No. Hank had a way of turning rumors into facts when it suited him. Sure, Micah Callahan hadn’t been perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d worked hard to give his wife and son a home and a happy life.
“Dad loved her.”
“Your father was a drunk who couldn’t hold down a job for more than six months. He’s half the reason Leonora is crazy now. You’re the other half.”
The self-righteous fuck.
Rage boiled up, burning at the back of his throat. He rolled his fingers into fists until his nails dug into his palms. It would feel so good to put his fist through Hank’s smug face. To see the pompous expression crumple under his knuckles until there was nothing left of that smirk but bloody pulp.
But he’d been down that road before. It had cost him four years of his life.
He sucked in a calming breath and turned away, unable to look at his uncle anymore. “Get out.”
“You can’t run from who you are, Boone.” Hank’s voice followed him. “That DNA you got from Micah don’t wash off. The drinking. The temper. The failure to be there when people need you.”
The words were a knife twist. His temper flared, hot and dangerous, but he tamped it down. He wouldn’t give Hank the satisfaction of proving him right.
“Your mother’s at BCMC,” Hank added. “They’re keeping her for observation today. I suggest you go see her, then pack up your things and move back home where you belong.”
Home.
The word felt hollow. That little house at the edge of town wasn’t home anymore. It was just the place where his mother was slowly disappearing.
Boone spun around, red-hot rage bursting through his fragile self-control. “My mother needed her family, her home, sixteen years ago.” The words ripped from his throat, each one sharper than the last. “None of you even showed at Dad’s funeral. Where was your concern when she needed help with medical bills? With the mortgage? With a twelve-year-old boy who just watched his father die? Where were you then?” He slashed a hand through the air. “No. You know what? Don’t answer that. Just get the hell off this property before I forget you’re wearing a badge.”
Hank’s hand drifted to his belt, to the holster that held his service weapon. A warning. “You threatening an officer, Boone?”
“I’m asking you to leave.” Boone forced his voice to level out, though every muscle in his body screamed to throw this man off the porch. “You’ve delivered your message. Now go.”
For a moment, he thought Hank might push it, might give him an excuse to unleash the rage boiling inside him. Part of him wanted it. Wanted the simplicity of a fight, the clarity of pain.
Instead, Hank adjusted his hat and stepped back. “You do what you want. You always have.”
Then he turned and walked away, boots crunching in the snow.
Boone slammed the door shut and pressed his forehead against the cool wood. His stomach churned with a toxic mix of hangover and guilt. The image of his mother wandering alone in her nightgown, barefoot in the snow, calling his name...
Christ.
He stumbled back to his room and sank onto the edge ofthe bed, head in his hands. The pounding in his skull intensified.
What kind of son was he?
What kind of man?
Just like your father.
The accusation rang in his ears, impossible to silence. He’d sworn he wouldn’t be like Micah. Promised himself he’d be better. Stronger. More reliable. But here he was, hungover on Christmas Eve, while his mother lay in a hospital bed.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand and dialed Bravlin County Medical Center. After navigating a maze of automated options, he finally reached a nurse who confirmed his mother was there and stable, but heavily medicated. They were holding her for an involuntary psych evaluation, and visits were discouraged for the first twenty-four hours.
Boone hung up and stared at the worn duffel bag on the chair in the corner. He’d never fully unpacked since arriving at Valor Ridge. Some part of him had always known this wouldn’t last. That he didn’t deserve it. That eventually, he’d screw up and have to leave.
Like now.
He stood, grabbed the bag, and began stuffing his meager belongings inside. Three shirts. Two pairs of jeans. Socks with holes in the heels. The picture of him and his mom from his boot camp graduation. His discharge papers.
He found a plastic bag in the kitchen, gathered his few toiletries from the bathroom into it, then added it to the duffel.
