Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44297 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44297 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
I cry for my son’s tiny voice, for the softness of his hair under my lips, for how he curls into me after naps and presses his warm cheek to my chest. I cry for his weight in my arms, for the milk that fed him, for the way my body feels empty now that the swelling is gone. Empty and wrong. My breasts feel light and soft again, but my heart feels heavy.
Mostly, I cry because the space between us hurts like something sharp I cannot pull out.
I don’t hear the door open. Not until boots scrape across the kitchen floor.
“Jo?”
I freeze and swipe at my face. Caleb stands in the doorway, big and silent, blocking half the light behind him. At first, his face is guarded, like he’s bracing for something he’s not sure he should see. Then his eyes land on me, and everything in him softens.
He crouches slowly. “You okay?” he asks, voice as soft as worn flannel.
I shake my head. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, too heavy to speak.
He moves closer and pulls me into his arms without waiting for me to decide if that’s what I need. I fold into him on instinct, helpless against the warmth and comfort he offers. His chest is solid and broad under my cheek. He smells like sun and soil and clean soap. His arm comes around my back, big and warm, and he rocks me gently. The calm of it hits me so hard it almost breaks me again.
He glances at my phone, resting on the floor next to me. “Talk to your boy?”
I nod against his shirt. “I miss him so much. I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing.”
He pulls back enough to search my face. “You’re doin’ what you have to,” he says. “You’re making the hard calls. That’s what moms do.”
His voice changes then, deepening, like he’s reaching into a place he keeps shut away. “My momma died when I was five, and I still remember her softness and the good things she did for me. Your boy will remember, too. He knows you love him. He’s waiting. You’ll be with him soon.”
My lip trembles. “If it works out here.”
“It will.” He says it like a fact, not a hope.
He helps me stand and keeps his hand on my waist until I steady myself. I wipe my eyes, but my cheeks are hot and sticky, and I know I look wrecked.
When I look up at him, I see hints of Wade in the bones of his face, but Caleb is kinder somehow. Rough, yes, like every cowboy, but tender in a way I remember. The pain in my heart eases because he’s here.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I know.” He gives a small, crooked smile. “Wade’s tough. Real particular. But he’s fair. You just gotta keep him happy.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That simple?”
He chuckles. “Simple’s not the same as easy.”
“What about you?”
He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “I think you’re doin’ fine.”
A flush runs through me. It scares me a little, because it’s been so long since a man held me without taking something from me.
Does he know what Wade and I have been doing? Does he want the same? Or does he feel sorry for the girl crying on the kitchen floor?
I swallow hard. Caleb’s being kind like he always was. I’m no one to him. A girl from his past who's going to put food on his table and freshly washed underwear in his dresser.
The truth settles in my chest like a bruise. My heart is already cracked from the man who broke me before my boy was even born. I cannot afford another break. Not here. Not now.
I breathe in deep, steadying myself.
Whatever happens next, I have to keep my head clear. For my son. For my future. For the pieces of my heart I still have left.
Chapter 10
Wade
The barn is warm with the late-afternoon heat, and the air thick with the scent of hay and cattle. I’m fixing the latch on one of the stalls when I hear Caleb’s boots behind me. He’s not stomping around, but there’s purpose in each step. I know that walk. He’s wound tight about something. I turn as he stops in the middle of the aisle. His shoulders are set like stone, his jaw flexing the way it does when he’s trying not to say something he’s going to end up saying anyway.
“What’s got you looking like a kicked dog?” I ask.
He holds my gaze, eyes dark and steady.
“Joelle was crying.”
A beat of silence passes before I can speak. “Is she hurt?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She’s hurt. And I want to know what you’re doing with her.”
My stomach dips. I straighten slowly, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Helping her.”
He lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “Helping. Right.”