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She glances at us.

Boone doesn’t look back.

I do.

She continues walking.

A little farther ahead, two men unload sacks from a wagon outside one of the shops. One of them looks toward us when the cart rattles past. Boone turns his head in the opposite direction and studies a building across the road with far more concentration than it deserves.

He doesn’t want anyone to recognize him.

That surprises me enough that I continue watching him instead of the road ahead.

No one looks twice at me. Why would they? My clothing is plain, and there is nothing about the way I look that connects me to the castle miles above this village. I’ve walked these streets and purchased goods from some of these same people. To them, I’m nothing more than the quiet peddler who appears twice a year and disappears again without giving anyone reason to ask questions.

Boone cannot disappear so easily.

This is his home.

His gaze keeps betraying him despite his attempts to hide. It catches on a shop with its doors thrown open to the warm air. A few moments later, he watches a narrow lane disappearing between two houses until we pass it. When we ride beside a fenced pasture, his attention settles on several sheep grazing in the sun.

Each time, something changes in his face. His mouth pulls tight. His eyes linger. His fingers move restlessly over the leather reins until he forces himself to look ahead again.

He isn’t looking at these places like someone returning home.

He’s looking at them like someone saying goodbye.

We continue through the village without speaking. I expect Boone to lead me toward the center of town, but instead, he turns Bramble onto a narrower road near the outskirts, and I follow him.

The shops gradually disappear behind us. Houses become farther apart, and open fields take their place. Tall grass moves in the warm breeze on either side of the road. Wildflowers grow along the edges in uneven patches, and the steady hum of insects replaces the voices from the village behind us.

Boone begins riding more slowly. I don’t ask why. The answer appears ahead of us.

He stops Bramble so abruptly that I have to pull back on my own reins to keep from riding past him. I follow his gaze toward a small house sitting near the edge of the woods.

For a moment, I’m certain this cannot be it.

It’s considerably smaller than I imagined from Boone’s stories. Weather has faded the boards covering the exterior, and one side of the roof sags slightly near the chimney. Several windows stand open to the warm afternoon air. Behind the house is a weathered shed.

The shed.

I look at Boone.

He told me about that shed while sitting in the chair beside my fireplace. I can almost hear his laughter again as he described his father trapped on its roof while an enraged rooster waited below.

My attention returns to the house.

There’s a garden beside it.

The rows are narrow and uneven. Several vegetables grow well enough, but others are thin and struggling. Weeds have pushed between them despite obvious attempts to keep the beds clear.

My garden at home is never this abundant.

I remember Boone saying those words in my greenhouse.

Now I understand.

This is the place he nearly died trying to reach. This small house and struggling garden are what waited at the bottom of the mountain while he stood at my windows and cried. Somewhere inside is the father he spoke about constantly. The man he starved beside and still described with a smile. The man he loved enough to ride into a blizzard for.