"Or sometimes it's just insane," I countered. "I don't blame him for choosing Dallas. I really don't. I just wish he'd called to tell me instead of disappearing like smoke."
"You could call him."
"And say what? 'Hey, remember when you said you loved me and I walked away without saying it back?' No. If he wanted to talk, he'd reach out. He knows where I am."
Pops opened his mouth to respond, but a sound from outside cut him off.
Tires crunching on gravel. An engine cutting off in the driveway.
We both froze. It was nearly five o'clock. No deliveries. Cassie was at work. Jake wasn't due until tomorrow.
"You expectin' someone?" Pops asked, trying to leverage himself up.
"Stay." I stood, moving to the window, nudging aside the curtain to peer out.
A truck sat in the driveway. Not mine—this one was newer, covered in road dust like it'd driven through half the state, rental plates visible. And standing beside the driver's door, pulling a single black duffel bag from the bed, was a figure that made my heart stop mid-beat.
Black Stetson. Worn jeans. Chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Beau.
He was here. Actually, physically here.
My heart lurched, hammering so hard I felt it in my throat. Heat flooded my face, then drained away, leaving me cold and shaking.
"Winnie?" Pops' voice was sharp with concern. "Who is it? If it's those reporters again, I swear to God—"
"It's him." The words came out strangled. "It's Beau."
I heard the walker scrape against the floor as Pops maneuvered closer, peering over my shoulder. We watched together as Beau shouldered the duffel—just one, not the three overstuffed suitcases he'd arrived with four months ago—adjusted his hat, and started walking toward the house.
He looked different. Thinner. Exhausted. His walk was purposeful but hesitant, like a man who'd driven through the night but wasn't sure of his welcome.
"Well, I'll be damned," Pops said. "Guess we're about to find out if I need that shotgun after all. Where'd I put it? Hall closet?"
"You're not shooting him."
"Not immediately. But maybe just brandishin' it. For intimidation purposes. Though if he's here to break your heart again, all bets are off."
Beau reached the porch steps. Paused at the bottom, looking up at the house like he was gathering every ounce of courage he possessed.
Then he climbed. Each step deliberate. And knocked.
The sound reverberated through the house, through my chest, through every wall I'd built over fourteen days of silence.
"Winnie?" Beau's voice filtered through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "Win, I know you're in there. Your truck's here, and I saw the curtain move. Please. I need... I need to talk to you."
Pops raised an eyebrow. "You gonna make him stand out there all day cookin' in the heat? Or you at least gonna hear what he drove all night to say?"
"I don't know if I can." The admission felt like failure. "What if he's here to say goodbye? What if he chose Dallas and just wanted to do it in person?"
"Then he's a damn fool, and I'll get the shotgun," Pops said matter-of-factly. "But what if he didn't? What if that boy's standin' on our porch with one bag because he gave everythin' else up?"
I looked at the door. At the shadow of Beau's figure visible through the frosted glass. At the duffel bag.
One bag.
My hand moved to the doorknob before my brain gave permission. I took a breath that didn't quite fill my lungs.
