Chapter 8 - The Quiet Man Found His Peace
Six months later, the morning sun rose over the San Juan Islands in Washington State, casting a brilliant, golden glow across the cedar-shingled roof of a sprawling, isolated farmhouse perched on a high bluff overlooking the sapphire waters of Puget Sound.
There were no security cameras on the porch. There were no bulletproof windows, no armed guards patrolling the perimeter, and no encrypted burner phones buzzing on the kitchen counter.
Inside the large, sunlit kitchen, the air smelled of freshly brewed coffee, cinnamon pancakes, and wood smoke drifting from the massive stone fireplace.
Nolan Cross stood at the butcher-block island wearing a faded flannel shirt and a pair of worn denim jeans, flipping pancakes with a spatula while humming a tune he hadn't sung since he was a boy.
The back door burst open with a loud bang.
“Daddy! Daddy, look!”
Four-year-old Jack came barreling into the kitchen, his rubber rain boots covered in thick mud, holding a wriggling, frantic bullfrog in both hands with triumphant glee. Behind him walked Evie, her dark hair long, thick, and bouncing around her shoulders in healthy curls, wearing a yellow raincoat and a bright pink beanie. Her cheeks were rosy with color, her steps steady and strong.
“Jack Andrew Cross,” Mara said, walking out from the pantry with a stack of plates, though she was trying desperately to hide a laugh. “You promised me you wouldn't bring amphibians into the kitchen!”
“He wanted to see the pancakes, Mama!” Jack protested, holding the frog closer to his chest.
Nolan set the spatula down on the stove, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he walked over to his children. He knelt down beside Jack, looking at the muddy boots, the green frog, and the shining, joyful eyes of his son.
“Well, Mr. Frog looks very hungry, Jack,” Nolan said with a straight face. “But I think he’d prefer a nice muddy puddle down by the creek rather than a stack of maple syrup.”
Evie giggled, stepping forward to poke the frog’s leg. “Can we name him Pancake?”
“Pancake it is,” Nolan smiled, reaching out to ruffle his daughter’s hair—thick, dark, and growing back stronger than ever.
Mara walked up behind him, setting the plates on the wooden table. She rested her hands on Nolan’s broad shoulders, looking out the large picture window toward the quiet, mist-covered waters of the sound. The federal investigations in Chicago were closed, Moretti’s syndicate was rotting in federal prison, and the ghost of Nolan’s past life had finally been laid to rest.
She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck.
“What are you thinking about?” she whispered.
Nolan stood up, wrapping one arm around Mara’s waist and pulling her close against his side, while using his other hand to guide Jack toward the back door to release the frog.
May you like
He looked at his son running across the dew-kissed grass, at his daughter laughing by the porch, and at the woman who had brought him back from the dead.
“I was thinking,” Nolan smiled, pressing his cheek against Mara’s hair, “that the quiet man finally found what he was looking for.”
