Let the scissors cut.
Let the patch go.
Because the final promise had never been:
Keep this safe.
It had been:
Let her choose.
And for the rest of Lucy Hale’s life, whenever anyone asked what road she ultimately chose, she never answered with Montana, motorcycles, veterinary medicine, marriage, family, or any destination visible on a map.
She usually touched the faded blue stitches on her father’s patch and smiled.
Then she said:
“My own.”
For the first several miles after they left the Iron Saints’ workshop, nobody spoke.
Mara sat in the passenger seat of Colt’s truck with Lucy pressed against her side. The little girl had Owen’s faded patch resting flat across both palms as though it were something alive and easily frightened. The four birthday letters she was already old enough to open were tucked inside her mother’s purse. The child-sized leather vest lay folded on the seat between them.
Hammer sat alone in the back.
He had refused the front even after Colt offered it.
Maybe because he understood there were distances that should not be crossed simply because a secret had finally been exposed.
Outside the windows, Flagstaff passed in pieces.
Pines.
Low buildings.
Gas stations.
A strip mall.
The dry shoulders of the road.
Ordinary things.
Lucy kept looking down at the crooked blue stitches in the corner of her father’s patch.
Every few minutes, she rubbed one with the pad of her thumb.
Finally she whispered:
“They’re ugly.”
Mara looked down.
“What?”
“The stitches.”
For a moment, Mara did not understand.
Then she saw where Lucy was touching.
A strange little smile passed across her face.
“You were four.”
“I thought I was good.”
“You thought you were good at everything when you were four.”
Lucy frowned.
“I’m good at things now.”
“I know.”
Hammer’s voice came quietly from the back seat.
“Your dad called them the strongest stitches in Arizona.”
Lucy turned around.
“That’s not true.”
“No.”
Hammer almost smiled.
“He lied a lot about your sewing.”
Lucy looked offended.
Mara laughed.
It escaped before she could stop it.
A real laugh.
Small.
Cracked by grief.
But real.
Everyone in the truck heard it.
Mara seemed almost embarrassed.
She looked out the passenger window.
Lucy leaned closer.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“Are you mad at Daddy?”
The question changed the air.
Colt glanced toward Mara and immediately returned his eyes to the road.
Hammer looked away.
Mara was silent for a long time.