“I know,” I reply, because pretending otherwise would be a lie neither of us needs.
She grips the edge of the seat once she’s inside, knuckles whitening as she stares straight ahead. “What if it doesn’t help?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. “It might not fix everything,” I tell her evenly. “But it makes it harder for him to pretend.”
She nods, swallowing, and finally pulls the door shut.
On the drive back, she keeps checking the mirrors, shoulders tight, eyes darting in quick, practiced movements. She’s jumpy. Not fragile—alert. Her nervous system hasn’t gotten the memo that she’s not under threat this second, and every passing car is something to be cataloged and assessed.
When the ranch finally comes into view, she exhales. She’s been holding her breath for miles, even though the tension doesn’t fully leave her body.
Caleb’s waiting when we pull in, and one look at her face tells him everything he needs to know.
“How’d it go?” he asks quietly, careful with the space between words.
She opens her mouth to answer, but nothing comes out, so I step in. “We filed. Kurt’s handling it.”
Caleb nods, accepting that without pushing for details, because that’s who he is.
Delaney heads down the hall fast, retreating to her room because it’s the only place with walls thick enough to breathe behind, and the door closes softly but decisively.
I lean back against the counter and scrub a hand down my face while Caleb keeps his gaze on the hallway.
“She’s scared,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answer, because there’s no point pretending otherwise. “And right now, I think we need to remind Delaney that this is a safe place, and that we’re here for her, no matter what.”
“Oh yeah?” Caleb cocks a brow. “What do you have in mind?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Delaney
I comeout of my room expecting quiet.
Maybe leftover tea. Maybe Silas half asleep on the couch, Caleb already gone into the barn, Boone moving through the house like a shadow after Sadie is sleeping because he thinks rest is optional.
What I do not expect is this.
I stop dead at the end of the hall.
The dining table looks like a picture out of a magazine. Not rustic ranch nice, intentional nice. A linen tablecloth I’ve never seen before. Real napkins. Candles arranged with care instead of whatever was closest to hand. Flowers, actual flowers, spilled across the center in a loose, colorful line as if someone stood there and fussed over them until they felt right.
The lights are dimmed low. Music hums softly from the speakers. And the smell…
Oh.
Not home cooking.
This is… fancy. Rich. Layered. Expensive.
Silas is standing near the counter in a pressed button-down, sleeves rolled just enough, hair styled instead of all overthe place for once. Caleb’s in a dark sweater that fits him dangerously well, clean boots instead of barn ones. Boone…
Boone is wearing a jacket.
Not workwear. Not ranch practical.
A jacket.
