Or so Carly Richards once believed.No doubt she looked the part of the grieving widow as she stood alongside Max’s grave clothed in black, her gloved palm resting on her young son, unnaturally quiet and still beside her. Yet the eyes Carly bowed shed no tears. In her chest, her thudding heart beat to a steady tempo of relief.A fearsome man to live with when he chose to make an appearance, Max had destroyed her love for him years ago.She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed the square of linen to her nose. Though the air carried the scent of mowed grass, spring flowers and fresh-turned dirt, the vile odors that had clung to Max filled her nostrils still, as if he stood at her side, not laid out at her feet. Stale tobacco, fresh moonshine, foul breath, permeated with the odor of sweat.Sweat of a hardworking man, Carly admired. Sweat of a man coming off a three-day drunk roiled her stomach.She’d never again endure the man’s stench or his unpredictable temper. That knowledge purged her, freed her, promised her better days ahead.Carly bent, cuddling her seven-year-old son close.
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