I don’t deserve him.
Another text lights up my phone.
Hadley.
I flip it over on the dash and keep my eyes on the highway. I’m driving home by myself. No road trip buddy this time. He’s laid up in the hospital another day. Or so Brady tells me. I still haven’t been able to make myself visit.
I’m scared.
Because I’ve since realized when it comes to Hadley Jones, I’m in big trouble.
The kind of trouble I was hell-bent on avoiding.
Don’t fall for a rodeo man.
Don’t attach yourself to someone who risks his life every week.
Those black-and-white areas I’d identified, those hard lines... they are so grey and blurry they may as well be static on the television now.
Grey as the day is long and all over the place.
The phone vibrates, ringing.
Hadley.
Then another call a minute later from an unknown number, and I’m guessing belongs to one of the cowboys. Maybe it’s Brady.
Most likely.
I keep on putting distance between us, not stopping once on the way home from Falkland. For once, I’m glad the trip takes eight hours. The more time I have to analyze, the better.
I think.
Because this became very real, very quickly.
And there is a part of me that wants to turn this old girl around and make a beeline for Falkland. But the self-preserving part, the much, much larger part of me is sticking to the course. Heading home. It’s when that larger part overrides the smaller one, crushing it like it doesn’t matter, like it’s insignificant, that I start to sob.
Nothing insignificant feels likethis.
Approximately three million, nine hundred and seventy-eight thousand, four hundred and one what-ifs and possibilities run through my mind by the time the familiar Field sign comes into view. And I’m a wreck.
Add to the mix I was late with the article deadline last week and had a performance review so uncomfortable I was half hoping they’d fire me on the spot, now this...
When did my life get so damn complicated?
I turn Betsy into the parking lot outside the lodge and let her idle to cool down. My forehead hits the wheel as I wait. My eyes are puffy from crying the last hour or so. My heart a little weary.
Mom is walking down the front steps on her phone as she rounds the front, opening the passenger door and hopping in. “Sweetheart?”
My chin wobbles, and I press a hand over my mouth to tamp back the sob. Why is this killing me? I mean, I had a plan. I thought I was past the aftereffects of the incident in the Ukraine, but every painful thing that’s ever happened to me seems to be bubbling to the surface.
And I can’t stuff it back down. It’s like there is now something missing. A major piece of my proper operational mechanics is... gone.
“Maggie?” Mom’s hand rests on my shoulder.
“Sorry, needed a moment.”
“What’s going on, hon?”
