A dusting of snow covered the valley, cut here and there by the lines of roads. Any ice that had formed along the margins of Flathead Lake through winter was gone. April sunlight bounced in sparkles off the rippling water. The plane banked and, a second later, there were the Rockies. They jutted like sooty fists of triumph, gray and white against an intense blue sky. Home. The word, the feeling, washed over Jacqui with such force, tears bit her eyes and her heart began to pound. She had expected emotion. Coming back to empty her dream home of its dreams was bound to be seven levels of hell. There would be tears, fresh ones on top of the countless ones she’d shed since she’d left. She had braced herself for the agony. This wasn’t pain. It was relief. She was home. She sniffed and wiped at the tickle on her cheek. The woman at the window turned with a concerned smile and offered a tissue. Jacqui was so used to crying—in public, in front of strangers, whenever the tears arrived—she only murmured, “Thank you.”
