Page 148 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

She let out a long, slow sigh, rubbing her fingers over her temple. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

She took another bite, chewing carefully before setting the sandwich down and exhaling again. Her shoulders rose and fell. “I didn’t tell you I was engaged,” she said softly.

I stayed quiet, giving her space to say what she needed to.

She wet her lips, shifting slightly in her seat. “Not because I’m not over him. Not because it still matters.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t. I caught him cheating, and I ended it. Because he’s abusive. Because he’s vile. Because I should’ve left him long before I did.”

My chest tightened, but I didn’t speak, just let her say the words out loud, let her get them out without interruption.

She swallowed, her hands curling slightly into fists on the table. “It wasn’t some love I couldn’t let go of, some heartbreak I’m still holding on to.” Her voice was steady now, sure. “It’s shame. Shame that I ever said yes to him in the first place. Shame that I let him convince me I was nothing. That I let it go on as long as I did.”

I let the words settle between us before finally nodding. “Okay,” I said simply.

Tears welled in her green eyes, making them glassy under the dim kitchen light. “I found out I was pregnant days after I buried my parents.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” I insisted.

She shook her head. “No. I do. I want to.”

I nodded, and she swallowed, turning in her chair so she was fully facing me.

“I was already drowning in grief, already barely keeping my head above water. Suddenly, there was this . . . this life inside me. Something I wasn’t ready for, but something that felt like maybe—maybe—I could have a family again.” She swallowed hard, blinking against the tears slipping down her cheeks. “I was stressed. Emotionally exhausted. But I was trying. We were moving to the city when I was fifteen weeks pregnant. Packing, planning, getting everything in order. Everything was going fine.” She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head slightly. “But of course, the damn elevator was broken. Our apartment was on the fourth floor. I was already exhausted, but I didn’t have a choice—I carried what I could down the stairs.” Her fingers curled against the table. “Mike was pissed. Not at me, not yet, but at the whole process. He was frustrated about the couch, about how it was going to fit through the doorway.” Her breath hitched. “It started as an argument. I told him it would fit. That we had to get it up the stairs first. He wouldn’t listen—he never listened when he was mad.” She took a shaky inhale. “We were in the stairwell, staring at the stupid couch and arguing about how it would fit when he slammed his hand into the wall.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, glossy and haunted.

“I thought it was an accident,” she whispered. “At first.”

I stayed silent, letting her keep going, letting her get it all out.

Her next breath was ragged. “But it wasn’t an accident. In his fit of rage, when he turned back to me, I don’t think he even thought about it. He-he pushed me.” Her whole body shuddered. “And down I went,” she whispered. “Three flights of stairs. Tumbling. Stomach to back.”

My chest tightened, my fingers pressing into my thighs under the table.

She sniffled, wiping at her cheeks, but the tears kept coming. “I remember the way it felt. The way my body tried so hard to protect what was inside me. The way I curled in, how I landed, the sharp pain that made me know before they even told me in the hospital.”

I’d been angry before—hell, I’d been furious at the way Mike spoke to her while I eavesdropped tonight, the way he grabbed her, the way he attempted to slither back into her life like he still had a claim on her.

This was something else entirely.

This was rage.

Not the kind that burned hot and fast. Not the kind that flickered and died out after a fight.

This was deep, slow-burning fury, the kind that lived in the bones. The kind that made my hands itch, my jaw tighten, my stomach coil with the need to do something, to fix something, even though I couldn’t change what had already been done.

She had been pregnant. She had been grieving, vulnerable, exhausted, alone. And he—he—had shoved her. Had let her fall. Had stood there and watched as the worst happened.

I wanted to hit something. Wanted to break something.

Wanted to drag that sorry son of a bitch back out here and make him feel what he had done to her.

“That wasn’t your fault, Fable,” I said, my voice steady, even as everything inside me roared otherwise. “Not one bit of it.”

Her chin trembled, but she swallowed, blinking rapidly as she shook her head. “I told myself that,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I tried to believe it. The shame . . . it never leaves.”

“You were grieving. You were exhausted. And you were pushed.” My chest ached, but I kept my eyes on her, making sure she heard me. Really heard me. “You didn’t fall, Fable. He pushed you.”