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Relief nearly knocks me over.

“Thank you.”

“If she refuses?”

“I'll bring her back.”

Rafe nods.

“And Sherry will do what she must.”

I don't answer.

Because I'm already carrying Daria toward my bike.

Toward home.

Toward the hardest conversation of my life.

I cradle her across my lap as I drive us carefully to her place.

A few minutes later, she's tucked safely beneath a quilt on the couch in her old farmhouse.

The place is charming.

Worn hardwood floors.

High ceilings.

Boxes still waiting to be unpacked.

Outside, I can see the weathered red barn she'd told me about.

The future animal rescue.

It suits her.

I sit beside the couch.

Take her hand.

And I wait.

Slowly—after an hour or more—her fingers twitch.

Long blonde hair spills across the pillow as she stirs.

A soft groan escapes her.

Whiskey-colored eyes flutter open.

She focuses on me.

Confusion clouds her face.

“Rand?”

“I'm here, Honey.”