Man of Honor (Battle Scars #3) - Diana Gardin Page 0,83

her.

Pushing open her door, I see she’s still, lying under the blankets. She looks small, frail, something Ms. Ebbie’s never been.

Her head turns toward me as I pull a chair beside the bed.

I reach for her wrinkled hand and clutch it.

“You look good, Drake.” She coughs.

Her words are slightly slurred, the wrinkled skin on one side of her face drooping slightly.

“Thanks. There’s a girl back in Lone Sands who has something to do with that.”

Ms. Ebbie beams up at me. “I’m glad to hear it, boy. A good man like you needs a good woman in his life. Now, tell me what was in the envelope in that box.”

I arch one eyebrow. “How’d you know I opened the box?”

She pshaws. “Can see the confusion all over your face.”

“What am I supposed to do now, Ms. Ebbie?” I’m practically begging her to solve this problem for me.

“There was some talk, years ago.” Ms. Ebbie coughs again. “There was a woman who was close with your mother while she was pregnant. They’d been friends since grade school. But after your ma fell apart, this girl felt she had to step away. I think if you go see her, she’ll have a story to tell ya.”

I glance up. “What’s her name?”

“Sheridan. Sandy Sheridan. And she lives over on Oak.”

The turquoise blue front door creaks open. A slight, mocha-skinned woman stares out at me. Her long black hair is swept up into a ponytail, and impossibly dark eyes stare out at me.

“Can I help you?” She leans against the jamb. Her hand grips the edge of the door, ready to slam it shut against the towering, muscled, tattooed stranger standing on her doorstep.

“Ms. Sheridan? Sandy Sheridan?” I try to keep my tone gentle so I don’t scare her.

Her eyes narrow anyway. Taking a step back, she prepares to close her door. “Do I know you?”

Shaking my head, I try to appear as unintimidating as possible. I lower my voice, adopting a gentler tone. But I can’t hide my gruffness. It’s a part of me. “My name is Drake Sullivan. Miranda Sullivan was my mother, and Ms. Ebbie told me you used to know her.”

Her eyes widen, and she glances behind me. Her house is on the very edge of town, explaining why I never ran into her. She’s completely unfamiliar to me.

Stepping back from the door, she gestures inside the house. “Come in.”

She leads me into a casual sitting room just off the foyer. A striped sofa takes up much of one wall.

“Please,” she says without a smile. “Have a seat, Drake.”

I do, folding my hands in my lap and scanning the room.

Sandy sits down across from me, in an adjacent armchair. She mimics my posture, leaning forward. She searches my face. When recognition washes over her features, I sit up straighter.

“You have her eyes, you know? They used to be alert and clear, seeing everything. Just the way yours are now.” Sandy’s voice is full of the memories showing up as moving pictures inside her head. She loved my mom, at least at one time. It’s there in her eyes.

“You knew her well?” I try to keep the ball of emotion at bay, but damn this is hard. I’ve buried feelings about my mother for so many years that now they’re rushing to the surface, tiny air bubbles of emotions that I can’t ignore.

Sandy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “We were best friends in high school. Before that, even. Can you tell me why you’re here? Is there something you want to know?”

I allow the silence to stretch between us before I run both hands over my face. Sighing, I nod. “Yeah. My mom kept this photo in a box in her closet. It’s her when she was pregnant with me. But it’s not Timothy Sullivan, who I thought was my father, in the picture with her. Do you have any idea who that man could have been?”

Her expression doesn’t change, and I know she was expecting the question. She’s not surprised by it, nor does she have to sift through her memory to find the answer. She holds up one finger, leaving the room. I stand up and begin to pace. My body can’t stay still; it’s full of nervous energy that forces me to move. When Sandy returns, she startles when she finds me prowling her living room like a caged panther.

Moving back to my seat, I incline my head toward the large book in her arms. “What’s

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