Logan Airport is blanketed in several feet of snow and soot after a storm blew in the other night. Boston in November. It’ll get worse before it gets better.

All around me, the Thanksgiving decorations hanging in the terminal stand garish next to the rage and disbelief churning in my heart. I still can’t fully wrap my head around what happened that night.

After playing phone tag with the police department, I finally spoke briefly with a deputy who explained that my brother’s truck got caught in a low water crossing during a torrential thunderstorm. His vehicle slid down an embankment and flipped over, trapping him and his family in a flooded creek bed.

My vision blurs as I stare out the massive windows.

“Do those directions make sense?” The Southern drawl in my ear snaps me out of my haze, and I readjust the phone against my shoulder. The woman repeats the words, but I can’t process what she’s saying. It’s like I woke up the other morning and nothing in my life makes sense any more.

Taking a deep breath, I try to pay attention. This is the first phone call Katherine and I have had that hasn’t been completely garbled with static. I’m lucky to get one bar of signal on my phone here.

I clear my throat. “Can you do me a favor? Can you text me directions to the farm?”

She sighs. “Sure. No problem. See ya soon.”

“Yup. Thanks.”

I should be nicer to that woman. Katherine, Melissa’s friend, has been keeping an eye on the property since we got the news three days ago. I booked the first flight out, but weather delays have bumped my departure twice. Needless to say, sleeping upright on a hard chair for the last few nights at Logan has put me in a peachy mood.

When I step off the plane in Austin five hours later, I take the used Harley FXR for sale across the street from Hertz as a sign. Granted, it needs a lot of work, but I know a good thing when I see it. And since I sold my bike six months ago for twice what I paid after making some repairs, I’m sure I’ll be able to get my money back if I need to sell this one. Besides, I’d rather ride this than rent a car for God knows how long.

Forty-five minutes and two grand later, she’s mine.

Dropping this kind of money on a bike is the most irresponsible thing I’ve done in ages. But sitting on the worn leather and gripping the handlebars is the only thing that’s made me feel I can keep my shit together. I’m hoping a few long rides will help me clear my head and figure out how the hell to handle everything that needs to be done down here. Fortunately, I packed light, and my belongings fit on the rusty luggage rack that’s mounted on the back.

Riding with the sun setting along the horizon, with the smell of cedar thick in the air, helps me feel a little more grounded. That is, until I turn down a dirt road and find myself staring at the little farm house. A dirty sign stands off to the side. Lovelace Farm.

The house is modest, a white one-story ranch with a wide front porch. In the dusk, it glows, with warm lights shimmering from one window. But the rest of the house is dark, and it’s that darkness that gives me chills.

“I’m sorry, brother. You had a beautiful dream.” I idle in the driveway while heat burns my eyes. Rolling hills with row after row of small hedges surround the house. A broken swing sways beneath the branches of a giant oak off to the side.

It’s so peaceful here. So different from the chaotic streets of Boston. At the same time, though, it’s eerie, almost like I can sense my brother. That’s my biggest regret. That I didn’t visit him. That I didn’t take the time to meet his wife and daughter and see their little farm.

That I didn’t call him back that night.

I just was so pissed at him for not returning to Boston and helping our parents. But now, it’s painfully obvious how wrong I’ve been. And somehow, I need to make it right.

Pulling closer to the house, I turn off the engine. I’m taking off my crappy helmet when the front door flies open and a girl stalks out. Her long chestnut hair blows in the wind, barely masking the scowl on her pretty face.

“If you’re looking for the Lone Star biker bar, it’s about a half mile back that way.” Her words are twangy, a little like Reese Witherspoon in Walk the Line.

She points to the left before she pushes her black-rimmed glasses up her nose. God, she’s cute with these big eyes and quirky frown. What does her t-shirt say? I squint, trying to read the words. Frack Off is written in big black letters across her t-shirt that peeks out from her hoodie.

When my eyes reach her face, she looks more pissed. “Do me a favor. When you leave, turn that way down the drive or you’ll wake the baby.” She nods toward the circular drive I just came down before she freezes and cocks her head. The sound of a baby crying breaks the silence.

“Dang it!” She turns on her heel and is halfway through the door when I call out to her.

“Sorry about waking the baby, but I’m looking for Katherine.” She stops mid-stride, and I motion toward the house. “Is she here?”

She turns back to me, her eyes widening. “And you are?”

“Brady.” I swing my leg over the bike and step closer. “Cal’s brother.”

Her eyes widen. “I… You…” She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry! Yes, I’ve been expecting you.” Big hazel eyes stare back from behind her glasses, which she pushes up her pert little nose. Did I mention she’s cute? Mentally, I slap myself for ogling somebody’s babysitter. Clearly, she’s helping out Katherine.

“Give me one sec.” She darts into the house but leaves the front door wide open. I stand on the porch and kick off the mud from my boots. When she returns, she’s holding a chunky little bundle who has one hell of a set of lungs on him. Or her. I can’t tell from this angle.

The girl winces, now clearly going deaf from the little wailer howling in her ear, and holds out her hand. “I’m Katherine.”

It’s my turn to be shocked. Who the hell put a teenager in charge of the farm? She can’t be older than eighteen. I look at her hand a second too long because she starts to frown again.

“Sorry.” I reach out, surprised that her grasp is firm. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m Brady Shepherd, Cal’s brother.”

She nods, still frowning. “You don’t look anything like him. It caught me off guard. He was an accountant, and you…” Her eyes dart to the Harley behind me. “You’re obviously not.”

I want to smile. Cal would be amused someone is finally taking him seriously as a number cruncher.

“No, you’re right about that. I’m definitely not an accountant.”

We stand, staring at each other. She bites her plump bottom lip, and my eyebrows lift. “Can I come in?”

She blows her bangs out of her face. “Yes, of course. Please.” She waves me in behind her.

The living room looks worn in but comfortable with a floral couch and an overstuffed recliner. Knick-knacks dot the bookshelf, and the hardwood floors look well traveled but clean. But what catches my attention is how good everything smells. Fresh, like clean laundry and fruit.

She motions toward the couch. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks.” I feel bad asking her for anything with that screaming baby in her arms.

I sit on the edge of the couch, not wanting to get it dirty. I should’ve kicked my boots off, but it feels weird to do that in another person’s house.

Katherine sits in the recliner near me and coos in her daughter’s ear. Finally the little hellraiser calms down.

She glances up at me, looking relieved, and asks, “Do you want to hold her?”

I stare at her.

This is… weird. Why does this girl want me to hold her baby? Shit, she’s young to be a mother. “No, you probably don’t want me holding her. I have dirt from about two counties on me.” I start to shift uncomfortably when she stills.

“You don’t want to hold her?” she asks, incredulous.

That’s when she turns the baby toward me, and I get a good look at the child for the first time. Familiar blue eyes blink back… and in that instant, my whole world stops, tilts, and comes barreling off its axis.

What the hell? My mouth goes dry.

“Isabella,” she says loudly, like I’m hearing-impaired. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Jesus.” I press my palms into my eyes. After a moment, I lower my hands and stare at my brother’s baby. I open my mouth, only nothing comes out. Finally, I clear my throat. “That’s Isabella?”

She looks at me like I’m an idiot and nods.

“Holy shit.” I stare at the child in her arms. At her clear-blue eyes. At those wild tufts of sandy-blond hair. At her rosebud lips. “I thought… I thought she had been with her… with her parents in the accident.”

Katherine gasps. “No. God, no.” She clutches Isabella closer. “I was watching her that night. I told you I was taking care of her.” She shakes her head. “Why would you think that?”

Frustration ripples through me. “I could barely hear you when I was at the airport.” Rubbing my forehead, I think back to what my mother had said… Fuck. What did she say? She was hysterical and crying that she hadn’t seen Cal in so long and now he was gone. Crying that she’d never really given Melissa a chance. And then she wailed, We lost the baby. Those were her exact words.

I run my hand through my hair, choked up by the memory. “I guess… I guess my mom got confused.” And when you spoke to the police, you just asked for details about how the accident happened, not who was in the truck.

We sit in silence, and after I’ve calmed down enough to be rational, one thought hurdles through my mind—it looks like my parents might be inheriting a baby.