Eight
Jeremiah stepped inside to pull his fleece on while the sausage cooked on the Coleman stove out on the porch. In a sharp contrast to last night’s blissful warmth, it was downright chilly this morning, and a fine rain drifted from the sullen gray sky, dampening the world and dimming the vibrant colors of summer. It was cold enough that he could see his breath. Heather lingered in bed, staring blankly out the window. The far-off look in her eyes made his chest tighten.
“You all right?” he asked.
She nodded but didn’t look at him.
Sighing, he turned to the wood stove to stoke the fire—good thing he’d cleaned the flue pipe when he’d moved in—and left the cozy warmth of the cabin to turn the sausage and scramble eggs on the second burner.
He couldn’t wrap his head around it.
Not tha
