Before I can say anything else, the bell over the door jingles again.
I turn just as Waylon steps inside, holding the hand of a little blonde-haired girl with pigtails and big blue eyes.
Imma Jean squeals, “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Ludlow!” She rushes over, pulling him into a hug before he can react. “And this must be Miss Ruby. Priscilla told me all about her little granddaughter.”
Waylon laughs, as he wraps his arms around her and kisses her cheek.
Ruby peeks out from behind his leg, shy but curious and in the sweetest little voice asks Imma Jean about cookies.
A moment later, Imma Jean has her by the hand and is leading her to the pastry counter.
Waylon shakes his head as his eyes glance around the café. When they land on our booth, he smiles, and the dimples that made my heart race in high school appear. I sigh before I can stop myself, and Daddy’s eyebrows lift.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, taking a sip from his mug to hide a grin as Waylon heads our way.
Sunday mornings feel different in Wildhaven.
They’re quieter, and they move slower than they do in Vegas. Ruby hums to herself in the back seat as I pull my truck up in front of Ryse & Shine, her boots kicking gently against the back of my seat. She’s wearing the same white sweater she was the day we arrived, paired with thin brown leggings.
We need more clothes. Warm ones. Riding clothes.
But first, Imma Jean.
Ruby gasps the second we step inside. The smell alone does it. Butter and sugar and coffee. Imma Jean looks up from behind the counter, and her face breaks into a huge grin—the one that makes you feel like you belong here even if you’ve spent half your life gone.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite Ludlow,” she says, already wiping her hands on her apron before rushing over and wrapping me in a warm embrace. “And this must be Miss Ruby. Priscilla told me all about her little granddaughter.” Ruby doesn’t hide behind my leg, like she usually does with strangers. She steps forward, eyes wide. “Do you have cookies with pink frosting?” she asks.
Imma Jean laughs as she crouches down to Ruby’s level. “Honey, I have cookies with all the colors of frosting,” she says, immediately winning Ruby over by taking her hand, leading her over to the glass case and pointing out each pastry. Cinnamon rolls the size of her head. Glazed doughnuts. Raspberry turnovers. Chocolate croissants, dusted with powdered sugar, and every cookie a child could want.
I’m smiling without realizing it when I spot Albert Storm in the corner booth, coffee in hand, Shelby sitting across from him.
Shelby Storm—arms crossed, posture guarded, eyes sharp as they land on me.
And there it is.
That twist of guilt, tightening just under my ribs.
I didn’t exactly plan to have this conversation today, but here we go.
I leave Ruby as she points out her selection to Imma Jean and walk toward the booth.
“Albert,” I say. “Mind if I interrupt for a second?”
Albert looks up, eyes already dancing. “Waylon Ludlow. I was wonderin’ when I’d see you again.”
Shelby’s mouth tightens.
“I wanted to apologize,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “For … the other night. And the morning after. That was—”
“Damn funny?” Albert supplies.
Shelby shoots him a look. “Daddy.”
He waves her off. “I’m not upset, son. Scared the hell outta Shelby, sure, but I heard the whole story over supper. Barn floor. Whiskey. The hosing. Classic.”
I glance at Shelby. “I really am sorry.”
