The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(10)

Maybe his folks thought this tactic would also maintain the family name’s prominence. Maybe they were right. But the hypocrisy of it all troubled Logan. His parents publicly supported the arts to further the Prescott name, but privately they’d never supported or praised his career choices. Whatever.

He strolled through the side door and pantry into the kitchen. Peyton was heating a can of soup at the stove. Sunlight slanted through the windows, casting a ghostly aura around her thickening frame. Her skin had lost its pretty peach hue months ago, giving way to a ruddy complexion courtesy of her TCHP cocktail of docetaxel, carboplatin, and trastuzumab plus pertuzumab. Weight gain had been another unwelcome side effect of those drugs.

She adjusted her head scarf when he entered the room. “Hi.”

He dropped his bags on the counter, irritated that neither of his parents was tending to her. She’d just been released from the hospital a week ago following her double mastectomy. She was still bound in dressings and on Vicodin, and a visiting nurse stopped by daily to check on her. In two days, they had an appointment at the hospital and hoped the bandages and drains would be removed. “Sit. Let me take care of that for you.”

He took the spoon from her hand and guided her to a stool, then kissed her head and returned to the stove.

“How are Ryan and Steffi?” she asked.

“Great. Steffi asked when you’d be up for visitors.” He risked a glimpse of her reaction. She winced, as he expected.

“Not yet.”

Logan reached for a deep bowl and ladled some soup. He set it in front of her with a spoon, then took a seat beside her. “You can’t hide forever.”

Peyton reflexively tugged her robe across her flattened chest before sipping from her spoon. She wouldn’t undergo reconstructive surgery until she’d finished the rest of her treatment protocol, which would be at least another few months from now. Even that would require uncomfortable expanders and other things he’d rather not think about.

He looked away, knowing how self-conscious she’d become about her loss of hair and breasts, her skin texture, brittle nails, and a host of other side effects she’d suffered.

She might mourn the temporary loss of her beauty, but what he’d always loved best and now missed most was her spirit. She’d glowed with a spark born of daring and humor. More than anything else, he wanted to see her old smile return and, with it, the gleam in her eye when she had a wonderful, terrible idea for the two of them.

“I’m not ready.”

He covered her free hand. “Sis, it’s time. You wanted to return to this small town, so you can’t keep tucked away in this house.”

She strained to reach up and grab a handful of his hair, pulling it into a short ponytail at the base of his neck, then let it fall. “Easy for you to say.”

Heat rose up his neck and cheeks. He couldn’t be sure he’d face his own mortality as well as she had. She’d fought bravely. Continued working to the best of her ability, on the days when she could drag herself from bed or away from the toilet. She’d been determined to survive. The hardest part should be behind her—in his mind anyway—but it seemed that facing the world without the armor of her beauty was as big a challenge as battling the cancer itself.

“Did you see anyone else while you were out?” she asked.

He thought of Claire’s bitter words, and then of her falling into the drift and showering herself with a puff of snow.

Peyton raised a barely there eyebrow. “What’s with that look?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Liar.” She pushed the half-eaten bowl aside.

“Eat more.” He set the bowl back in front of her. “You need your strength.”

She sighed and picked up the spoon as if it weighed twenty pounds. “Tell me what made you frown.”

Well, there’d be no hiding from Claire McKenna in Sanctuary Sound. Everyone here knew and loved her. Peyton and he were bound to keep running into her as long as they remained in town.

“Claire was at Ryan’s house when I arrived.” He settled his chin on his fist. “She’s . . . not the Claire I remember.”

Peyton idly stirred her spoon in the bowl. “I hate that I hurt her, and that my behavior changed her.”

Logan covered her hand again, because the sound of the spoon against the bowl frayed his nerves. “You’ve made mistakes, but Claire is choosing to hang on to hate and anger. That’s on her.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “You’re a good brother.”

“Thanks.” He slung his arm around her shoulders. “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

She met his gaze, then hers flicked to his hair, and she wound a hank around one finger. “Wish you could give me all of this.”

“My hair really gets to you?”

She shrugged. “You’ve always had better hair than me, but now . . .”

Their father strode into the kitchen, a newspaper tucked under his arm, interrupting the private moment. If Logan hadn’t been so absorbed by his concern for Peyton, he surely would have recognized the tingles climbing up his neck as the warning sign of his dad’s approach. Honestly, it was hard to miss.

At six feet two, his father looked like a Nordic god. Broad shoulders, carved cheekbones, and a glacial expression in those eyes that was colder than their iceberg-blue color. Although his blond hair had started to turn silver in spots, relentless exercise kept him trim at sixty-two. Relentless—a descriptor that could be ascribed to many of his father’s attributes.