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someone else to pound on, because my emotional punching bag has been beaten to death. I’m going home. Please, do us all a favor and don’t come calling. I cooperated during your little intervention, but that is over. I need my privacy now.”

With that, she rushed from the kitchen, but not before she heard Sarah say, “Wow. She really let loose her inner bitch, didn’t she?”

Sage was breathing as if she’d run a mile as she paused at the front door to pull on her coat. Her chest hurt. Her throat was tight. Pressure built behind her dry eyes.

“Sage?” Celeste Blessing came into the hallway outside the kitchen.

“No, Celeste. Please. I can’t. I just can’t.”

Celeste linked her fingers in front of her. “It’s okay, dear. You’ll be okay. I’m praying for you.”

Oh, God. Sage rushed out into the cold, zipping her coat and yanking on her hat and gloves as she hurried up the street. She went straight to her Jeep, thankful that before leaving the gallery she’d packed it with the art supplies she’d need during the remodel. She shoved the key into the ignition, started the engine, and put the car into gear before allowing it to properly warm up.

She kept her eyes straight ahead as she drove faster than was truly safe. Her breaths continued to come in shallow pants. The pressure behind her eyes built and built and built.

Shame swirled inside her. Shame and hate. She hated herself. Hated her actions. Her cowardice. She wanted to lie down and die. She should have died. It all came back to that. She should be dead.

Like everyone else.

She reached the turn onto the point in under five minutes. As she pulled onto the road that led to her cottage, she realized she was whimpering aloud. She arrived at the gate. Her cottage was dark, empty, and cold, while next door lights blazed and smoke rose from the chimney. Without conscious thought, she turned into the neighbor’s drive, parked behind Colt Rafferty’s rental, and literally ran toward his front porch.

He opened the door as she approached. “Sage? Honey? What happened? What’s wrong?”

She simply stood there. Silent and aching and desperate. Beseeching. Searching for sanctuary. Looking for a soft place to fall.

“Oh, baby.” He scooped her up into his arms and carried her over toward the fireplace and an old wooden rocker. He sat with her on his lap, cuddled her close, and rocked her as he murmured against her ear. “It’s okay, Cinnamon. I have you. You’re safe. Let it go, honey. You can let it all go.”

So she did.

NINE

Since his job often brought him into contact with people in the midst of horrific circumstances, Colt was familiar with tears that poured from the soul. They were different from those that flowed from the heart or those from the part of the brain that registered physical pain. Soul tears had a unique depth, a singular intensity, that signaled pain that almost couldn’t be borne. Soul tears were those that a person saved for the big things and shed on rare occasions.

The first time he’d seen Sage Anderson cry, she’d offered up soul tears. Here again, the same.

His own heart ached a little for her as he held her. His interest in the mystery of her increased. What was the genesis of her pain?

Because he was a man who tried never to overlook any possibility when attempting to solve a puzzle, he entertained the notion that she might have him fooled. Had he read her wrong? Maybe she was no more than a bubbleheaded drama queen who screamed over a kiss and lost it over something no more serious than a parking ticket. After all, the woman painted fairies for a living.

Following a moment’s consideration, he shook his head. It simply didn’t ring true. His instincts were telling him that this woman in his arms carried wounds as deep and as painful as any borne by those he’d encountered through his work.

“Attagirl,” he murmured. She remained oblivious while he eased her out of her coat. “You get rid of all that poison. Just wash it away.”

Her fist held the flannel of his shirt clenched in a tight grip. Her entire body trembled and shuddered. Little kitten mewls of pain escaped her. She was pitiful to behold, a strong woman brought low. He cuddled her a bit more tightly against himself and started to speak.

“I grew up in a midsized town in Texas about an hour from Houston. When I was