Sutton attempts to fill the silence with soft reassurances, but I’m barely listening.
For the first time in a long time, I am sure of something.
Whatever happened back then, whatever my mother did, it wasn’t only a scandal. It was something no one in this town dares to talk about.
And somehow, I’m standing in the middle of it.
Thanks, mom.
36
The next morning,the house is quiet. Too quiet.
Sunlight cuts through the kitchen windows in narrow, accusing bands, dust floating in the air like something unsettled. Sutton hums softly as she moves around the table, helping Shiloh set up breakfast. John sits at the head of the table, reading the paper, his coffee steaming beside him.
Everything is normal. But it all feels wrong.
All I can see is that man’s face from the festival. The hard squint of his eyes, the curl of his lips when he accused me of being Sadie. His words have been replaying in my head all night, stitching themselves into every thought until I can’t breathe around them.
Everyone ignored the incident when we got home. John kept his silence. Sutton tried to make small talk on the drive, asking about the vendors and the food like I hadn’t been accused by a stranger with a grudge of doing something horrible that no one will name.
I hardly slept.
Now, as Sutton pours coffee and the semll of syrup fills the air, I decide I can’t sit here another second pretending I don’tcare. That needing to know the truth doesn’t cause my skin to itch.
“I’m going for a drive,” I say. “Do you mind if I take one of the trucks?”
John doesn’t look up. “Where?”
“Just out,” I tell him. “Mostly want to get some air and off the ranch.”
“Don’t go past town and keep your phone on,” he mutters. “Ask Bowen for the keys.”
I nod, graciously accepting the plate Sutton hands me. I don’t plan on going anywhere near town and I sure as hell don’t plan on keeping my phone on so that he can track me. Not that I use it much since I came here. John had Sutton give it to me when I first arrived, but I’ve barely taken it anywhere. I’m not used to having one and it feels weird to constantly keep it with me.
Once we’re done with breakfast, I head out to the garage to find Bowen already waiting for me with a set of keys in his hand.
“Take the Toyota. It’s the smallest one in the fleet and should be easier for you to handle.”
I give him a small smile and a nod, gratefully taking the keys from him before striding toward the smaller truck and getting myself situated. It’s been a while since I’ve driven. There isn’t much use for a place like L.A. Not when there are subway and bus systems that run the near length of the city.
The sky is a clear, brittle blue. It’s morning that looks gentle but cuts sharp with every gust of wind. The road out of Broken Ridge winds through dirt roads and dry summer pastures. Yellow grass bends under the wind. Old barns lean in slow decay against the horizon. Every few miles, another ranch sign appears—names burned into the weathered boards, bloodlines that have lived and died on this soil for generations.
I follow the dirt road that splits off toward Blue Skye Ranch, the names burned into my memory like something half-remembered from a dream. My mother used to say that growing up here was like growing up with “skies so wide they made you believe in God.”
I don’t know if she believed that but seeing the open sky before me makes me want to.
By the time the truck rattles over the cattle guard of my grandparent’s ranch, my stomach is in knots.
The ranch sprawls out over rolling pastures, the fences bowed and mended in too many places to count. A windmill groans in the distance, slow and uneven, the blades flashing dull silver in the sun. Cattle graze near the fence line, their low bellows echoing across the flat land.
The main house sits on a small rise. The white paint has long turned gray, porch sagging in the middle, rocking chairs bleached by years of weather. Does Hudson know how much this ranch is in disrepair? This isn’t the mansion type ranch houses that graces Broken Ridge and Black Diamond. Hell, even some of the smaller ranches owned by Black Diamond have better homes than this one.
A ghost of a memory flickers. Me, five or six, listening to my mother tell a story about the endless blue sky as she braided my hair. There was soft laughter and gentle warmth in her eyes.
Until there wasn’t.
That was the day my mother changed into someone I barely recognized.
