“When the agency described what had happened to him . . . When we had to read through pages and pages of notes detailing the abuse he’d gone through . . .” Rose’s voice trembled, but she cleared her throat and continued, “Neil and I couldn’t not adopt him. We knew the risks. A young boy abused in the ways he had been had a high likelihood of becoming an extremely troubled young man. But you know what we said?” She chuckled and smiled down at the picture. “We told them to stick their ‘likelihoods’ where the sun doesn’t shine and asked to take our son home.”

I smiled with her and flipped the page. “And you all lived happily ever after.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, taking a sip of her tea, “but we didn’t underestimate the power of a stable home and a loving family. We gave him that, and the rest was up to him.”

The next page was his first day of kindergarten. Well, homeschool kindergarten, but he still had a backpack and a new pair of boots, and he posed in front of the Walkers’ front door. His eyes were still sad, but he wore a smile.

The photo on the next page was Jesse up on a horse, maybe a couple years older. He had on a hat three sizes too big for him. He had another smile on his face, but in that one, his eyes matched his smile.

“He got better,” I stated, flipping to the next page. “You and Neil fixed him.”

“It took a lot of time and even more hard work, but yes, Jesse got better,” Rose said, grabbing another album. “But he fixed himself. We gave him a hand up, but the only person who could fix Jesse was Jesse.”

When her eyes shifted back to me, they softened. She might as well have just said The only person who could fix Rowen was Rowen.

A few pages later, I found a picture of the Jesse I knew. He was a few years younger, but he wore the same white tee, painted-on jeans, light hat, and brown boots. It was the first photo I’d seen where he’d been smiling big enough to notice his dimples. My heart hurt when I stared at that picture long enough.

I started to cry again.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Rose grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.

“My mom hates me, Rose,” I said, wiping away the tears. “My mom brought that man back into her life. Back into my life. How could anyone who loved someone do that to them?”

“Your mother doesn’t hate you. She just has a very poor way of showing her love.” Rose scooted closer so she could wrap her arm around me. “I couldn’t tell you what drew your mom and me together way back when. She was a lot like she is today, and I was a lot like I am today. But there was a chemistry between us. She never opened up to me, but I always sensed she’d lived a hard life. One she was running away from.”

I grabbed my cup of tea and took a sip. I’d never known my grandparents. I’d never known any family other than my mom. I’d also guessed there must have been a lot of bad blood between them because I’d never once received a birthday card from my own grandparents. It was all I’d ever known though, so I’d never given it a lot of thought.

Could it be I didn’t know a single blood relative, including my own father for crying out loud, because mom had pushed away everyone? The same way she’d pushed me away as much as a parent could an underage child in their home?

While I couldn’t be certain, it seemed a very possible explanation.

“So what does that mean?” I said, taking another sip before setting my cup back down. “I forgive and forget?”

Rose shook her head. “No, Rowen. It means you let go.” She brushed my hair behind my ear in a motherly way. “Sometimes we just have to cut off the dead branches in our life. Sometimes that’s the only way we can keep the tree alive. It’s hard and it hurts, but it’s what’s best.” She paused to take a breath. “Don’t let a dying branch take you down with it. Maybe one day she’ll change, but don’t go down with her, Rowen.”

“But she’s kind of taking me down no matter what I do,” I said, unable to look away from Jesse’s picture. “Art school was my ticket out of there. But now . . . the only place I have to go at the end of summer is back home. I tried following her rules this summer. I tried so hard to please her. But none of it mattered. I doubt she was even planning on paying my way through art school in the first place.”

“Maybe she was, and maybe she wasn’t, but don’t let your mom decide your future.”

I exhaled. “Kind of hard not to in this case.” Another clap of thunder rocked the house. The lights flickered. “Art school’s kind of expensive, and money isn’t something I have a lot of.”

“Have you ever thought about starting out at a community college with a good art program? Then transferring to a dedicated art school later?” Rose poured herself another cup of tea and topped mine off.

“Not really,” I said. “But at this point, I’m willing to consider any and all options that have me doing something related to art. Unless it involves paint-by-numbers. Because that’s the opposite of art.”

Rose fought a losing battle to keep her smile contained. “Here’s the way I see it. You’ll have earned enough money this summer to pay for a year’s tuition at a community college. If you want to come back next summer, we’d be happy to have you, and you could save enough for the following year.” I wasn’t sure if what I heard was real. Was the answer to my college dilemma so easily solved? “After that, you can apply for financial aid and scholarships and get into whatever art school you want. Doing it on your own, without being dependent on your mother.”

“I was never coming here to work for pay, Rose. Mom sent me here so I could prove to her I could work hard and walk a line.” The truck ride to Willow Springs, when Jesse played his favorite CD, popped to mind. Mr. Cash and his lyrics took on a very personal meaning.

“That may have been what your mom intended, but that’s certainly never what Neil and I intended. You’ve worked hard this summer, Rowen. You’ve been an asset to us, sweetie, not a liability.” Rose thumbed through the album in her lap. “I was just telling Neil I don’t know what I’m going to do when you leave us for school in a few weeks.”

A lot of information was coming at me. “You’re going to pay me?” I asked, feeling yet another lump form in my throat.

“That is what one does in exchange for work, Rowen.” She chuckled and rumpled my hair. “In the morning, we can start researching some community colleges with good art programs and late enrollment deadlines. Then we’ll get you signed up.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was speechless, and I was grateful, and I was overwhelmed. Art school on my own, paying my own way, dependent on no one but me.

It sounded wonderful. Too good to be true.

Then something jumped to mind, and I realized it was too good to be true.

“What about Jesse?” I’d pushed him away just a few hours ago, I’d turned and run away from him, but he was the first thing I thought about when I considered leaving Willow Springs.

Rose opened the album in her lap to the last page. I took a double take.

It was Jesse and me, sitting in one of the porch swings. His arm was draped over my shoulders like it always was when we were together, and my arm was wound around his stomach. He was looking down at me and I was looking up at him and we were just . . . grinning at each other. Like we were the happiest fools in the whole world.

That was why I’d needed a double take. I wasn’t used to the grinning, happy girl that had been caught on film. That wasn’t me.

Yet it was. The photo was all the evidence I needed to know I could change, like Jesse had. I could move on. I could be happy. I could move on and be happy . . . with him.

You know all those people who talk about epiphanies and life-changing revelations? Yeah, I’d been positive every last one of them was full of shit up until right then.

My mind was in that state between boggled and blown when a loud rapping sounded at the front door.

Rose’s eyebrows came together. “What in the world?” She rose and headed for the door. I rushed after her because part of me was worried my mom and Pierce were back for round two.

Rose glanced through the peephole before unlocking and swinging the door open.

“Justin,” she said, motioning him inside, “what’s the matter?” I’d seen some wet and dirty cowboys that summer, but not once had I seen one close to what Justin looked like. He was more mud than man.

“Sorry to burst in on you in the middle of the night, ma’am,” he said, sliding his hat off and making sure he stayed on the door mat. “But there’s been an accident.” Justin glanced my way for a brief moment. “It’s Jesse. He was out scouting the ridge, but when we all met back in the middle, Sunny showed up. Jesse wasn’t on him.”

I half gasped, half whimpered. Rose came up beside me and tried putting on a brave face. “Did he . . . do you think he might have fallen over the ridge?” Her voice wavered in places.

“We don’t know, ma’am,” Justin replied. “Neil and the rest of the boys are out searching for him right now, but he wanted me to let you know so you were . . . prepared for however we find him.”

I couldn’t decide if I was closer to passing out or having a heart attack. Either seemed probable.

“Listen here, Justin,” Rose said, stepping forward with me in tow. “My boy is strong and he knows this land like the back of his hand. You will find him and we’ll attend to whatever wounds he may have inflicted when you bring my boy back home. Bring. Him. Home.” It was the closest I’d seen Rose to breaking, the weakest I’d ever seen her. “Do you understand me?”

“We will, Rose,” he said, meeting her eyes. “We will.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Neil asked me to grab one of the big first aid kits and some flares. Could you help me with that?”

“Of course. Come with me.” Rose turned and rushed into the kitchen. “And don’t worry about tracking in mud. Now’s no time to be worried about dirtying the floors.”

I put my hand out as Justin passed me. “Do you know where he is?”

“We know about where he is,” he said. “The trouble with that ridge is that the trail’s so narrow, if your horse takes one wrong step, you’re free falling down a hundred feet of rock face. Jesse’s a good rider and has traveled that ridge hundreds of times, but the rain’s coming down so hard you can barely see more than ten feet in front of you out there, and the mud’s up to our horses’s knees in some places.”

“Has anyone taken the ridge to look for him?” I stopped him again when he tried to pass.

“At night? In this weather? No, it’s suicide unless you’re Jesse Walker. Then it’s just very, very dangerous.”

“You’re just going to leave him there? What if he’s hurt? What if he’s dying? Someone has to go look for him!” I felt frantic knowing he was out there somewhere, possibly injured, and I couldn’t get to him.