Authors: Lydia
A frenzied moan from Varina burst the unfinished thought like a bubble. Sarah Parker turned and frowned at Donovan, as if she’d known all along that he was there.
“I just finished checking her. It looks like a breech birth.”
Donovan nodded his understanding, mouth grimly set to hide his fear. “Then I guess you’ll have to turn the baby. Can you do it?”
“I…hope so.” Her gray eyes were pools of anxiety behind the pince-nez spectacles. Her fingers quivered as they fumbled with the cuff of her left sleeve. Midwife or not, she wasn’t offering him much reassurance.
“Have you done anything like this before?” Donovan probed.
“I’ve never had to.” She had turned her back on him again. “This is only my seventeenth baby. But I know how. I’ve read about it.”
“Read
about it! Good Lord, woman—”
“Would you rather do it yourself, Mr. Cole?” Her Yankee voice crackled like splintering ice.
Donovan surrendered with a ragged sigh. “All right. What can I do to help?”
“Come on.” With an abrupt swish of petticoats, she strode behind the quilt, where Varina sprawled damp, tearful and exhausted on the rumpled sheets. Donovan’s heart contracted at the sight of her. His questions about Sarah Parker evaporated as he knelt to take his sister’s hand.
Sarah had taken a tin of greasy salve out of her satchel and was rubbing the stuff on her hands. “How long ago was the last pain, Varina?”
“Three…maybe four minutes.” Varina’s tired voice was so faint that Donovan could barely hear.
“We’ll wait for the next one to pass. Then I’ll try and turn the baby.” Sarah hesitated, then continued. “It will hurt. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but—”
“I know,” Varina whispered. “It’s all right. Do what you have to. And Sarah—”
“Yes?”
“If it’s a question of saving me or the child…I want this baby to live.”
“Hush!” As Sarah leaned over to squeeze Varina’s hand, Donovan caught the glint of tears in her eyes. “Don’t talk that way, Varina Sutton! You’re going to be just fine, and so is your baby!”
Varina did not answer. Donovan watched the contraction take his sister. He watched it seize her swollen body in its cruel talons, squeezing and twisting until he wanted to scream for her.
“Get ready.” Sarah shot him a hard glance through her round glass spectacles. “As soon as the pain eases, you hold her. Keep her as still as you can.”
Donovan nodded, his throat too constricted to speak. He clasped Varina’s hands, noticing how weak her grip was. She was nearing the end of her strength.
Varina’s fingers began to relax as the pain diminished. Donovan could feel Sarah’s presence in the tiny enclosure. He could sense the exquisite tension in her as she waited, drawing into herself like a cat preparing to spring.
“Now!” she exclaimed, shifting her position to the foot of the bed.
Donovan clasped his sister in his arms and held her with all his strength. Varina’s nightdress, draped between her raised knees, blessedly screened Sarah from his view. But he could imagine what she was doing. He could feel every move she made in the agonized spasms that racked Varina’s body. And once more, silently this time, he prayed.
Seconds oozed past like drops of blood. Varina’s raw, anguished breathing rose to a gasp as she bit back the pain.
“It’s all right, Varina.” Sarah spoke with effort from the foot of the bed. “It—it won’t be much longer now. I’m going to count to three, and when I do, you’re to scream for all you’re worth! Do you understand?”
“The…children,” Varina murmured weakly.
“They’ve gone to Mr. Ordway’s. They won’t hear you.” Sarah’s shadow danced on the wall as she raised the lantern and set it on the washstand, then repositioned herself over the bed. “When I count three, now. One…two…three!”
Varina screamed. She screamed with the pent-up agony of hours. She screamed for Charlie, crushed in the mine. She screamed for Virgil, shattered by mortar fire at Antietam. She screamed for her own lost girlhood, and for the grace of a life that had vanished with the war’s first shot.
Donovan squeezed tears from his eyes as her anguish knifed through him. If Varina survived this, he vowed, he would do anything to see her happy. He would work his fingers to the bone, risk anything to provide her with the comforts that footloose Charlie Sutton had never managed. Varina and her children were his only living kin. He would see that they never wanted for anything. He would-”It’s done!” Sarah gasped. “Varina—the baby’s turned!`Now—quickly, when the next pain comes—push! Push with all your might!”
Varina’s next contraction came on the heels of Sarah’s words. Shifting his position, Donovan cradled his sister’s shoulders with one arm. Her frenzied fingers gripped his free hand as she bore down.
“Push…push…”
Donovan could hear the midwife urging as Varina gasped and strained. The two women were working together now, battling for the baby’s life. Donovan could not see Sarah, but he could sense her agitation. He could hear the ragged little sobs of her breathing as she echoed Varina’s effort. “Push…oh, yes, yes!”
Varina went limp in his arms as the new life slid out into the world. Donovan heard the sound of a sharp slap; then, miraculously, a thin, mewling cry.
“Oh!” Sarah’s voice was husky with awe. “Oh, Varina, it’s a boy! You have a beautiful little son!”
Varina stirred, moaning softly.
“Did you hear?” Donovan’s own eyes were damp. His arm tightened around his sister’s shoulders. “You’ve got a boy! Listen to him squall!”
Varina lay still for a moment, then rallied. “Let me see him,” she whispered. “Give him to me, Sarah—”
“As soon as I cut the cord and wrap him up.” Sarah fumbled with the knife and string behind the veil of Varina’s nightdress. A moment later she straightened into full view, a tiny, squirming bundle in her arms.
“Here’s your new son, Varina!” she exclaimed, her face glowing.
As she bent over the bed, Donovan noticed that the pince-nez glasses had dropped off her nose and were dangling from a cord pinned to her shirtwaist. Her eyes were a luminous silver gray, framed by thick, lustrous lashes. Tendrils of light brown hair had escaped their tight bun. They framed her sweat-jeweled face in damp, curling wisps. Her mouth, curved in a tender smile, was as softly inviting as a ripe peach.
Again, that sense of recognition stabbed Donovan’s memory, this time with a force that made him reel. What the devil was going on here? He could have sworn on a stack of Bibles that he’d never seen Sarah Parker outside Miner’s Gulch. And yet-”Give me my boy!” Varina gathered the pucker-faced infant into her trembling arms. “I’ve got a name for him already. Charles Donovan Sutton—for his father and his uncle.”
“That’s fine, Varina.” Distracted once more, Donovan gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. He didn’t relish the thought of his own name being coupled with mutton-headed Charlie’s, but if that was what his sister wanted-”We won’t be needing you anymore, Mr. Cole.” Sarah’s crisp voice broke into his thoughts. She’d replaced her spectacles, Donovan noted, and tucked the loose tendrils of
hair behind her ears. “If you’ll be so kind as to leave us, I’ll wash Varina and get her settled.”
“I’ll be on the porch if you need me.” He edged around the blanket, leaving Sarah to her bustling, Yankee efficiency. Four long strides carried him across the too-warm cabin and out onto the snow-dusted porch. Latching the door behind him, Donovan sagged against the frame, limp kneed with relief. One hand raked his dark chestnut hair and eased down to massage the tension-knotted muscles at the back of his neck.
It was over. The baby was here, and Varina was all right. For this, he owed his thanks to the coldly capable Miss Sarah Parker, whoever she was. If she had not arrived in time-He shuddered away the thought as he stared out into the falling snow. There was no use fretting over what might have happened, he reminded himself. Sarah had come. She had readily done what he himself had been afraid to do.
She’d read a book—that’s
what she’d told him. A book! Good Lord, the woman had steel-wire nerves, and ice in her veins!
Sarah.
Enveloped by whirling snowflakes, he stepped off the porch and wandered into the dooryard. Her face shimmered before his eyes—the tender face he’d glimpsed as she bent over Varina with the child in her arms. Something about that face haunted him. What was it?
He was imagining things, that was all. He had never set eyes on Miss Sarah Parker until three days ago, when she’d come to check on Varina.
Damnation, what
was it, then?
Unbidden, his mind had begun to drift. Through the blur of snow, he glimpsed the blazing lights of a grand ballroom and heard the faint, lilting strains of a quadrille. He saw gray uniforms with golden epaulets, the flash and swirl of a mauve skirt, a lace-mitted hand on his brother Virgil’s sleeve…
And that face. That beautiful, laughing, sensual face-a ghost’s face now, Donovan reminded himself. A face he had almost succeeded in forgetting.
Behind him, he heard Sarah Parker come out onto the porch and close the door behind her. “I’m leaving now,” she said softly. “Varina’s resting with the baby. There’s some broth warming on the stove—” She broke off hesitantly as Donovan turned and started back toward her; then she plunged ahead, a note of agitation straining her voice.
“I’ll send the children back when I pass the Ordway cabin. They’ll be all right. It’s not far, and Annie knows the way. Don’t let them trouble their mother too much. Varina needs her…rest.”
He had stopped a scant pace from where she stood. She blinked up at him through the snow-blurred lenses of her spectacles, her parted lips petal soft in the silvery light.
“I have to go,” she said, turning away. “The storm’s getting worse.”
“Wait.” Donovan caught her elbow, spinning her back toward him. He had meant only to thank her and go inside, but now he stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from her face.
The resemblance was coincidental, that was all, Donovan told himself. With so many people in the world, some of them were bound to look alike. All the same, seeing those features on a straitlaced Yankee spinster was like being gut-kicked by a ghost. His senses reeled as he struggled with the bittersweet memories, the unanswered questions.
Leave it be,
reason cautioned him.
Let her go before you make a fool of yourself.
But it was easier said than done. Donovan stared into Sarah’s face, battling long-buried urges that were too powerful to resist.
She cleared her throat nervously. “You won’t have to worry about taking care of the baby. Annie knows enough to—”
Her words ended in a gasp as Donovan lifted the spectacles from her nose and let them drop to her breast.
Sarah twisted wildly away, averting her face as if she were disfigured. What was wrong with the woman? Donovan wondered. Why was she so afraid of having a man look at her? Didn’t Sarah Parker know how pretty she was? Didn’t she realize what a beauty she would be without those oldmaid lenses and that skinned-back hair?
Somebody ought to tell her, he thought. Hell, somebody ought to
show
her.
Driven by some demon he could neither understand nor control, he gripped her arm harder, forcing her back toward him. “Let me look at you, Sarah,” he rasped. “Let me see you as you were meant to be seen!”
“Let me go!” She was struggling now, in obvious panic. A gentleman would do as she demanded, Donovan reminded himself. But he’d left off being a gentleman somewhere between Camp Douglas and Kiowa County. Besides, the situation had already gone beyond propriety. Whatever it took, he vowed, he would see it through.
Catching her jaw with his hand, he wrenched her face upward. “Blast it, I’m not going to hurt you,” he muttered. “Just hold still and trust me!”
Her only reply was a sharp kick in the shins. Clenching his teeth, Donovan held on to her. His fingers found the coiled knot of her hair and began to fumble with the pins. His pulse leapt as the silken cascade tumbled loose over his hand.
“Donovan! No!”
With a sharp cry, she wrenched herself away from him. Her own momentum flung her against the kindling pile. She stumbled over her skirt, then caught her balance and whirled back to face him, half-crouched, like a catamount at bay.
Donovan,
she had called him. Back in the cabin, Sarah Parker had addressed him as Mr. Cole.
Bewildered, Donovan backed away a step. “Now listen,” he began, “I didn’t mean to—”
He broke off at the full sight of her face—the tousled curls framing high, elegant cheekbones, the stormy eyes, the wide, sensual mouth. And suddenly the face had a name—a name that blazed like hellfire across Donovan’s mind.
Lydia.
He stared at her, too dumbfounded to speak. This was impossible, he told himself. Lydia Taggart was dead. Her own Negro servants had shown him her grave when he’d come back to give her Virgil’s ring. They’d told him how a mortar shell had struck the house during Grant’s assault on Richmond, exploding in her bedroom. He had placed the thin, gold circlet on her headstone and walked away.
Lydia.
A sense of betrayal stole over him, replacing disbelief and darkening his emotions. Whatever was going on here, he swore, he would get to the bottom of it if it took all night.
Fist clenched, he took a step toward her. “Lady,” he growled, “you’ve got some tall explaining to do!”
But even as he spoke, she darted up with a little cry and sprinted for the shed. Donovan heard the mule snort as she flung herself onto its back. Numb with shock, he watched her come flying outside, wheel her mount and disappear like a phantom into the snowy blackness of night.
For a long moment he stared after her, snowflakes clustering on his unshaven cheeks. Then, with the sound of hoofbeats ringing down the gulch, he forced himself to stir. Like a sleepwalker, he turned and walked slowly back toward the cabin. His footsteps, crunching snow, echoed the rhythm of his thoughts.
Lydia. Lydia Taggart. Alive. And a Yankee.
S
arah unsaddled her mule and left it munching hay in Amos Satterlee’s barn behind the store. Calmly, as if the whole town might be watching, she mounted the snowswept back stairs to her rooms, twisted the key in the lock and stepped inside.
Only when the door was securely bolted behind her did she surrender to panic. Her pulse, which she’d kept under control by sheer force of will, exploded into a ripping gallop. Beads of sweat broke out on her ash-pale forehead. She sagged against the wall, her knees too weak to support her weight.
She should have known it would happen—that sooner or later, even here, someone would recognize her. Most of the Southerners in Miner’s Gulch, including the Suttons, had arrived before the war, in the ‘59 gold rush. Sarah had felt relatively safe among them. Then, just last week, she’d stopped by the Sutton cabin to check on Varina and had run smack into big Donovan Cole. Only then had she realized, to her horror, that Varina was Donovan and Virgil’s sister.
She would never have gone back to the cabin if Varina had not needed her so desperately. But how could she have ignored little Annie’s pleas, or her own awareness that Varina might die without skilled help? She had placed Christian duty above her own safety. Now she would have to deal with the consequences.
Sarah sank onto one of the split-log benches that she used in her makeshift classroom. By now, she realized, Donovan would have figured out everything. Even back in Richmond, where he and Virgil had frequented the parties she gave, he had seemed distant and untrusting. Now—yes, he would know. And what he didn’t know, he would guess. Donovan was no fool.
But would he understand? No, of course not. She could not expect any Southerner, least of all Donovan, to grasp the motives behind what she had done during the war.
And even if he did understand, she could never expect him to forgive her. Not Donovan Cole.
Sarah pressed shaking hands to her ice-cold face. Dear heaven, what had happened tonight? Why had Donovan been so insistent on getting close to her? Why had she let him? There’d been nothing between the two of them in Richmond. It was Virgil who had courted her. Sweet, eager Captain Virgil Cole, who’d held back nothing from her—including Robert E. Lee’s plan to push north into Pennsylvania.
She’d learned later that Virgil had died at Antietam, and that Donovan had been taken prisoner. For that, and other uncounted tragedies, she would never escape her own blame. The servants who’d acted as her couriers had relayed Lee’s strategy to the North. The resulting alarm had galvanized Union forces, triggering the bloodiest day of the entire war.
Sarah had only done her duty. But that knowledge did little to ease the nightmares that racked her sleep.
Wild with agitation, she sprang to her feet and raced into the bedroom. Her battered leather portmanteau lay under the secondhand brass bed. She wrenched it out and, slapping off the dust, flung it open on the patchwork coverlet. Her quivering hands fumbled in dresser drawers, jerking out underclothes, toiletries, small treasures-
Stop!
Sarah forced herself to stand perfectly still and take deep, measured breaths. Running wasn’t the answer, she reminded herself. She’d done it once before, three years ago in Missouri, when someone recognized her on the street. Now it had happened again. The odds were, it would happen almost anywhere she took refuge.
And Sarah had reason to stay. Miner’s Gulch had become her home. She’d made friends here. She’d delivered sixteen—no, seventeen—babies, nursed the town through measles and scarlet fever epidemics, and taught nearly a score of children to read and cipher. To leave now, with so much more to be doneNo, she could not even think of it. It was time to face up to the past. It was time to take a stand.
Against Donovan Cole.
She sank onto the bed, cheeks flaming anew at the memory of Donovan’s nearness—his iron-hard grip on her shoulders, his fingers loosening her hair, tangling roughly in its falling cascade. She’d been half-afraid he was going to kiss her. If he had, Sarah realized, she would have been lost. That kiss would have seared away her prim mask—and her own response would have betrayed the good woman she’d worked so hard to become.
Sarah’s fist slammed into the pillow. Of all the men in the world, why did it have to be Donovan Cole? Damn him! Oh,
damn
him!
And damn her own foolish heart.
There could be no more hiding from the truth. Back in Richmond, even while she was charming secrets out of Virgil Cole, it had been Donovan who had haunted her dreams. Brooding, aloof Donovan, who never gave her so much as a smile.
And that, she realized with a shudder, had been all to the good. She could never have played Donovan as she had so many other men. He was too strong for that, and too astute. Sooner or later, she would have found herself at his mercy.
As for tonight—but tonight counted for nothing. Donovan might have been fleetingly attracted to Sarah Parker. But he had never even liked Lydia Taggart. Once the full truth dawned on him, he would despise her.
And Donovan was not one to let bygones be bygones-Sarah knew him that well, at least. As sure as sunrise, he would seek her out and confront her. When that happened, she would need all her strength. Otherwise, his anger would destroy her.
By morning, the storm had passed. Donovan stepped out of the cabin into a world transformed by white magic. Snowflakes glittered on budding aspens and frosted the dark green stands of lodgepole pine. On the high horizon, diamond-crowned peaks glistened against the clear spring sky. It was beautiful, Donovan admitted grudgingly as he strode off the porch and into the yard. Whatever else one could say about this godforsaken spot, at least it favored the eye.
Flexing his arms, he wrenched the ax blade loose from its chopping block and laid into the uncut logs with a fury that sent chips flying. He had spent a sleepless night tossing on his pallet in the loft. And it wasn’t just the cries of his new nephew that had kept him awake. Every time he’d closed his eyes, it had been her face he saw—Lydia, or Sarah, or whatever her accursed name was.
His head ached from asking questions, then weighing his own answers. Who was Sarah Parker? Was she really Lydia Taggart, or had it been the other way around? Why would she fake her own death, then hide out in a place like Miner’s Gulch? Why had she panicked when he recognized her?
The conclusions, as they slid inexorably into place, had sickened him. The war—yes, it had to be the war. The charming young Widow Taggart had appeared in Richmond at the war’s beginning, then conveniently “died” at its end. The servants who’d recounted her death—yes, of
course, they’d been her collaborators all along. And the young officers who’d frequented her parlor, Virgil among them, had been her innocent dupes.
Lydia.
His mind ejaculated her name with every blow of the ax. He should have known she was a Yankee spy. Maybe if he had, he could have saved Virgil. He could have saved himself two years in the hell of Camp Douglas.
His mind drifted back to Richmond, in those early days of the war—to Lydia Taggart, with her fine, big house, her money, and her knack for throwing the liveliest soirees in town. Lydia herself had been a dazzler, always gay and laughing, always surrounded by a bevy of young officers. Even Donovan had not been immune to her charms. But she was Virgil’s girl, and so he had kept his distance.
If only he hadn’t. He might have seen through her deadly masquerade before it was too late.
The cabin door swung open. Annie and her little redhaired sister, Katy, came trooping down the front steps, bundled into their ugly patchwork coats. They waved to Donovan as they trudged across the dooryard toward the gulch trail.
“Wait a minute, where are you two going?” Donovan lowered his ax. One hand reached back to massage his complaining back muscles.
“We’re going to school,” chirped freckle-faced Annie. “We always go to school on weekdays.”
“At Miss Sarah’s?” Donovan’s voice dripped contempt.
“Uh-huh. Miss Sarah says that girls who learn to read and write can become anything they want to. I’m already in the second reader, and Katy’s—”
“Go on back in the house,” Donovan growled. “You’re not going anywhere today. Your mother’s bound to need your help.”
Annie’s chin lifted. Her grip tightened on her sister’s mittened hand. “We already offered to stay. But Ma says
she’ll manage just fine. School’s important. She doesn’t want us to miss it. Not even today.”
Donovan sighed. “All right, then, go on. But be careful in the snow. Don’t slip and fall.”
The warning went unheeded as the two little girls scampered across the clearing and disappeared among the trees. Donovan gazed after them, storm clouds seething in his mind. What would Varina say, he wondered, if she knew her daughters were being schooled by a Yankee spy?
Maybe it was time he told her.
After chucking the ax soundly into the block, he swung back up the steps and into the cabin. He found Varina sitting up in bed, her newborn son slumbering in the crook of her arm. Her hair was mussed from sleep and her eyes were ringed with tired shadows, but her smile was as serene as a Madonna’s.
“I keep thinking how Charlie would have enjoyed this little mite,” she murmured. “I’ll admit to his not having been much of a provider, but he loved his children, Donovan.” She glanced fondly at four-year-old Samuel, curled like a puppy near her feet. “I only hope they’ll be able to remember that.”
Donovan sank onto a stool, his heart aching for her. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I’m taking all of you back to Kansas,” he said. “You’ll have a proper house. The girls will wear proper clothes and go to a proper school, and as soon as the boys are old enough—”
“No.” There was a thread of steel in Varina’s soft voice. Donovan stared at her, shocked into silence.
“I’m not leaving Miner’s Gulch,” she said. “This claim was Charlie’s dream, and now it’s mine. I know you mean well, but I won’t go back to Kansas and live off anyone’s charity—not even my own brother’s.”
Donovan chewed his lip in a slow boil of frustration. How could he have forgotten how stubborn his sister could be? “Damnation, Varina,
look
at this place!” he exploded. “The slaves on White Oaks lived better than this!”
“White Oaks is gone, Donovan. And we’re no better than anybody else these days—if, indeed, we ever were.”
“Varina-”
“No, listen to me,” she said. “I’ve got a business proposition for you.”
Donovan groaned, guessing what that proposition might be. “If you’re expecting me to stay and work Charlie’s claim—”
“It’s
my
claim now. Mine and the children’s. But we can’t work it alone. For your help, I’d be willing to give you half of any profits we make. Charlie always said the mine would pay off. He was so close to finding gold when he—”
“Don’t, Varina.” Donovan knew he was being cruel, but it had to be said. “Charlie was chasing a phantom. Everybody knows the gold veins in these parts played out years ago. And even if they hadn’t, I’m not a miner. I’m a lawman.”
“For how long?” Varina’s free hand reached out to clasp his forearm. “How much time will you have before you cross some young hothead and he shoots you in the back? I just buried Charlie. I don’t want to bury you, too.”
Donovan battled the urge to grind his teeth. This discussion was not going as he’d planned. He’d come inside aiming to unmask Sarah Parker for what she was. Instead, Varina’d gotten the bit in her teeth, and now she was running away with it.
“I’ve made a home here,” she was saying. “You could, too. You could build your own cabin right on this land if you wanted. Why, you could even court yourself a good woman and have some young ones to grow up alongside mine—”
“Blast it, Varina, don’t you go planning my life!”
“And why not? If the planning was left to the men, this world would be a sorry place. And don’t you tell me a pretty girl can’t turn your head. I noticed the way you were eyeing Sarah Parker last night—”
“You were in no condition to notice anything.” Donovan’s controlled voice belied the emotion that flamed under his skin.
“I noticed enough.” Varina’s finger traced the curve of her baby’s tiny, shell-perfect ear. “Sarah would be a right handsome woman if she hid those little round glasses and let her hair fluff out around her face. But pretty or not, she’s got what truly matters—a good, kind heart.”
Donovan’s throat jerked as he swallowed an angry outburst. Varina wasn’t strong yet, he reminded himself. It wouldn’t hurt to wait a day or two before bringing down a woman who was clearly her friend.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to be calm. “You see everybody as good, Varina,” he said quietly. “What do you really know about this Sarah Parker?”
Varina’s arm tightened around her sleeping infant. “I know that this baby and I might not be alive if Sarah hadn’t been here last night. I know that when Charlie was killed, she was the first one here to help wash him and lay him out. And I know that she gives my girls book learning—more and better than I could give them myself. What else is there to know about her? Sarah’s as close to being a real angel as anybody I ever met.”
Donovan felt as if he were choking. Unable to sit any longer, he erupted off the stool, strode to the cabin’s single, small window and glared out at the pristine snow.
“But she’s a Yankee—”
“The war’s over, Donovan.”
“But what do you know about her past? Where did she come from? What the devil would she be doing in a place like this?”
“If it’s all that important, why don’t you ask her?” Varina sighed wearily. “Now, will you forgive me if I go back to sleep? It’ll be a day or two before I’m up to much—”
“I’m sorry.” Donovan bent and brushed a contrite kiss across his sister’s pale forehead. “I shouldn’t have unsettled you so.”
Varina inched her sore body down into the quilts and resettled the baby against her shoulder. “Promise me something,” she said, already drifting off.
“For you, anything.”
“Don’t refuse my offer right away. Take a few days to mull it over. Look at the town. Think about the life you could have here.”