Chapter 13 - The Legacy of Thomas
In the quiet living room, the fire was lit once again.
The silver-framed photograph of Sergeant Thomas Reed rested in the center of the mantle, flanked by two small brass vases filled with fresh pine needles and wild lavender. Jax stood before the hearth, looking at the face of the cousin he had never met.
Eleanor walked up beside him, resting her small hand gently against his leather vest.
"He died twenty miles outside Kandahar," she said softly. "I spent twelve years thinking that his death was the end of our line. That everything we built in this valley would turn to dust."
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Jax reached down, placing his large, rough hand over hers. "The line isn't broken, Eleanor. It just took a detour through a few highway diners."
She smiled—a real, genuine smile that reached her eyes, softening the cold lines of her face. "I suppose it did."
