Rebecca covered her face with her hands, trying to catch the sobs before they made her face puffy and her eyes red. She’d left Yearly when she was nineteen. Cash had been almost twenty-two. She counted forward. That made Cash almost thirty-four now. Michael was twelve. Twelve. Cash must have married almost as soon as she’d gone, as though he couldn’t wait to be rid of her, as though he’d known she would refuse him and had a replacement picked out. No wonder he hadn’t come after her. He’d moved on as fast as he could.
