Boone’s stomach dropped. He knew that voice. Sheriff Hank Goodwin. His bastard of an uncle from his mom’s side. The last person he wanted to see right now.
The knocking continued, each thud sending a fresh spike of pain through his head. He swore under his breath and trudged to the door, pulling it open mid-knock.
Hank stood on the porch, uniform perfectly pressed, his face a mask of righteous anger. The sheriff’s badge gleamed in the early light, polished to a shine that hurt Boone’s eyes. The sky was just beginning to lighten, streaks of pale pink cutting through the gray.
These long, cold winter nights just might kill him before the booze.
He blinked, trying to focus on his uncle’s face. The man looked tired with deep lines etched around cold eyes that held no sympathy, only judgment.
“Jesus,” Hank said, nostrils flaring as he caught the smell of whiskey. “You been drinking?”
Boone didn’t answer, just leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. No point denying what they both knew was true.
“Just like Micah,” Hank spat. “Your old man couldn’t stay sober for more than a month either. Always had an excuse. Always had something driving him to the bottle.”
“Why are you here?” Boone’s voice came out as a gravel-rough scrape.
Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you last night?”
“Here.”
“All night?” The question had an edge that made the hair on Boone’s neck stand up.
“Yes. Why? Do I need an alibi?” He wasn’t about to explain to Hank that he’d been pouring his heart out to Dr. Perrin in the barn at 3 a.m.
“Your mother was found wandering Main Street at two in the morning.” Hank’s words landed like ice water down Boone’s back. “In her nightgown. No coat. No shoes. It was seven degrees.”
The world stopped spinning. Boone’s throat closed up. “What?”
“Mrs. Henderson found her outside the general store, calling your name. Said she was hysterical, claiming you’d been kidnapped and she needed to find you.” Hank’s voice was cold and clinical now, the voice he used for police reports. “By the time I got there, she was blue from the cold. She didn’t know where she was or how she got there.”
His mother, wandering confused in the freezing night,while he sat in a barn feeling sorry for himself. While he drank himself stupid.
“Is she?—”
“She’s fine. No frostbite, but it was close. She’s lucky.” Hank stepped closer, crowding Boone’s space. “This is the third time in two months she’s wandered at night. Did you know that? No, you didn’t, because you’re out here playing ranch hand instead of taking care of the one person who never gave up on you.”
The image of his mother standing alone in the snow, confused and calling his name, broke something loose inside Boone’s chest. A jagged shard of guilt, so sharp he could hardly breathe around it.
“I visit her every day.”
“During daylight. When it’s convenient.” Hank snorted. “She needs someone there at night. She’s scared, and when she gets scared, she looks for you. Always has, God knows why.”
Boone glared at him. “Too bad she doesn’t have any other family in town to help.”
Hank’s face twisted into something ugly. “Your mother gave up everything for Micah Callahan. She chose a drifter with a drinking problem over the Goodwin name.”
Boone pushed off the doorframe, straightening to his full height. Even with his pounding headache, he towered over his uncle. “That drifter built her a home. What did the almighty Goodwins ever do except turn their backs?”
“She made her choice,” Hank said, jaw tight. “She knew what would happen if she married him. Dad told her straight out—Micah Callahan or the family. Not both.”
“And Mom chose love over money. Must’ve killed you all.”
“Love?” Hank laughed, a harsh sound that scraped against Boone’s raw nerves. “Is that what you call that? That’s not what it was. He hit her, Boone. When he drank.”
“That’s a lie,” he growled, though something cold slitheredthrough his gut. His father had been many things—unreliable, quick to anger, fond of the bottle—but he’d never raised a hand to Leonora.
Had he?
