Circle Eight Millennium: Lazarus by Beth Williamson Page A

might help.”
    “You were going through a box of receipts.” He could hardly believe that was what she chose to do after the most momentous sexual experience of his life. Perhaps it hadn’t been as momentous for her.
    That was a lowering thought.
    “My mind was spinning after, uh, after what we did. I didn’t have a gun to clean and I can’t do anything else in the store until the insurance claim is finalized. I have to do something to settle my thoughts when I’m stressed.” She shrugged. “Receipts are boring but don’t require brain power.”
    “Your mind was spinning.”
    “Are you just going to repeat what I say?” She clucked her tongue. “I can think of a few more interesting things to talk about.”
    Laz considered his next words with care. The last thing he needed was to say the wrong thing, offend her, and send this new, terrifying relationship, such as it was, off the rails before they really got started.
    “My mind was spinning too.” He kept his eyes on the road and didn’t put any emotion in his words, although they were running riot in his gut.
    She cleared her throat. “That so? Huh, I wouldn’t have thought so given your greeting this morning.”
    “I meant what I said to you. I’m not the same person I was before I left Brier Creek. I made mistakes, just like every other human being.” He spotted the giant tree that marked the border of the Circle Eight and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I can’t fight the right words right now for you, but I will.”
    She stared on the side window. “Okay, I can be patient. I’ve spent my life perfecting the art of waiting.”
    He heard much more in her words than he had time to explore. They’d both made choices, or had been pushed to making choices, that had shaped their lives.
    They turned into the main gate and the familiar sight of the Circle Eight sign was a punch to the gut. He had a flash of memory from when he was eight and his father had commissioned a local blacksmith to repair the original sign from the late eighteen hundreds. When the man had hung up the intricate scrolls in the number eight, it had seemed magical to a young Laz.
    Now the weather and elements had taken some of the shine off the iron, but it was still as beautiful as it had been twenty years earlier. A wave of homesickness washed over him. His throat grew tight and damned if he didn’t miss everything; even the smell of the air was familiar.
    Bea didn’t say anything, for which he was grateful. The emotions running riot through him were enough to make him turn the car around, but he didn’t. He was a Graham after all, and his blood ran stubborn.
    The house came into view and his homesickness started to slide into a shade of joy. The color had changed, no longer a cream, but more of a light green, but the long, sweeping front porch was still peppered with rocking chairs throughout and a swing at both ends.
    A hound dog perked up from his prone position on the grassy front lawn. The vibrant green seemed incongruous for hot Texas weather. Perhaps his father had installed sprinklers to keep up appearances. Or maybe they’d found drought-resistant grass that could finally withstand the heat.
    The dog bayed at the car but stood his ground. Laz put the car in park. He lowered his chin to his chest and took a deep breath.
    “I know you didn’t want to come here but I’m glad you did.” She touched his hand, her fingers cool against his overheated skin.
    He managed to nod. “Sometimes we have to do shit we don’t want to do.”
    “Amen to that.” She held out the flyer to him. “Ready?”
    There was no pity in her face, but he saw understanding. She had her own family issues to deal with, although for her, it was dealing with ghosts. Laz had to deal with living, breathing people along with his ghosts. It was a helluva thing to come back to the scene of the crime ten years after the fact.
    He took the paper and reached for the door handle.
    The dog