Some time ago, Rae’s father had offhandedly told her that unless released inmates had family and friends, they were on their own.

      Guilt flooded her, and she knew this was what her pastor called the touch of the Holy Spirit. Her father’s voice seemed to reach through the confusion. “You must forgive him, Rae.”

      The words added to the ache behind her eyes. Breaking her last promise to her father was something she wanted to do, yet couldn’t.

      With a halfhearted step toward Hunter, she heard herself say, “Why don’t you come in? I’ve had a ton of food dropped off the last few days. You must want a home-cooked meal.”

      He had the most intense gaze, something she hadn’t noticed a decade ago. And if she correctly judged the flare of interest there, he was hungry.

      “Thanks.”

      Once inside, he glanced around curiously.

      “Yes, it’s all the same,” she said, noticing his hesitance. “We didn’t have time to remodel after you…” She stopped, slipping the plain black pumps off her hot, tired feet. “We put all the insurance money into the new workshop.”

      Hunter peered out the back window. “It looks good.”

      Well, that was one thing they agreed upon. The new workshop, sturdy and welcoming, stood as a monument to Robert Benton’s hard work, despite the cancer.

      He’d had that horrible disease for ages. She knew it had started its ravaging years before, despite him blaming various colds for his symptoms. Fresh tears stung her eyes. Lord, why all this suffering? Dad loved You. Yes, it took him all this time to give his life to You, but…

      She grabbed the coffee tin. Thrusting it at Hunter, she muttered, “Can you make a pot? I have to change.” She plucked at the navy skirt she wore. “I borrowed this from my cousin Annie. Do you remember her?”

      “I met her when she came for your father’s birthday party that time, and her husband sneaked beer into the house.”

      Rae walked into the hall. “Yes. Dad sent him home in a taxi.”

      Hunter’s deep voice rolled across the kitchen. “No. I drove Kirk home.”

      “But Dad said…” Stopping in her tracks, she frowned. Ten and a half years was a long time ago. And shortly after that night, Hunter had lit a pile of gas-soaked rags in the shop. She’d forgotten all about the party until this very minute.

      Wait. Hadn’t Dad said something recently about gas-soaked rags? He’d looked deeply concerned, but she hadn’t believed him.

      With pursed lips, she stared across the quiet kitchen at Hunter. He didn’t move, not even to start the coffee she could really use. His eyes remained fixed on her, making heat rush to her face.

      “No, your father didn’t call a taxi, Rae. I drove Kirk home that day.”

      Indignation flared. Hunter had no right to correct her about her father, not on the day she’d laid him in the ground. Not when the very stress of what Hunter had done had killed him.

      “Forget it, Rae. Go get changed.” He turned his attention to the coffeepot, leaving her torn between the urge to tell him off or flee.

      She pivoted and strode up to her bedroom.

      Hot, restorative coffee bubbled and dripped, the soothing sounds and scents dancing up the stairs when she emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later. She found Hunter setting cream and sugar on the table beside the triangle sandwiches and sweet squares she’d brought home from the church hall. A pot on the stove told her he was warming the chicken soup a neighbor had dropped off yesterday.

      “Did you have anything to eat after the funeral?”

      “Yes,” she lied.

      He slanted her a look, taking in her jeans and cotton shirt. “The first thing a person learns in prison is that everyone lies. You get a lot of practice recognizing it.”

      This was ridiculous. There was nothing shameful in being hungry. She sank into a chair. Feeling like a starving animal lured out of its hole by food, she reached over to snatch a sandwich.

      Hunter poured the coffee and then slid the cream and sugar her way. He took his black and hot, she noticed. Well, if he could, she could.

      But after one sip of the strong, scalding brew, she reached for the cream. Then the sugar.

      “The woodworking business is still good?” he asked.

      “Good enough.” She bit her lip at yet another lie.

      His eyebrows shot up. Her grip on her mug tightened. “Why is that a surprise? Dad wasn’t the only person who worked here. I liked carpentry before you…”

      Then, seeing his tight jaw, she questioned the wisdom of letting him into her house. He was, after all, a felon.

      “You did a good job,” he said mildly. “Your father—”

      Anger rose, unbidden. “What about my father? What could you possibly say about him?”

      “Nothing. That’s why I shut up.”

      She couldn’t stop, not after the day she’d had. “You have no right to say anything. I let you come in for a coffee and a bite to eat because you have nowhere to go.”

      She shut her eyes, wanting to grieve alone. Hunter’s appearance had forced to the surface a deathbed promise she hadn’t expected to fulfil, and wasn’t sure she could.

      “Being angry all the time will eat away at you, Rae. It’s like violence. It solves nothing.”

      She peered at him. “And you with the broken nose should know this?”

      “Along with the dislocated shoulder, twisted knee and a nasty scar from my chest to my neck. Yes, I know. Benton told me plenty of times I wouldn’t