Free Sierra's Homecoming by Linda Lael Miller Page A

would never forget the family photos Allie showed her that day—snapshots of Adam with his arm around his smiling wife, Dee. The two little girls in matching dresses posed with them, their eyes wide with innocence and trust.
    â€œForget him, kiddo,” Hank had said airily, when Sierra went to him, in tears, with the whole shameful story. “It ain’t gonna fly.”
    She’d written Adam immediately, but her letter came back, tattered from forwarding, and no one answered at any of the telephone numbers he’d given her.
    She’d given birth to Liam eight weeks later, at home, attended by Hank’s long-time mistress, Magdalena. Three days after that, Hank brought her an American newspaper, tossed it into her lap without a word.
    She’d paged through it slowly, possessed of a quiet, escalating dread, and come across the account of Adam Douglas’s death on page four. He’d been shot to death, according to the article, on the outskirts of Caracas, after infiltrating a drug cartel to take pictures for an exposé he’d been writing.
    â€œMom?” Liam snapped his fingers under Sierra’s nose. “Are you hearing the music again?”
    Sierra blinked. Shook her head.
    â€œDo you think my cousins would like me?”
    She reached out, her hand trembling only slightly, and ruffled his hair. “I think anybody would like you,” she said. When he was older, she would tell him about Adam’s other family, but it was still too soon. She took his empty cup, carried it to the sink. “Now, go upstairs, brush your teeth again and hit the sack.”
    â€œAren’t you going to bed?” Liam asked practically.
    Sierra sighed. “Yes,” she said, resigned. She didn’t think she’d sleep, but she knew Liam would wonder if she stayed up all night, prowling around the house. “You go ahead. I’m just going to make sure the front door is locked.”
    Liam nodded and obeyed without protest.
    Sierra considered marking the occasion on the calendar.
    She went straight to the front room, and the piano, the moment Liam had gone upstairs. The keyboard cover was down, the bench neatly in place. She switched on a lamp and inspected the smooth, highly polished wood for fingerprints. Nothing.
    She touched the cover, and her fingers left distinct smudges.
    No one had touched the piano that night, unless they’d been wearing gloves.
    Frowning, Sierra checked the lock on the front door.
    Fastened.
    She inspected the windows—all locked—and even the floor. It was snowing hard, and anybody who’d come in out of that storm would have left some trace, no matter how careful they were—a puddle somewhere, a bit of mud.
    Again, there was nothing.
    Finally she went upstairs, found a nightgown, bathed and got ready for bed. Since Travis had left her bags in the room adjoining Liam’s, she opened the connecting door a crack and crawled between sheets worn smooth by time.
    She was asleep in an instant.
    1919
    Hannah closed the cover over the piano keys, stacked the sheet music neatly and got to her feet. She’d played as softly as she could, pouring her sadness and her yearning into the music, and when she returned to the upstairs corridor, she saw light under Doss’s door.
    She paused, wondering what he’d do if she went in, took off her clothes and crawled into bed beside him.
    Not that she would, of course, because she’d loved her husband and it wouldn’t be fitting, but there were times when her very soul ached within her, she wanted so badly to be touched and held, and this was one of them.
    She swallowed, mortified by her own wanton thoughts.
    Doss would send her away angrily.
    He’d remind her that she was his brother’s widow—if he ever spoke to her again at all.
    For all that, she took a single, silent step toward the door.
    â€œMa?”
    Tobias spoke from behind her. She hadn’t heard him get out