“I hear things.” She shrugged. “Plus, Clint came by for breakfast supplies. Told me what happened with the bank.”
I nodded toward the house. “Found something. A letter. From Caroline. To her dad.”
Sarah’s brows lifted, but she said nothing for a beat. Then, softly, “You gonna give it to Ella?”
I hesitated.
“She deserves to know,” Sarah added. “Even if it’s hard.”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think she does.”
A gust of wind kicked up as Sarah turned to leave. I slipped the pie into the house and headed toward the barn.
Inside the barn, tools were neatly hung, and someone had swept the main aisle. But it was quiet. Too quiet.
“Ella?” I called.
No response.
I moved toward the tack room—and stopped in the doorway.
She sat on the floor, legs tucked up, arms wrapped around her knees. Her face was turned away, but I could see the way her shoulders trembled.
Crying. Alone.
My chest tightened, a familiar ache of helplessness twisting in my gut. I took a small step back, the floorboards groaning faintly under my weight. Should I interrupt? Was now the moment for old letters and buried truths?
The paper in my pocket felt heavy, a burden I couldn’t place on her shoulders, not now. Maybe not yet. Maybe what she needed right now wasn’t another burden, wasn't a history lesson, but simply someone who stayed close without asking questions.
So I stood in the doorway, a solid, silent presence, offering her the one thing I could in that moment. My unwavering, quiet presence.
Chapter 13 - Breaking Barriers
Ella
The barn was still, hushed under the creeping weight of twilight and the soft descent of falling snow. The cold seeped into my bones, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
One second I was crying alone in the dusty quiet of the tack room, knees hugged tight to my chest, overwhelmed by a grief I didn’t even understand—and the next, a long, familiar shadow stretched across the rough wooden floor. I hadn’t heard Max approach.
He didn’t say anything right away, his presence a quiet, solid anchor in the suddenly less-empty space. He just stood there,one hand braced on the sturdy wooden doorframe, the other holding something—a folded piece of paper, a letter?
“I didn’t mean to—” I wiped my eyes, embarrassed to be caught like this. But there was something gentle in his eyes, softer than I’d ever seen. It made me stop pretending.
He stepped inside, offering me the letter with careful reverence, like it was something sacred.
“I found this in your grandfather’s office. Hidden in an old journal,” he said quietly. “It’s from your mom. To him.”
My breath hitched, sharp and ragged. I took it with shaking fingers, the aged paper surprisingly soft against my skin. The words blurred instantly through fresh tears, but I read them anyway, drinking in every single loop of ink.
“I thought she hated him,” I whispered, my voice raw. “She never talked about this place. Never told me anything.”
“She didn’t forget,” Max said, his voice low. “That much is clear.”
I nodded, the letter clutched to my chest like a lifeline. “I don’t know what to do with all this.”
“You don’t have to figure it out tonight,” he replied, kneeling beside me. “But I think you deserve to know the truth. Even if it’s messy.”
For a long moment, we just sat there in the quiet, the scent of hay and damp earth and falling snow mixing with the strange, bittersweet ache in my chest.
