Great and Precious Things Read online

  Praise for The Last Letter

  by Rebecca Yarros

  “Yarros’s novel is a deeply felt and emotionally nuanced contemporary romance…”

  —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “Thanks to Yarros’s beautiful, immersive writing, readers will feel every deep heartbreak and each moment of uplifting love in this tearjerker romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “The Last Letter is a haunting, heartbreaking and ultimately inspirational love story.”

  —InTouch Weekly

  “I cannot imagine a world without this story.”

  —Hypable

  “A stunning, emotional romance. Put The Last Letter at the top of your to-read list!”

  —Jill Shalvis, NYT bestselling author

  “This story gripped me from start to finish. The Last Letter is poignant, heartfelt and utterly consuming. I loved it!”

  —Mia Sheridan, NYT bestselling author

  “The Last Letter is so much more than a romance. It’s a testament to the strength of bonds forged from trauma and loyalty. It’s an exploration of motherhood and the importance of family. But above all, it’s a story of survival, forgiveness, and the healing power of unconditional love.”

  —Helena Hunting, NYT bestselling author

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Last Letter

  The Two-date Rule

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Yarros.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Excerpt(s) from EAST OF EDEN by John Steinbeck, copyright © 1952 by John Steinbeck; copyright renewed © 1980 by Elaine Steinbeck, Thom Steinbeck, and John Steinbeck IV. Used by permission of Viking Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Rd

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  [email protected]

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Liz Pelletier

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover images by

  Anatoli Styf/Shutterstock

  Anthony Berenyi/ Shutterstock

  Michael Lane/Gettyimages

  Interior images by

  DeCe_X/Gettyimages

  Interior design by Heather Howland

  Print ISBN 978-1-64063-816-7

  ebook ISBN 978-1-64063-817-4

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2020

  Also by Rebecca Yarros

  Flight & Glory series

  Full Measures

  Eyes Turned Skyward

  Beyond What Is Given

  Hallowed Ground

  The Renegades Series

  Wilder

  Nova

  Rebel

  Other books by Rebecca Yarros

  The Last Letter

  To my father,

  whose hands never let me fall.

  I love you, Daddy.

  Chapter One

  Camden

  My lungs burned as I drew a deep breath, seeking oxygen that wasn’t there, and my fingers itched to hold the cigarette I’d thrown away six years ago. Altitude did that to me every time—at least the breathing part.

  The craving for a smoke? That was courtesy of Alba, Colorado, population 649. Or so the sign I’d passed about a mile back proclaimed. Then again, I wasn’t about to trust a sign that hadn’t been updated since before I’d been born—which was par for the course in my hometown.

  Nothing about it had changed since I’d left, which was pretty much the point of the whole town. Just past the paved roads, Alba was the best-preserved ghost town in Colorado, and the tourists who flooded her streets in the summer kept the tiny town alive all winter long.

  The total on the gas pump climbed as I stretched my hands toward the late-afternoon sun and the snowcapped peaks above me, willing life back into muscles I’d kept cramped for far too long during the drive from North Carolina. The bite in the March breeze cut through my exhaustion, and I welcomed its icy fingers on my exposed skin. It definitely wasn’t T-shirt weather up here at ten thousand feet.

  A gasp caught my attention, and I turned toward the minivan that had pulled up behind my Jeep a minute ago. A blonde wearing sunglasses too big for her face and a puffy winter coat gawked with one foot on the concrete and one inside her vehicle, as if someone had pushed pause during her exit.

  I lowered my arms, and my shirt slid back into place, covering the inked strip of stomach she’d no doubt gotten an eyeful of.

  She shook her head quickly and started to pump her gas.

  At least she didn’t make the sign of the cross and back away.

  Either she’d moved to Alba in the last ten years or my reputation had softened some since I’d joined the army. Hell, maybe the population of Alba had forgotten all about me.

  I finished filling my tank and headed inside the small convenience store to grab a drink. God only knew what Dad would have in his fridge.

  A set of bells chimed as the door closed behind me, and I nodded in greeting to the older man leaning on the counter. Looked like Mr. Williamson still owned the gas station. His bushy silver brows rose with a quick smile. Then he did a double take, both his brows and smile falling as he blinked in confusion. And then his eyes narrowed in recognition.

  Looks like that rep is alive and well.

  I quickly chose a few bottles of water from the slim selection and carried them to the counter.

  The old man’s eyes darted between my hands and the bottles as he rang them up, like I was going to steal them or something. I’d been a lot of things, but a thief wasn’t one of them.

  The bells chimed again, and Williamson visibly relaxed. “Afternoon, Lieutenant Hall,” he greeted his newest patron.

  Awesome.

  I didn’t bother looking. That stubborn, old, judgmental piece of work hated my—

  “Holy shit. Cam?”

  That wasn’t Tim Hall wearing a badge—it was
his son, Gideon.

  Gid’s mouth hung slack, his light-brown eyes wide in shock. It was a similar expression to the one he’d worn that time Xander had shoved us into the girls’ locker room the fall of our freshman year. I’d never found a way to properly thank my brother for his attempt at hazing—not that anyone would believe Xander would stoop so low. After all, he was the good son.

  “I didn’t think police officers were supposed to swear in uniform.” I gave him a quick once-over. Unlike his dad, Gid was still too trim to sport a belly over his belt.

  “As opposed to soldiers?” he countered.

  “Actually, that earns us bonus points, and besides, I’m not in a uniform anymore.” I hadn’t been for seventeen days. “Does your dad know you stole his badge?”

  “Anymore? Does your…” He sighed. “Crap, I’ve got nothing!” His laughter unleashed my own. “It’s good to see you!” He pulled me into a fierce, back-pounding hug, his badge digging into my chest.

  “You too.” I grinned as we broke apart. “In fact, you might be the only person I’m happy to see.”

  “Oh, come on. Not Mr. Williamson here?” Gid looked over my shoulder and cringed at whatever expression he saw on Williamson’s face. “Okay, maybe not him.”

  “He’s never really cared for me.” I shrugged, well aware that he could hear me.

  “You did throw someone through that window the last time you were here.” Gid motioned toward the glass that had long since been replaced. “Man, how long ago was that? Four years?”

  “Six,” I answered automatically. Of the few things I remembered about that night, the date was still crystal clear.

  “Six. Right.” Gideon’s expression fell—no doubt remembering why I’d been in Alba last.

  Sullivan’s funeral.

  Grief threatened to rise up and steal what was left of the oxygen in my lungs, but I beat it back for the millionth time since we put Sully in the ground.

  God, I could still hear his laughter—

  “You going to pay for these waters, Camden?” Mr. Williamson asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I responded, thankful for the interruption, and turned back to the counter to finish the transaction. I didn’t miss the flash of surprise on Williamson’s face at my tone or when I thanked him as I took the bag and moved aside.

  “That stuff will kill you,” I told Gideon as he purchased a six-pack of soda.

  “You and Julie, man,” he muttered under his breath as he handed over his debit card. “Can’t a guy drink in peace?”

  Funny. This was more than I’d smiled in the entire last month. “How are Julie and the kids?”

  “Driving me to drink.” He lifted his soda in the air. “No, really, they’re great. Julie’s a nurse now, which you would know if you ever joined the social media world.”

  “No, thank you. What’s the point?”

  Gideon thanked Mr. Williamson, and we headed outside. “What’s the point? I don’t know. To keep in contact with your best friend?”

  “No, that’s why we have email. Social media is for people who need to compare their lives. Their houses, their vacations, their accomplishments. I see no reason to stand on my front porch with a bullhorn to broadcast what I had for dinner, either.”

  “Speaking of dinner, how long are you in town for?” he asked as we paused between my Jeep and his faded squad car. “I know Julie would love to have you over.”

  “For good,” I replied before I could choke on the words.

  He blinked.

  “Yeah, it’s taking me a little time to process, too.” I glanced up at the mountains Alba slept between. Mountains I’d sworn I’d never see again.

  “You got out? I figured you’d be career.”

  So had I. Just another thing to mourn.

  “Officer Malone?” a scratchy feminine voice called over the radio.

  “Marilyn Lakewood still calls out dispatch? What is she, seventy?”

  “Seventy-seven,” Gideon corrected. “And before you ask, Scott Malone is twenty-five and a giant pain in my ass.”

  “What did you expect from the mayor’s kid?”

  “Mayor’s kid? When’s the last time you talked to—”

  “Officer Malone?” Marilyn repeated, her annoyance pitching her voice higher.

  “Do you need to get that?” I motioned toward the radio on his shoulder.

  “Malone needs to get that,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “It’s probably Genevieve Dawson whining about the Livingstons’ cat in her yard again. If it’s serious, Marilyn will call me. Now, fill me in. When did you get here? You’re back for good? As in you’ve moved back here? The place you called Satan’s as—”

  “Xander called.” I cut him off with the half-truth before he could remind me of yet another reason I’d sworn I’d never come back here. “Since it had been six years, I answered.”

  “Your dad,” Gideon said softly.

  “My dad.”

  A quiet moment of understanding passed between us.

  “Gideon Hall!” Marilyn snapped through the radio.

  “Lieutenant,” he whispered to the sky before responding. “Yes, Marilyn?”

  “Since Boy Wonder isn’t answering the call, it seems that Dorothy Powers has lost Arthur Daniels again. She woke up from her nap, and he was gone.”

  My stomach dropped, and my gaze drifted up the mountain. According to Xander, Dad ditched his home nurse a few times a week but never wandered far from the house. It didn’t help that Dorothy Powers was older than Dad and probably in need of her own nurse.

  “On my way. Call up the usual searchers.” Gideon caught my eye, then dropped his hand from the radio.

  “My dad.” How far could he have gotten?

  “Second time this month.” His lips flattened. “I’m going to head to the station to grab the four-wheel drive. I won’t make it to your place in the cruiser.”

  “Just hop in with me. I’ll take you up,” I more ordered than offered, unwilling to wait. My Jeep was lifted and sported massive tires, a V-8 engine, and more than enough four-wheeling capability to survive the apocalypse. Even the road to Dad’s wasn’t that bad this time of year.

  He agreed, and a minute later, we pulled onto Gold Creek Drive, which served as the town’s main artery—no stoplights needed but snowmobiles optional.

  “How long have you been gone?”

  “Six years.” I shot him a look. Hadn’t I just answered that?

  “No, I mean today. When did you leave the house? Was Dorothy awake? Was your dad?” He was already thumbing through his cell phone.

  “I wish I could help you with a timeline, but I haven’t been home yet.” I motioned toward the back seat of the four-door Rubicon.

  “You literally just pulled into town?” He took in the bags and boxes that had been my only companions on the two-thousand-mile drive.

  “Yep,” I replied as we passed the last post-fifties building in Alba. We crossed the bridge that spanned all thirty feet of Rowan Creek, and the snow-packed pavement ended, marking our entrance into the time capsule that kept Alba alive. “Figured it was a good idea to gas up. Someone told me once that it’s easier to run from the cops on a full tank.”

  Main Street opened up on my left. Wooden buildings with metal roofs lined both sides of the dirt road that would fill with tourists in the next few months, all looking to experience a real 1890s old west mining town.

  “Someone grew up. Also, please don’t make me chase you. This thing is a beast. I might have to tell Julie I’ve found the perfect birthday present.”

  “Sure, if you get it with a ladder.” We turned at the Hamilton place, where the grant money for preservation had run dry. Snow sat piled in the shade against structures that had long since lost their roofs, windows, or walls.

  “Shut up. Not all of us are six foo
t four.”

  “It’s all in the genetics. At least it should make Dad easier to spot.”

  “He’s been easy to find, but Cam… It’s gotten pretty bad,” Gideon told me as we pulled onto Rose Rowan Road and started to climb in elevation. “The last couple times I’ve seen him, he either hasn’t known who I am or he thinks I’m Dad.”

  My hands flexed on the wheel. “Xander’s reached his limit. He basically told me to get back here or Dad was getting shipped to a home in Buena Vista, which would screw Dad’s whole ‘your mother died in this house and I will, too’ vow.”

  “Hold that thought.” He held the phone to his face. “Hey, Mrs. Powers. Yep, it’s Gideon.” He paused, rubbing the skin just above his nose. “I know you are. I know you do. We’re going to find him, and we’ve got some searchers on their— Oh, she is? Good. That will help. We’re about four minutes out.”

  I took the final turn onto Dad’s property and cursed at the conditions. Spring runoff was always hard on the drive, but it looked like it hadn’t been maintained in years. Washboarding, which was no doubt under the packed snow, was easy enough to fix, but the deep, canyon-like trenches carved out by the mini river currently eating away the right side of the drive were going to take some effort to repair.

  Not that I hadn’t seen shittier roads in Afghanistan or any of the other places I was never supposed to be, but this was my fucking driveway.

  Gideon hung up as I came to a stop and put the Jeep into four-wheel drive.

  “How does Dorothy get up here every day?” I asked as we started the ascent. The Jeep rocked with enough force to jostle the boxes in the back, and Gideon braced himself on the roll bar as we made it around a shady, iced curve. That particular spot was always the last to melt.

  “She cuts over from the Bradley property. You know the judge keeps his drive paved and clear.”

  The land was adjacent to ours, but it would have added ten minutes, and I wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing…or Bradleys.

  God, if there was anyone in the world who had the right to hate me more than I hated myself, it was—

  A flash of blue in my rearview caught my attention.

  Gideon glanced back. “Xander,” he said, answering my unspoken question. “That’s his truck.”