The hard face softened. Perrie almost thought she saw his cheeks color, though it could have been the fire’s glow.
“I’m not quite finished carving, and it needs to be sanded.”
“Oh.” Davey’s voice turned small. He lifted his gaze, his expression crafty. “I could just watch it for you tonight, until you’re ready to work on it some more.”
Then she heard a sound she never expected to know: Mitch’s laughter. Rusty, as if it had fallen into disrepair—but still a laugh, for all its brevity and disuse.
A large hand ruffled her son’s tousled hair. “Good idea. You keep him warm tonight, and I’ll work on him more later.”
“All right!” Davey picked up the bear, cradling it carefully in his hands for a few slow, measured steps. Then the real Davey returned as he raced across the floor, juggling it in his fingers. “Look, Mom! Mitch made this for me.”
Perrie glanced at the wooden figure, just the right size to fit in Davey’s hand. For a moment, her heart actually hurt in the rush of sorrow for all Davey deserved and had never had. For the hard, lonely man who had a soft spot for her son.
For how it had felt here tonight, the embodiment of her dreams of what family life should be, quiet, simple moments filled with affection. Not between her and Mitch, of course. But for this span of hours, Davey had had a sample of the way she’d always believed a child deserved to be raised. Under the protection of a strong, caring man, wrapped in a mother’s love.
But it was only an illusion. Fighting past too many feelings, Perrie clenched her hands and peered down into Davey’s hands.
It was exquisite.
She glanced up in surprise. “You’re very talented.”
He shrugged. “Just something to pass the time.”
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“My grandfather taught me. And my dad used to do it in the evenings when the family gathered. He wasn’t much for sitting still, but we liked to hear my mother read stories.” Then he fell silent, his face darkening with memories that would probably explain a lot of who he was.
She wanted to ask. It was the deepest glimpse yet, a tiny fragment of who he was, where he’d been. But she could already see him drawing away into himself. And she didn’t want him asking her questions, either.
She gave him an out. “You’ve obviously practiced,” she answered. “It’s beautiful.” She turned to her son. “Be very careful with it, Davey.”
“I will.” Then he darted across the floor again, clutching the bear tightly while he embraced Mitch once more. “Thanks, Mitch.”
The big man patted his back, nodding but saying nothing.
Perrie wished she could see the eyes looking fixedly into the fire.
Slowly, Mitch drew away.
She held out her hand to her child. “Okay. Time for bed now.”
Davey didn’t even murmur a protest. At the doorway, he stopped and turned. “Mitch?”
The dark head turned, his eyes unreadable. “What?”
“I’ll take good care of him.”
Mitch’s jaw flexed. “I know you will.” Then he turned back to the fire, visibly drawing within himself again.
For the fortieth time since they’d left the room, Mitch fought the urge to grab his coat and head outside, regardless of the weather.
He wasn’t made for this, staying so long in one place. He was used to being active, to the constant vigilance required to lead others into the wilderness, to the attention to detail such trips required.
For a while tonight, he’d felt almost peaceful. Hands busy carving, he’d listened to the gentle play between Perrie and her child, to the soft laughter, the ease between them. Something inside him had begun to unfurl, something that had been twisted tight for so long that he’d quit noticing its tension.
Now he felt—hell, what did he feel? Itchy…uneasy. Angry.
Touched. Warmed by the boy’s delight.
But crowded. Unable to figure out how this could end right, without hurting Davey.
He shoved to his feet, cursing ripely. He had no business caring about the boy. He lived alone, would die alone. The child would leave, would grow up, would forget all about these days in the mountains. Would forget him, too.
And the knowledge sank like a stone into the deep empty well inside him. He’d been forgotten before.
Where was his brother now? Did Boone ever think about him? Had his father ever softened?
No reason why he should. And no sense thinking about a life that was gone forever.
It was them, the woman and the child—they made him wonder. Made him remember. He would be fine when they left.
If the damn snow would ever stop. She wasn’t too far from being ready to travel.