Hot Blooded (Wolf Springs Chronicles) - By Nancy Holder Page 0,57

At the coffee house. I think he was in to sign some more of his books or something.” She had no idea what insanity had prompted her to bring it up. Maybe because she hadn’t told Trick she’d met him. And she’d never told her grandfather about the run-in with the two drunk guys.

“That man is crazy. He’s ruining Wolf Springs. Don’t ever go near him or talk to him again.”

They passed the rest of the evening knocking around in the little cabin. Her grandfather finished cleaning his gun and then he read a hunting magazine. Feeling contrite, Katelyn emailed Beau and told him she was sorry she’d been so standoffish, telling him she had “family stuff” and when she’d taken care of it she’d be back to investigating the history of Wolf Springs with him. A small white lie. He’d written back that he was sorry for her troubles, but glad he hadn’t caused them.

When she finally went to bed she couldn’t relax. She lay staring at the skylight, then over at the bust of her mother that Trick had sculpted. There were things of her father’s in the garage. Photographs of him as a little boy, probably. His school papers. But most likely pictures of him and her mom and Katelyn, too. All kinds of things that she’d thought were lost.

Her grandfather had said he’d bring some boxes in for her to go through, told her not to go in there, but Katelyn wanted to look now. Her parents had always laughed on Christmases when she’d forced them to get up at three- and four-o’clock in the morning, unable to wait another second. “So impatient,” her mother had chided her, but her dad had said she was driven.

Maybe if she nosed around just a little, opened a couple of boxes, she’d be able to get to sleep. Her grandfather would understand, right? He’d made the offer. She was just taking him up on it a little sooner than he had intended.

She got up and a minute later, flashlight in hand, she hurried down the little path to the garage and went inside. There was his canoe, and there, the tower of boxes of food, antifreeze, and other supplies he had purchased for the winter. He had his workbench; on it lay more weapons in various stages of disassembly.

And then she faced dozens of boxes — a garage full. Most were cardboard, sealed with packing tape; others had just been folded closed. She ran her flashlight along them and read off labels gracefully written with a black marker: her grandmother’s handwriting, she guessed. Sewing Room. National Geographic. University Files. There were just so many. Sighing, she wandered between two tall stacks, telling herself that if she didn’t find anything in half an hour or so, she’d go back to bed.

Cookbooks. Taxes.

The life of an elderly married couple. Her parents would never have such a life. She wondered if she would, herself.

She kept poking around through dust and cobwebs, getting a little grossed out. She really shouldn’t be doing this. Then the beam of the flashlight passed over a single word:

Sean.

Her heart skipped a beat. She stood in front of the box and placed her hand over her father’s name. Then she lifted the boxes from on top of it and set them on the floor.

The packing tape along the seam was yellowed and dried up, so that it wasn’t really holding the box together. Katelyn picked at it with her fingernail, wincing guiltily when the brittle tape crumpled away. Slowly, methodically, she peeled it off, keeping the strip intact as best as possible so she could at least position it back over the seam. Then, with a deep breath, she opened it.

Sheets of gritty tissue paper made crumpling noises as she pushed them out of her way, revealing a carefully folded blue and white crocheted baby blanket. Her heart tugged as she unfolded it and put it against her face. It was as soft as rabbit fur but she smelled no trace of anything but dust.

She shook it out, refolded it reverently, and held it against her chest. There were more baby clothes inside — little shirts and booties. And photographs of her dad as a baby. She saw her own light blue eyes staring back at her. Her own small mouth, pulling a smile.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

She went through the box slowly, gently, unfolding each item, admiring it, refolding it. Then, finally, knowing it was getting