“That kid doesn’t need a search party,” I say, stepping past him and into the aisle. Horses flick their ears toward us as we walk. “She’d ride Moose down here and haul me in by the boot.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “She would at that.”
We walk toward the house together, the air cooling now that the sun’s slipping behind the ridge. Crickets are starting up, and one of the ranch dogs trots past us with a piece of rope in his mouth, happy as sin.
“How’d it go at school today?”
Boone grunts. Which, in his language, could mean anything fromfinetothe apocalypse is nigh.
“What’d Carol do now?” I try.
He huffs out a breath, jaw ticking. “PTA meeting after school. She wants parents more involved in the Mother’s Day thing. Volunteers, decorations, photo booth, all that. Made a point again, saying some parents ‘opt out of participating in their child’s school life.’” His mouth goes flat. “She looked at me when she said it.”
“Subtle.”
He ignores the comment. “Then she mentioned the ‘Mommy & Me breakfast’ like she wasn’t twisting the knife.”
I feel my hands curl into fists in my pockets. “Sadie hear that?”
“Yeah.” He stares ahead. “Went quiet after.”
I can picture it. Sadie, with her big eyes, soaking it all in, pretending it doesn’t hurt. That kid’s got more resilience than most adults, and people still manage to bruise her.
“We’ll make our own damn breakfast,” I utter. “Doesn’t have to be at the school to matter.”
He says nothing, but the tight line of his shoulders eases just a fraction.
This is how it usually goes with us. He stews. I listen. Neither of us says the soft parts out loud.
The porch comes into view, light spilling from the kitchen windows, warm and inviting. There’s a smell too, garlic and a rich butteryness that makes my stomach sit up and pay attention.
“New chef working out?” I ask. “I haven’t eaten anything of hers yet, and as you can imagine, after visiting Mom for a few days, I’mstarving.”
Boone makes a low sound that could be a laugh. “She still trying that… herbal thing?”
“‘Food should taste like music,’” I quote, deadpan. “Her words, not mine.”
Boone huffs. “Your mom’s cooking has always tasted awful.”
“Regret and oregano,” I remark. “Mostly oregano.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now, just a little. Maggie Westbrook is a good woman. Big heart. Big dreams. Very little understanding of seasoning ratios. I love her, but every time I visit whatever state she’s currently travelling through, she sendsme home with Tupperware full of vegetarian ‘creations’ she’s certain will change my life.
She always hugs me tight, afraid I won’t come back.
And she always cooks for me, trying her best.
Even if her best once gave me heartburn so bad I had to lie on the floor.
Boone gives another of those grunts. “Well, Delaney seems competent.”
Which, from him, is pretty high praise.
“Oh, and Sadie likes her.”
That’s more important than anything. You want into Boone Taylor’s inner circle, you go through his daughter.
I take a breath and follow Boone inside.
