A Lasting Impression

creek, the breeze cool on his cheeks. Since the day his father had been killed, he’d carried the memory of the man close to his heart, as he had his own regret.
    He’d always been proud to be Dr. Stephen Monroe’s son. But never more so than in that moment. And what he couldn’t explain, but knew without question, was that somehow, his father knew that too.
    Sutton checked the meadow first, then looked up toward the ridge, but he doubted Claire would have gone that far on foot. He followed the path down toward the creek, and that’s when he heard it. Singing.
    He recognized her voice from having stood beside her in church, and it was a pretty sound. Prettier now after not having heard it for so long. He dismounted, looped the mare’s reins around a pine branch, and followed the sound of her voice.
    He saw her a split instant before she saw him, and his eyes went wide. She squealed and ducked behind a rock.
    He couldn’t keep from laughing, appreciating what he’d seen but not understanding why she was running around in her undergarments. And wet, no less. “What are you doing down here?”
    “What are you doing back?”
    He held his ground, still laughing. Especially when she peered up at him over the rock. “It’s a little early yet to go swimming, Claire.”
    “I wasn’t going swimming, Sutton. I was . . .” She smiled at him then, but held up a hand. “Do not come any closer.”
    He started forward just to see what she would do.
    “Sutton!” She ducked back down, but he could hear her giggling.
    “I’m only joking with you. I won’t come any closer. Unless . . . I can help with something.”
    “You could have helped by letting me know you were coming home.”
    “It was kind of an . . . impromptu decision.” She was adorable, peeking over the rock at him like that. “Seriously, Claire, what can I do to help you?”
    “You can turn around and wait for me back over the hill.”
    He turned to go, then couldn’t resist one last nudge. “I sure was looking forward to a hug.”
    “Sutton!”
    Laughing, he retreated and did as he was told.
    Minutes later she appeared over the hill. Seeing all that she was carrying, he hurried to help. He took the satchel and easel and tried to take the canvas, catching a quick glimpse of it. “Claire, that’s absolutely—”
    She turned the painting so he couldn’t see it. “I can do better. I know I can.”
    “From what I saw, I’m impressed.” And he was. But still she kept a firm grip on it, so he didn’t force the issue.
    A shyness came over her. “I’d rather you wait and see it when I’m finished, if you don’t mind.”
    “Fair enough.” He laid her belongings by a rock. “But would you mind propping it over there for a second?” He pointed, pleased when she complied without question. When she turned back around, he closed the distance between them and framed her face with his hands. Her pert look gave him hope. She laid her hand over his heart, and Sutton felt a rightness inside he’d never felt before. If Andrew Stanton had made any headway with her, it sure wasn’t showing.
    “Hello, Claire,” he whispered.
    Her eyes bright, her lower lip trembled with a smile. “Hello, Sutton.”
    He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, slowly, taking his time, just as he’d contemplated doing far too many times over the past two months. He savored the way she moved closer to him and tilted her head so her lips met his more fully.
    “I’m sorry for staying away for so long,” he whispered against her mouth, drawing back slightly. “I know I need to explain. And I will, more fully, later. But please know that I was simply trying to give you—”
    “I know what you were doing . . . you silly, foolish man.”
    He stared.
    “Mr. Stanton told me about your conversation the night of the reception.” She ran a teasing forefinger along his jawline. Then over his lips. “I take it you didn’t get my letter?”
    “No, no letter.” He kissed her again, not nearly so gently, but when she wove her fingers through his hair, he broke the kiss, trembling.
    “I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
    “And I you.” He reached up and tugged a damp curl, a weak effort to lighten the moment. He motioned back toward the creek. “What were you doing down there?”
    “I was praying . . . and listening. Or trying to.” Smiling, she searched his gaze, then lowered her head. When she finally looked up again, her eyes were moist but her expression was