The door clicks shut behind him, and for the first time since I crawled into bed, I feel at rest.
Chapter thirty-four
Beau
Thefirecrackleslowin the stone hearth, throwing warm orange light across the otherwise dark living room. I’m stretched out on the rug with my back against the couch, glass of whiskey in hand, boots kicked off, socked feet tucked close to the heat after tidying the main living area. Can’t stand the clutter, even when no one’s watching.
Everyone else is in their own rooms now.
Law, with his book and his glasses, likely with a bag of chocolate he thinks no one knows about.
Lincoln’s probably staring at the ceiling, mind running a mile a minute about every problem under the sun.
Jasper… hell. He’s either pacing as all of his emotions crash into him at once or pretending not to feel anything at all.
And Abigail….
I roll my shoulders back and rake a hand through my hair, the fire popping like it knows I’m avoiding something. Humor’s my thing. Always has been. Crack a joke. Flash the dimples. Keep it light.
Easy.
Safe.
Keeps people from looking too close.
But nights like this? When the house settles and only the walls remember?
They make it harder to pretend.
I stare into the fire and let myself drift off, just a little, back to a seventeen-year-old kid who smelled like sweat and old laundry because I didn’t know how to ask for help.
I remember Lawson noticing first.
He always did.
I’d show up to school with bruises blooming purple and yellow under my sleeves, collar tugged high even when it was hot. I was hungryall the damn time. Angry. Dirty. I tried to laugh it off—made jokes at the teacher’s expense, interrupt class with a smart remark—and for a while, everyone let me.
Except for them.
Junior year, they followed me home one day.
God, I can still see Lawson’s face when he realized my mom wasn’t “sick” anymore like I’d said. She was gone. Overdosed. Dead. And Ray was all that she left behind.
I don’t like remembering the sound he made when Lawson hit him.
Or the way everything went silent after.
But I remember Chris showing up. No questions asked. No judgment. Just… people who wanted to take care of me.
That was the night Willow Creek Ranch became my home.
I swallow and shift closer to the fire, the heat grounding me.
I’ve lived here ever since. Eaten their food. Slept in their beds. Worn their brand across my chest like it was always meant to be mine. And still… sometimes… I feel like nothing more than a guest who’s overstayed his welcome.
They tell me I contribute. That I matter. That the ranch wouldn’t be the same without me. Hell, they even signed part of it over to me like it was nothing.
But old ghosts don’t listen to logic.
