she said. The relieved tears in her eyes contradicted her statement, but dammit, whatever the reason Trace didn’t want to see her crying. He shut his eyes. “I’m sorry for not calling you, Mama.” That had been on his list, but he hadn’t had time. He should have made time. “They told me they found your motorcycle crashed and you were probably dead. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?” she said in that tone only a mother could take and make her son feel like shit. “I know, and I’m sorry. I was going to call you,” he said, swallowing down the knot that formed in his throat. “But you didn’t,” she accused. “I was actually making funeral arrangements, Trace. For when they found your body.” Her voice rose an octave on each word. Every word was like a nail driven into his heart. “There’s no excuse, Mama.” “You’re darned right there’s not, and if you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you.”
