“Don’t make jokes, Sutt.”
“ . . . eventually I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean it. Give him time. He’s been hard for everyone to deal with since he got out of the service. I promise it’s not just you.”
I nodded, unsure what to say to that.
"So you’re back for your mom," she said, keeping her voice neutral.
"Yeah," I said. "She’s . . . not doing great."
"I heard.”Of course she did.“I’m sorry," she said, and I could tell she meant it. "If you need anything, this is a good place for hiding out. At least for a little while."
"I’ll keep that in mind," I said. "Thanks."
She stood up and pushed her chair in. “It was good to see you, Ford. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.” And then, after a beat, “It was good to see you too.”
She smiled at me, but I could see the sadness behind it. We both ignored it.
Two
Ford
Armed with a to-go cup of Campfire’s coffee, I stepped back outside and into the Montana sun, but immediately felt a chill. I didn't even have to look back to know I was being watched.
You spend enough time as the town's favorite son, then the town's biggest disappointment, and you get used to the prickle at the base of your neck. Places like Whittier are designed for it—the way sound carries, the way stories bounce off storefronts and lodge in the corners of every window. People love their gossip. By the time I hit the sidewalk, it felt like all of Whittier Falls was staring at my back.
The coffee steamed in my hand, burning my palm through the cup. I stopped a moment, drinking it in, the liquid scorching my throat as the cold whipped at my face. I exhaled, tried to relax my shoulders, and almost convinced myself I could walk away clean. Then I heard it: the echo of my name, just above a whisper, from a group of ladies at the patio table. "Ford Brooks. That's him, right?"
I ignored it, but the sound stuck. The way old wounds stick.
The air was sharp, even by Montana standards. My truck sat across the street, sparkling and new and wildly out of placebetween the dust-covered pickups of ranchers. I started across, but that's when I saw them.
Gray and Damon.
They were outside the hardware store, about a hundred feet down Main. Gray leaned against the hood of his own truck, arms crossed, blue eyes locked on me like he was waiting to see if I'd flinch. Damon stood next to him, hands on his hips, broad shoulders blocking half the damn sidewalk. Neither one of them said anything, but they didn't have to. Their whole bodies talked.
I hadn't seen either of them since before I'd left, and I had no idea what I'd expected—maybe a handshake, maybe a punch—but the stillness was worse than either. I slowed down, not sure if I wanted to make it to the truck after all.
I tried to look past them, but my eyes kept coming back. Gray’s face was weathered, and his jaw was even sharper than I remembered, but the rest was the same—boots, scuffed jeans, that rancher's toughness like he was built from rock. Damon was bigger, if possible, hair cropped close and jaw clenched tight enough to break teeth.
They watched me the way you watch a coyote when you're not sure if it's going to run or bite.
For a second, I thought about crossing over, saying something. About the old times, about how stupid it all was. Maybe even an apology, even though I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be sorry for.
But then Gray did something that settled it. He turned his back.
Just rotated on his heel and walked inside the store, leaving Damon out there, holding the sidewalk like a sentry.
The message couldn't have been clearer if he'd spelled it out in paint. Not welcome. Not anymore.
That did it. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I didn’t just ignore them both and get in my truck and drive far away. But too much that had been building up for years inside me wrestled to get out.
I put my coffee down on the curb and headed straight for Damon. His eyebrow quirked in surprise for just a moment before he schooled his face.
