Mae waves it off with a huff. "You never know."
My gaze drops to Mae's leg immediately. It's braced against the doorframe, her weight shifted just slightly to one side. The movement is practiced, learned.
"How's your leg?" I ask.
Mae scoffs. "Nothing worth fussing over. Just a twist. I'm fine."
Fine has never meant fine in this house.
I nod anyway. I knew about the injury before I ever packed the car. Mae mentioned it weeks ago, tucked into a phone call the way she tucks anything that threatens to become inconvenient. A misstep fixing a fence. A sharp pain walked off. Nothing that requires company or concern.
I believed her. Or tried to.
It wasn't until Shae called—voice lowered, careful—and said folks around Ashford Ridge were starting to worry that Mae was struggling to keep up with things.
Five years is a long time to stay gone. Long enough to convince yourself absence is normal. Long enough to pretend you aren't choosing it.
I ended the call, stared at my calendar, and knew there wasn't another excuse left that would sit right in my chest.
I called my boss that afternoon. Family emergency, I needed flexibility for a few weeks. She agreed to let me work remotely as long as I stayed available. Temporary. Flexible. Under control—or at least that's what I told her.
I step inside, and the familiar coolness of the house settles around me. It smells the same as it always has—old wood, dust, coffee brewed too strong. Sunlight slants through the windows, catching on worn furniture and scuffed floors.
The house feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I've grown used to spaces that echo.
"You didn't have to come rushing back," Mae says, closing the door. "I was managing."
"Shae called."
Mae's mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. "Of course she did. This town's never been very good at minding its own."
I huff quietly.
We move into the kitchen together. Mae busies herself at the counter, fussing with nothing, and I lean against the doorway, watching her. Noticing the things I know better than to name. The way she avoids putting too much weight on her leg. The tightness around her mouth when she reaches for the kettle.
Coffee mugs appear between us. I wrap my hands around mine, letting the heat seep into my palms.
The kitchen looks the same in all the ways that matter. The worn edge of the counter where I slipped once and split my lip open. My mother at the sink, steady and brisk, telling me to hold still, this would sting, don't be dramatic.
My gaze drifts to my forearm. The scar is still there—faint now, pale against my skin, but unmistakable. I press my thumb to it once, then drop my hand back to the mug before I let myself think about it too long.
"I won't be here long," I say, because I need to say it. "Just until you're back on your feet."
Mae doesn't answer right away. She stirs her coffee longer than necessary, eyes on the slow swirl.
"I've had help," Mae says finally. "Someone keeping things running while I've been laid up."
I wait for her to elaborate, but she just takes another sip of coffee.
"Well," she adds, casual as anything. "I appreciate you being here."
Silence settles between us. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
"You can take your things to your room," Mae says. "It's the same as you left it."
I carry my bag down the hallway, my steps echoing softly. My bedroom door sticks for a moment before giving way, and the room feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I've just outgrown it.
My old quilt lies folded at the foot of the bed, colors faded but intact. Riding ribbons hang crooked on the wall—dusty blues and reds from junior rodeo, a few regional buckles catching the afternoon light. The whole town used to show up to watch me compete. Friday nights under the arena lights, bleachers packed with people who knew my name, who cheered when I cleared the barrels clean.
