"I met him." The words come out before I can stop them. "Cash. Outside."
Lucinda's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes. "Did you now?"
"We've met before. A long time ago."
"I figured." She hands me a hand-drawn, laminated map. "He's been different the last three days since your name came through." She pauses. "Whatever you're running from? It's faster than you are. Might as well stop here and face it."
I take the map. My hands are still shaking. "Thank you."
"Be kind to him," she says quietly. "And to yourself. You both deserve that much."
I nod and turn toward the door, pulling my suitcase behind me. Outside, the sun is lower now, turning the hills gold. I follow the path past the barn. The round pen is empty. Cash is gone.
Cabin 5 sits at the end of the path, exactly where the map says it is. It’s small, the wood siding weathered silver-gray. A rocking chair sits on the porch, and the windows face east toward the hills.
I know this cabin. This porch. This screen door. This view from that rocking chair. I unlock the door and step inside. It's been updated with a new mattress, new linens, and a small table with two chairs, but the layout is the same. Bed against the far wall. Small kitchenette. Bathroom door to the left.
Out the window, the hills roll into the distance, mesquite and live oak and limestone outcroppings catching the late sun. There's the ridge where we watched the sunrise that last morning. Where he told me I could stay. Where I said I had to go back to real life.
My phone buzzes. One bar of service, barely functional, flickering like it can't decide whether to connect. One last email from Diane loads in fragments:Remember: the goal isn't to fix you. It's to remind you who you were before you forgot.
I stare at the words until they blur. The signal drops completely. No bars. No connection. Just silence pressing in from all sides.
I don't tap the Wi-Fi icon to reconnect.
The silence is immediate and enormous. No notifications. No emails. Just silence. And in that silence, the truth catches up.
I came here once before. Met someone. Felt something I've never felt since. Left anyway because I thought I had to choose between joy and achievement. I chose achievement. Built a career. Climbed the ladder. Collapsed on a conference room floor because my body finally called me on the lie.
And now I'm back.
I set my phone on the table and walk to the bathroom, stripping off my cardigan and flats. The tile is cool under my bare feet, and I run cold water, splashing my face. The woman in the mirror looks exhausted. Hollowed out. I don't recognize her.
Outside, the light is going golden-pink. I leave my feet bare and walk back to the window to press my forehead against the glass. It's still warm from the sun.
In the distance, I can see lights from the barn. Someone's still working. Probably him.
Six a.m. tomorrow. He'll knock on this door. He'll hand me coffee the way I like it. And then we'll see if it's too late to remember the me I was before I forgot.
I pull away from the window and walk to the porch. The air has cooled, and somewhere a coyote calls. I sit in the rocking chair and let it creak under my weight. The sound is familiar. The same sound from that last morning when I sat here with my bagspacked and my heart breaking, waiting for the ride that would take me away from him.
I close my eyes, breathing in sage and dust and the smell of a Texas night.
Tomorrow at six a.m., everything changes.
Or maybe it already has.
Chapter two
Cash
Five-thirty comes, and I'm already awake, which means I didn't sleep. Not really. Just stared at the ceiling of my house and listened to the night sounds of coyotes, wind through mesquite, and the distant lowing of cattle while my mind ran circles around the fact that Sloane Hartley is on the ranch in Cabin 5.
The same cabin. The same woman. Seventeen years later.
Elbows on my knees, I sit on the edge of the bed in the dark, trying to get my pulse under control. My heart's been doing this thing since yesterday, where it forgets how to beat steadily. It pounds too hard, then skips, then pounds again as if it's trying to make up for lost time.
I've dated. God knows I've tried. There was Sarah three years ago, a kindergarten teacher from the outskirts of Rosewood County, sweet and uncomplicated. Lasted four months before she told me I was "emotionally unavailable." Then Rebecca, the nurse who came through on a contract job. Six weeks. She said I was "waiting for someone who wasn't coming back."
