I stood there for a moment, pulse hammering, face burning.Get it together. Get it together.I could feel eyes on me—ranch hands, family, everyone pretending not to have heard. My throat tightened with the effort of not screaming, not crying, not doing anything that would confirm what they were all probably thinking:Maggie finally lost it.
I walked toward the barn like nothing had happened. Like my hands weren't shaking.
Ivy watched from a distance, uncertainty in her soft eyes. She started toward me twice and stopped both times. When our eyes met across the yard, she gave me a small, worried smile. I looked away.
Hunter made a dry comment about someone waking up on the wrong side of the bed.
The look I gave him could have stripped paint. He actually apologized—Hunter, who never apologized for anything. The fact that I'd rattled him badly enough to produce genuine contrition should have made me feel guilty.
It didn't. Nothing did. I was hollow inside, operating on autopilot, running through the motions of a life that no longer meant anything. The sickness in my gut had settled into something duller now—a constant low hum of dread, the feeling of waiting for a blow that had already landed.
Even Daddy gave me a wide berth after one clipped exchange about irrigation schedules. Owen Blackwood had raised seven children through all manner of crises. But something in my face that morning made him step back and let me be.
"We'll talk later," he said quietly, and walked away.
Clay passed me near the equipment shed and didn't say a word. Just looked at me with those steady eyes, then kept walking. Somehow that was worse than questions.
I told myself I was functioning. I didn't need Jack. I was fine before him and I'd be fine after.
I was lying to myself so hard it was almost impressive.
Every time I walked past the barn, I saw him there—leaning against the fence post, watching the horses with that quiet patience of his. Every time I looked toward the bunkhouse, I remembered him walking out in the mornings, Sully at his heels. Every time I passed the spot near the stock tanks where we'd had the water fight, I felt the ghost of his hands catching me, his laughter, the cold shock of water and the warmth that came after.
He was everywhere.
The note sat in my pocket like a live coal.
If you ever come for me, come all the way.
By midafternoon, I'd retreated to the small office near the tack room—the same office where Jack had found me talking about the horse program. Where I'd spread out breeding charts and five-year plans and dreamed out loud while he listened like every word mattered. He'd looked at me like I was extraordinary that day. Like my dreams were worth having.
Now I sat at the same desk, staring at paperwork I hadn't actually read in twenty minutes.
Momma appeared in the doorway without announcement.
She didn't knock. Didn't ask permission. She just walked in, closed the door behind her, and stood there with that calm,immovable presence that had been calling me on my bullshit for thirty-two years.
"Jack's gone," she said. Not a question.
My throat tightened. I kept my eyes on the paperwork. "He quit. Left this morning."
"Maggie."
"It's fine. We'll hire someone else. The horse program can wait until?—"
"Magnolia Grace Blackwood." Momma's voice was soft but unyielding—the voice that had gotten confessions out of seven stubborn children for three decades. "Look at me."
I looked up.
Her face was gentle. Patient. Completely undeceived by the armor I was wearing.
"Are you hurting?"
Three words. Simple. Direct. Impossible to deflect.
I broke.
Just like in the cabin, these tears were messy. Ugly. The kind of tears I hadn't let my family see in years.
