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His lower cheek twitches. "Where's she staying?"

I shrug. "Not sure. It was pretty crappy how she left."

Mason grunts. "Tell me about it. And she's acting like I'm the devil. Won't talk to me and cut me off like I did something wrong."

I stare at him under the shadow of my cowboy hat.

"What's the look for?"

"Do you really not have any clue?" I ask.

He takes a sip of hot coffee, swallows, then sits back in his chair. "Why don't you fill me in if you're so smart?"

I release an annoyed breath. "You do realize Carla really liked you, right?"

His face hardens. He takes another drink, staring at the pasture.

"Mason—"

"She's the one who left town, changed her number, and wants to act like I'm dead. Seems like a pretty stupid thing to do if you like someone," he interjects.

I scoff. "So you're not going to take any responsibility here?"

He turns his head, narrowing his eyes on me. Anger fills his voice. He hisses, "She left town. She changed her number. She refuses to talk to me. How the hell is this my fault?"

I cross my arms and stare at him. "Okay. Keep playing the victim."

"Whatever. She's being childish. And a hotel is ridiculous. She could stay with Lainey at the Butterfly House."

Lainey's still at the guesthouse…

My pulse creeps up. I tap my knuckles on the arm of the rocking chair and glance at the Butterfly House.

Mason lowers his voice. "Actually, why is Lainey still at the guesthouse?"

"Lorraine's still getting used to me. Lainey doesn't want to move faster than her mama can handle," I confess.

"Sounds like an excuse to me. I see why her and Carla are such good friends," Mason taunts.

"Shut up," I warn.

He rises. "No problem. See you later." He heads back inside.

The screen door closes with a bang. I sit there awhile longer, watching the smoke drift up from the smoker, and trying to talk myself into being satisfied with the good things I've already got instead of chasing the next thing I want.

It's not chasing when it's meant to be.

She's my daughter, too.

The ache grows bigger. The longer I stare at the guesthouse, the more I know I don't want them there anymore. They belong with me, in my house.

"Breakfast," Wilder announces, leaping out the door and off the porch. He runs to the bell in the yard and rings it, shouting, "Breakfast!"

The next few minutes, my brothers make their way into the house. The clatter of silverware on plates and my family talking fills the air.

I can't seem to move. A long time passes.

Dad wanders out onto the porch with two plates full of bacon, eggs, and toast. "Here. Have some breakfast."