And pray like hell it’s enough.
That Aurora and I are enough.
Chapter Forty Five
Dada’s Don’t Cry
Georgia’s been knee-deep in Honey Bea Bash prep all weekend—clipboards, spreadsheets, flower crates, and more color-coded sticky notes than should be legal.
And I’ve helped where I can, hauling tables, lifting bins, making trips into town for extra sunshade tents and extension cords.
But this? This thing is hers. She’s taken it on with both arms and her whole damn heart.
And the thing is… watching her bring life back into this farm with nothing but determination and her wide-open soul? It’s doing something to me I don’t know how to name.
I lean against the fence, arms folded, just…watching.
Aurora toddles through the rows of tulips, her tiny sandals kicking up dust with every unsteady, supported step. Georgia crouches beside her, curls tumbling loose around her face, one arm around her waist while she guides Aurora’s hands to a bloom, talking her through how to trim it.
Our girl giggles, snipping the stem with blunt little scissors, then drops the flower into the basket with dramatic flair. She claps like she’s just won a damn award, and inside, I feel like she should.
Georgia looks up at her, laughing softly, her whole face lit from within and presses a soft kiss to her chubby cheek.
My heart ricochets so hard I nearly stagger.
Christ.
I love them.
