I blink at him. “No.”
“You ever lie to Sadie?”
“No, no way.”
He nods. “Boone?”
I hesitate.
“By omission,” I say finally. “I didn’t tell him everything. I let him assume the best. That I just burned out. That I… walked away from a demanding job. I didn’t tell him I set fire to my own life first.”
Caleb exhales through his nose.
“That’s a hell of a metaphor,” he says. “But for the record? You didn’t set the fire alone.”
“Does that matter?”
“It does to me,” he says simply.
My throat closes.
“Caleb…” I start, then trail off, because what am I supposed to say? Thank you for not thinking I’m the devil? Thanks for sitting on the floor while I have a breakdown next to the salt?
He shifts, inching just a little closer. The point of contact is small, but it feels huge. One solid, warm line in the middle of everything.
He tilts his head, trying to catch my eyes.
“Can I tell you what I see?” he asks.
I want to say no. I want to say don’t, don’t make this worse, don’t make me hope. Instead, I sniff and shrug, which he apparently takes as a yes.
“I see a woman who moved across the country because she refused to stay stuck in a kitchen that chewed her up,” he says. “I see someone who gets up before dawn to pack a six-year-old’s lunch in ways that make her excited to eat carrot sticks. I see someone who sings while she works, even when she thinks no one’s listening. I see someone who talks to the old horses likethey’re people and brings the ranch hands extra biscuits on the days she knows the work is harder.”
My chest aches.
“Caleb…”
“I see a woman who made mistakes,” he continues, not letting me interrupt, “and is paying for them over and over in ways that don’t match the crime. I see someone who deserves more than to be defined by the worst thing she did in the worst season of her life.”
My eyes burn so hot I have to look away.
“It’s not that simple,” I whisper.
“Nothing important ever is,” he agrees. “But it also isn’t as simple as ‘monster’ and ‘saint,’ and that’s the game people like Dottie like to play. They pick a side and pretend the whole story fits in a caption.”
I huff out a shaky laugh. “You’re very poetic for a man who spends most of his time elbow deep in horse feed.”
He huffs quietly. “I read a lot.”
My breathing evens out. The sobs recede into hiccupy aftershocks.
I let myself lean into the warmth at my shoulder. Let myself pretend the rest of the world is still outside the ranch, that the kitchen is still just a kitchen, not a stage.
His hand moves, just slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he asks, “What do you need?”
