My brows furrow.
Is it just me, or does she look guilty as fuck right now?
“What are you doing?” I murmur, my gaze flicking to the window of the only craft shop in Heart Springs. The same place she’s gone for her weekly knitting club since I was a teenager.
She ignores me. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in forever. Are you sleeping? Eating? Dating anyone?”
My jaw ticks.
Beatrice Archer is a strong, bold woman. She takes shit from no one, including her kids. My entire life, she’s been the heartbeat of our family. Best friends with my dad since the moment they met, and stayed that way until the day he passed. She’s a force to be reckoned with—all five and a half feet of her.
But she’s also transparent as hell.
I see through her scheming, her intentional avoidance. I also know when she’s lying, and right now, Beatrice Archer is hiding something.
“I’ll answer your questions,” I hedge, not missing the way her blue eyes light up. “After you get the demon dog smelling up my truck.”
Her gaze lands somewhere over my shoulder, and she swallows hard, but forces a quick smile. “It’s nice seeing his truck back on these old streets.”
Guilt claws at my throat followed by a rush of panic.
I get through my days by avoiding the ugly truths. It’s not healthy, or smart, but it works for me.
Every time I climb into my dad’s old truck, though, it’s like his ghost is sitting right next to me, making it damn near impossible to ignore the ugliest truth of them all.
He’s gone.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asks softly, blinking back tears as she pats my cheek. “Have you found a way to talk to him yet?”
The world sways, and I drop my eyes to my boots.
She’s always asking me if I’ve talked to my dad. Gone out to his grave on the edge of our land. He’s buried under his favorite oak tree by the pond where we all grew up fishing, right next to his parents and older brother. No gravestones, just flowers—the way every Archer before him wanted it.
I went once for the funeral on emergency leave. Haven’t been back since. Haven’t said a word to him since, either. But I want to.
Fuck, do I want to.
“You know I haven’t,” I say, my voice rough as gravel. “Feels like shouting into the void. Doesn’t change a damn thing.”
She makes a soft, sad sound and slips her hand into mine, squeezing once before letting go.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she murmurs. “For me… it helps. I still talk to him. I lay down the heavy things, the good and the bad, and sometimes… sometimes I swear I hear his answer in the breeze. Maybe it’s not about where you go, or even what you say—just that you try to let him in, however you can.”
She sighs, eyes distant, the hint of a wistful smile on her lips.
“We all find our own way to carry people we love, Kade. Doesn’t matter if it’s a grave, the wind or water, or on the backof a horse. One day, you’ll figure out how to reach him. You just have to want to.”
If only it were that damn easy.
Mom lets out a breath and straightens, smoothing away her sadness in a way I envy. “Anyway. How’s your life, hmm? Anything new?”
I deflect her question, and change the subject. “Your dog shit on the floorboard.”
I’d cleaned it up the second I parked, but the stench remained.
“Poor thing’s probably just stressed. He did have to ride withyou, after all.”
“Wouldn’t have had to ride with me if you’d caged him properly.” I narrow my eyes and jerk my chin at the door she’s become one with. “Seriously. What are you hiding in there?”
