Page 96

“Tell her,” he urged.

“She knows.”

“Tell her.”

I looked away.

Of course.

I’d built the bed. In my head, that meant safety, no strings, somewhere she could close the door.

From the other side of the arrangement, it was my building. My ranch. My event. A job she’d already given up motel money to keep alive.

Things didn’t become clear just because I meant them well.

“The job too,” Boone said.

“Yeah.”

“And her way out.”

“Her car’s right outside.”

“More than a car.”

I thought about Denver. About how little I knew. About her bag still packed neatly enough to leave in five minutes, and whether that meant she felt free or ready.

“I hear you.”

He studied me for a moment. “You don’t get obedience because somebody’s tired.”

My jaw tightened.

“I know.”

“Tonight, she asked for help. That’s what you gave her.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

“Keep telling yourself.”

I rubbed the back of my neck.

“What happens if I get it wrong?”

Boone looked at me with something gentler than reassurance. “You will get something wrong.”

“Comforting.”

“You listen. You stop. You own it. You don’t make her take care of your feelings about it.”

I stared at the grain of the table.

Dad had left a crescent burn near the edge years ago. We’d all been told not to set hot things there afterward, which was how rules generally worked in this house: somebody with authority made a mistake and everybody else inherited a precaution.

I ran my thumb along the smooth edge.

“I thought looking after someone would be the part I could do without talking.”