“If you were still alive, you’d pay for this one, Daddy.” The moment the words escaped her lips, Cassidy Knowles slapped a hand over her mouth to negate them, but it was too late.
The sharp wind took her words and threw them back into the pines, guilt and all. It might have stopped her, if it didn’t make this the hundredth time she’d cursed him this morning.
She leaned in and forged her way downhill until the muddy path broke free from the mossy smell of the forest. Her Stuart Weitzman boots were long since soaked through, and now her feet were freezing. In a last gasp effort before the chill trees would let her go, a root snagged two-inch heels again and tried to flip her into the mud.
Free at last, Cassidy stared at the lighthouse. It perched upon a point of rock: tall and white, with
