Reckless

Why did I do it?

Why did I let him go?

I made a terrible, terrible mistake. And now I can never put it right.

It’s too late.

By the time the plane landed in Denver, Jeff had no more tears to cry. He wasn’t relieved so much as spent, emotionally and physically emptied. On the long drive up into the mountains, he thought about Tracy. If the pain was this bad for him, what must it be like for her? Jeff had lost the idea of a son, the hope for a relationship. Tracy had lost the reality. Nick was the child she’d longed for all her life. The child she believed she would never have. She had carried him and given birth to him and loved him every day of his life with the fierce passion of a lioness protecting her cub. Even her own body must remind her of Nick. For Tracy there could be no escaping the grief, no end to the tears.

With a loss that great, Jeff thought, suicide must seem like a pretty rational option. Perhaps the only rational option.

Panic swept through him as he recalled Tracy’s strange, empty voice on the line.

“There was an accident. Blake died at the scene. Nick died the next morning from his injuries. I’m sorry.”

She spoke like she wasn’t there. Like she’d already checked out.

Jeff drove faster. When he finally reached the ranch he was hugely relieved to see lights on at the house and two cars parked outside. People were moving around inside, walking past the windows.

Good. Tracy has friends, people who knew she mustn’t be left alone.

Jeff wondered briefly how he was going to explain himself to those friends—who should he say he was?—but he soon dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter now. He would see Tracy, he would hold her, they would cry together. After that . . .

Jeff couldn’t think about after that.

He ran up the steps to the front porch and was about to knock on the door when he realized it was already open.

“Hello?” He stepped inside. Half-packed crates littered the entryway. The table where Jeff had played cards with Nick was upside down, its legs swaddled in bubble wrap. An officious-looking woman with an iPad hanging around her neck on a string was taking paintings down from the walls.

“What’s going on?” Jeff demanded. “Who are you?”

“Karen Cody. Prudential Real Estate.” She was about to scowl, until she noticed how attractive the dark-haired man was. His eyes looked tired, and he was graying at the temples, but the firm jaw, sensuous mouth and toned athlete’s physique all more than made up for any shortcomings. Karen fluttered her false eyelashes. “May I help you?”

“Where’s Tracy?”

“Mrs. Schmidt is on the East Coast right now.” The Realtor chose to ignore Jeff’s rude tone.

“Where?”

“I understand she’s staying with relatives.”

Jeff thought, Tracy doesn’t have any relatives. Not living anyway.

“Such a tragedy.” Karen shook her head sadly. “Are you a . . . close friend?”

Jeff didn’t answer. Instead he ran upstairs, desperately opening and closing doors, as if Tracy might suddenly materialize. At last, despondent, he returned to where the Realtor was standing.

“Did she say when she’d be back?”

Karen Cody gave the handsome man a pitying look.

“I’m afraid she won’t be. She’s put the house up for sale. T

hat’s why we’re here.” Karen Cody gestured to the crates around her.

“But . . . wh—what about the funeral?” stammered Jeff.

“There’s a memorial for Mr. Carter on Wednesday. I believe Nicholas’s remains were already cremated.”