The truck ride across my property was silent except for Stephy's breathing. She was tucked against me in the backseat, still clinging like a koala, Owen driving carefully over the dirt road to avoid bumps. Every pothole we couldn't avoid made Stephy whimper and press closer, though she never woke fully.
"She's holding on so tight," Louisa murmured, looking back at us.
"Been like this since I got her." I adjusted my arms, trying to ease the ache from holding the same position for hours. "Think she's afraid to let go."
"Poor thing probably is." Louisa's voice went fierce. "After what she's been through, she needs something solid to hold onto."
My guest cabin sat in a grove of oak trees, their branches creating a natural canopy. It was small—just one bedroom, a living area, kitchenette, and bathroom—but cozy. The morning light filtered through the leaves, creating dancing shadows on the cedar siding. I could see smoke curling from the chimney even though the morning was warming.
"Thought she might be cold," Louisa explained, as Owen parked carefully. "Shock makes people cold."
The front porch held two rocking chairs I'd built myself, and Louisa had put out potted flowers—something bright and cheerful that seemed to promise better days. She'd even hung wind chimes that sang softly in the morning breeze.
Inside was even better. The cabin smelled like lavender and fresh cotton, all traces of dust and disuse gone. Fresh sheets on the bed—Louisa's good ones, I noticed, the soft cotton ones she usually saved for guests. Towels stacked in the bathroom, fluffy and white. The kitchen table held water bottles, containers of what looked like homemade soup, crackers, tea, tissues—everything someone might need without having to ask. There were even clothes folded on the dresser, definitely fromSophia's closet, soft pajamas and sweats and t-shirts. Nothing complicated. Nothing that required decisions.
"You thought of everything," I said, my throat tight.
"That's what mothers do," Louisa said simply.
I carried Stephy to the bedroom, her weight familiar now after hours of holding her. As I tried to lay her on the bed, her arms tightened around my neck.
"No," she mumbled, still mostly asleep. "Don't let go."
"I'm just putting you in bed, sweetheart. I'm not leaving."
"Promise?" Her eyes cracked open, unfocused and vulnerable.
"Promise."
It took some maneuvering to get her settled without her feeling like I was abandoning her. Finally, I sat on the bed first, then gradually eased her down while keeping one hand on her arm. She immediately curled onto her side, pulling my hand against her chest like a teddy bear.
"'Kay," she mumbled. "Stay."
Owen touched my shoulder. "We'll give you two some space," he said quietly. "But we're right here if you need anything. Your house is thirty feet away, ours is just down the road."
"I stocked your fridge too," Louisa added, her voice soft but fierce. "And I'll check in later, bring some lunch for you both. Message me if y’all need anything else, honey."
They moved toward the door, but Louisa turned back. "Liam." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "How bad was it really?"
I met her eyes, let her see what I couldn't say with Stephy possibly listening. Her face went hard, that protective fury I'd seen her level at anyone who threatened her kids.
"She's safe now," was all she said. "We'll make sure of it. All of us."
After they left, I pulled the old club chair from the corner to the bedside and sat down, keeping my hand where Stephy could hold it. She'd shifted into proper sleep now, not that desperate unconsciousness from before. Her pulse was steadier, her breathing deeper. The death grip had relaxed to just holding my fingers.
Safe. She was safe.
The morning sun was fully up now, streaming through the windows, painting gold stripes across the quilted bedspread—one of Louisa's, I realized, probably from her hope chest. Outside, I could hear my ranch waking up—horses nickering for breakfast, roosters from the Blackwood ranch crowing in the distance, the sound of a truck that was probably Clay doing morning chores. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Home sounds.
I thought about her house in LA, all glass and angles and false security. About her useless team, more worried about image than her life. About the bruises on her throat, the terror in her voice when she'd called.
My free hand clenched into a fist.
"No one will ever get near you again, sweetheart," I said quietly, watching her sleep. "This is your safe place now. As long as you need it."
Her fingers tightened slightly around mine, and she pulled my hand closer, tucking it under her chin like she used to do with stuffed animals when we were kids.
"Home," she mumbled, so quiet I almost missed it.
