Kyrah quickly grabbed her mother’s book and took it into the cottage, tossing it onto the sofa beside her. “Why didn’t you tell me he was out there?” she snarled.
Sarah’s shock was evident. “He wanted to surprise you. I thought you’d be glad to see him.” When Kyrah didn’t respond, Sarah added, “Why aren’t you glad to see him?” She didn’t answer. “Kyrah! It’s Ritcherd. He’s home. How can you not—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Kyrah snapped and picked up the basket of laundry. Sarah followed her to the back of the house with more vigor than Kyrah had seen in months—maybe years.
“Kyrah,” her mother’s voice was stern, “tell me what’s going on, and tell me now.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Kyrah insisted while she unwrapped the lunch she had brought from the big house for her mother.
“Then maybe you could tell me why Ritcherd never heard anything about what’s happened. Stephen was practically a father to Ritcherd. How could you not let him know?”
“There’s nothing he could have done about it.”
“That is hardly the point. He had a right to know.”
Kyrah sighed and closed her eyes, trying to block out the image of Ritcherd’s blatant hurt. “Maybe he did,” she admitted. “But it’s in the past now. It’s hardly worth dwelling on.”
“And what about now?” Sarah asked, sitting at the kitchen table. “How can you be this way about seeing him? We’re talking about Ritcherd.”
“Yes, mother. I know. Ritcherd Buchanan of Buckley Manor; Captain Buchanan, revered war hero. I know.” Kyrah sighed again. “There is nothing good I can bring into his life. There’s no point in seeing him for any reason.”
Kyrah didn’t know if her mother agreed, or if she was just too shocked to know what to say. Either way, she hurried outside to get water for the laundry before the conversation could go any further. And maybe, just maybe, if she worked long enough and hard enough, she could push Ritcherd’s image out of her mind.