Perhaps it was his third neat whisky, perhaps it was his fourth. He didn"t know, didn"t care. Silas Scrimshaw sat and stared into the bottom of his glass, mourning the passing of his son, Reece. For it was a passing. The lines had been drawn, the speeches made. He"d banished Reece into the darkness, disowning him, and it was all so unnecessary.
He swilled the last mouthful around the bottom of the glass and threw the contents down his throat and sat, face in hands, and sobbed.
“You shouldn"t punish yourself so.”
Lowering his hands, he looked up to see her standing there, as beautiful as an angel. Manuela. She"d brought life back, not only to his loins, but to his whole, withering existence. And here she was, with that smouldering look of hers, those lips that were so full, but not smili
