Can't afford to let him see how broken I actually am. Can't afford to let him think he can fix this. Fixme.
Some things can't be fixed.
I turn the knob.
Step outside.
The air hits me like a slap—cold and sharp after the warmth of the house. The sky's just starting to lighten. That pale gray before sunrise. The barn's a dark shape against the horizon. Everything smells like dirt and hay and five generations of Clarks who knew exactly who they were.
I'm not one of them anymore.
I don't know what I am.
I make myself keep walking.
My truck's where I left it yesterday. I throw the bag in back and climb into the driver's seat. The steering wheel is freezing under my hands. I grip it tight, waiting for my heart to slow down.
It doesn't slow down.
I start the engine anyway.
It's too loud in the quiet morning. Too final.
Like the sound of something ending.
I put the truck in drive, and pull away slowly.
In the rearview mirror, I watch the house get smaller. Watch the porch light. Watch the bedroom window where he's still asleep, still believing I'll be there when he wakes up.
I watch until the curve of the driveway swallows it all.
Then there's just road.
Empty road stretching out ahead of me.
The sky's lighter now. Pink creeping in at the edges. It's going to be a clear day. A good day for ranch work. For riding. For all the things I'm walking away from.
My phone buzzes.
I don't look at it.
Can't look at it.
I turn the radio up instead and keep driving.
Chapter one
Hazel
Montana doesn't do subtle.
The sky is ridiculous out here—massive and blue, stacked on more blue, clouds piled along the horizon like they're waiting for something interesting to happen. My hands tighten on the steering wheel and I realize how small my truck feels.
Nothing out here apologizes for taking up space.
In the city, quiet costs money. Apps. Headphones. Sealed windows. There's always a hum underneath, some reminder that you're never really alone. This quiet is different. It doesn't hum or buzz or rush. It just exists.
Wind hits my truck as I crest another rise, and somewhere in the distance, cattle low. The sound carries, slow and familiar, settling into my chest before I can stop it. I roll my shouldersand take a breath deeper than any I've managed in the last twelve hours.
