The promise came with Cameron’s dying breath, whispered through lips that could barely form words after the massive stroke had stolen half his body and most of his voice. I leaned closer to his hospital bed, straining to hear over the mechanical symphony of life support machines that had become our constant companions for four agonizing days. “Daisy.” His left hand squeezed mine with surprising strength, the only part of him that still worked properly.
“Promise me.”
“What, sweetheart?” I whispered back, my throat tight with unshed tears. “Tell me what you need.”
His eyes—those green eyes that had looked at me with love for forty-four years—were wide with something that looked almost like terror, an expression I’d never seen on his face before. “Never go to Cypress Hollow.”
I frowned, confused.
Cypress Hollow was the old farm property he’d bought in Arkansas thirty-two years ago, right after Clare was born. Six hundred acres of swampland and forest he’d called an investment that never panned out. In all our years together, he’d never taken me there, always saying it was too run-down, not worth the drive.
“Cameron, why would I go there?” I asked softly. “You always said it was just empty land.”
“Promise.” His grip tightened until my fingers ached. “Forget it exists.”
The desperation in his voice frightened me more than the stroke itself.
In four decades of marriage, I had never seen Cameron look scared. He’d built his trucking company from nothing, weathered economic downturns, buried our daughter Clare twenty-five years ago with a stoic strength that had carried us both through the darkest period of our lives. “I promise,” I whispered, brushing his gray hair back from his forehead.
“I promise I’ll never go to Cypress Hollow.”
He closed his eyes then, and some of the tension left his face. “Love you. Always loved you.”
“I love you too, Cameron.
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