Page 23 of Shadows Relived
The rhythm of hammering boards and resetting window screens helped bleed off some of the tension curling beneath his ribs, but not all of it. Not even close. It wasn’t until the sun dipped below the treeline and the kids’ voices lifted in anticipation of the promised marshmallows that he finally let himself breathe.
The fire pit crackled to life just after dusk, a ring of stones set up in the clearing behind the cabin. Meaghan passed out metal skewers she’d found in a drawer while Callen supervised the chaotic rotation of hot dogs. The kids squealed with delight over charred ends and burnt marshmallows, and despite the noise, the stickiness, and the smoke, Callen found himself smiling.
Sophie demanded help with every step, and Willie needed constant reassurance that his s’more wasn’t too melty. Lucas insisted on roasting everything until it looked like lava, then dropped half of it into the fire and needed a new skewer.
Callen tried to stay patient. He really did.
But by the third time someone yelled his name in a five-second span, his left eye twitched.
“You okay?” Meaghan asked as she slid a paper plate into his hands.
He grunted. “Just thinking about why I didn’t take you straight to your father.”
“Because you hate him as much as I do,” she said bluntly.
He glanced at his hands, sneering. “I hate sticky and being called every two seconds to referee marshmallow drama or to put more on a stick just to watch them fall in a fire.” He dropped his hands to his lap, shaking his head. “I’m better at dodging bullets and finding the bad guys.”
She grinned at him over the rim of her cup, her eyes sparkling with firelight. “Well, for the record, you’re doing great.”
That earned her a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
She bobbed her head, her smile growing. “I am. Immensely.”
Still, her smile softened when she saw the tension settle between his shoulders. She turned to the kids, clapping her palms on her thighs. “All right, sugar monsters. Time to get cleaned up and see if we can find some jammies.”
Callen scoffed. “Good luckwith that.”
“Awww!” came three voices at once.
“Nope. No arguments,” she said, standing. “Ranger Callen says lights out at eight-thirty. He’s got night patrol, remember?”
The kids lit up at that. “Oooh, night patrol!”
Callen rolled his eyes as he took another bite of his hot dog, ripping it off with a snarl. “Now I’m a bedtime excuse?”
“Yup,” she said with zero shame.
The kids groaned in unison, dragging their feet toward the cabin like bedtime was the end of the world. Lucas muttered something about injustice, Willie clutched a half-eaten marshmallow like it was a treasured relic, and Sophie announced she was only brushing her teeth if someone sang to her. Meaghan herded them all inside with the maternal authority that brooked no argument, throwing Callen a smirk over her shoulder as she disappeared into the doorway.
That left him with the firepit, the scorched sticks, and a battlefield of half-eaten hot dogs and graham cracker casualties. He didn’t mind. Give him clean up over pouty bedtime theatrics any day. It was quiet out here—peaceful. He drawled around the fire pit, letting the final embers crackle down while the sky darkened to indigo above the tree line.
By the time he stepped back inside, the cabin was dim, the air warm and thick with the scent of wood smoke and melted sugar. He didn’t make it far before a blur of fabric swirled past him.
Callen paused in the hallway, blinking in disbelief asSophie twirled past him, wearing one of his old Navy PT shirts that now dragged past her knees like a nightgown. Willie followed behind her, sleeves of a faded concert tee flapping like bat wings, the hem tucked into the waistband of his little joggers. Lucas, for his part, had claimed a long-sleeved thermal—one Callen distinctly remembered wearing on a frostbitten night during survival training. The elbows were threadbare. He’d kept it because of the memory. Apparently now, it belonged to a five-year-old.
“Where the… heck… did they get those?” he asked, brow furrowing.
Meaghan, kneeling by the fireplace and folding blankets with her usual calm, didn’t even flinch. “They were in the bottom drawer of your old room. Thought I’d make use of them.”
“They’re my clothes.”
She looked up, eyes twinkling. “We can’t exactly have them wearing the same things every day now, can we?”
“But… why my clothes?”
She stood, tossed a blanket over the back of the couch, and gestured toward the room. “What other clothes are there, Callen? It’s not like we packed bags when we fled a literal shooting. Unless you’ve got a secret Target run hidden in the woods?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. And then rubbed the back of his neck.
