He studies me for a second longer, then tips his chin. “Sorry ’bout your old man.”
“Thanks.”
“Lane was a tough bastard. But he was solid. Called it like he saw it.”
Lane Wilding was a lot of things. A hard-ass. A cowboy through and through. A former national rodeo champion. But to this town, he was a damn legend. People respected the hell out of him, even when he was tough as nails. He worked harder than anyone, built the reputation of the Wilding name into something untouchable.
What they don’t say is that he was hard to love. That he never knew when to let up, that he carried the weight of the ranch like it was something no one else could hold. That he expected perfection, and anything short of it wasn’t worth his time.
He left a legacy.
And a hell of a shadow.
But I don’t say any of that. I just shake George’s hand, accept the claps on the back from a few others, nod through thewelcome home, boyand thedamn shame about Lanecomments, try to get my feet back under me.
I push forward, drop onto a barstool at the counter, plant my forearms on the cool metal surface. The diner moves around me—plates clinking, the scrape of silverware, the hum of conversation. A John Denver song plays low from a radio in the back, one that Alice used to love. It’s all familiar in a way that makes it feel like slipping into an old jacket and finding it still smells like you, even after all this time.
Not really.
My back’s to the window, and I hate that. Always have. Twelve years in the special forces wired that into me good and deep. You don’t sit with your back exposed. You sit where you can see the exits. Where you’ve got a clear line of sight. Where no one can come up behind you without you knowing it.
I shift slightly on the stool, angling myself just enough to catch the reflection in the pie case glass. Not perfect, but it’ll do. There’s a truckthat backfires out on Main, and even though I know what it is—can tell by the pitch, the echo off the buildings—I still tense. My jaw locks. Shoulders go tight. It’s automatic.
I scan the room. The clang of a dish being dropped near the pass-through makes my hand twitch. Just a fraction, but it’s there. A reflex that doesn’t go away, even when it’s scrambled eggs and not incoming fire.
It’s not fear. It’s habit. Muscle memory with sharp edges.
There’s a group of ranchers near the corner booth, boots kicked out, laughing loud enough to shake the walls. One of them slaps the table and my ears ring for a second—not from the noise, but from what it reminds me of.
I blow out a slow breath through my nose and flex my hands on the counter. Remind myself where I am. That I’m home. That I’m safe.
Even if my body hasn’t caught up to the idea yet.
“Well, well, well. Look what the fucking cat dragged back in.”
I glance up just as Dawn rounds the counter, bright red lipstick in place, her sharp eyes scanning me like she’s trying to decide how much shit she can give me before I leave again.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she says, leaning on the counter like she’s settling in.
I shake my head with a half-smile. “Something like that.”
“You look older.”
“Good,” I say. “Would hate to think I did all that aging for nothing.”
She snorts. “Still got that mouth on you.”
I smirk. “Still letting underage kids drink in the parking lot?”
She grins, bright and shameless. “Hell no. I got smarter about that.” She leans in closer and whispers, “Moved them back behind the neighbor’s stables now—out of sight, out of mind.”
I bark out a laugh, because that is something she would do.
Dawn was the first person to ever hand me a shot, slid it across the counter in a soda cup with a wink and a “don’t tell your daddy.” She let Ridge and me hang around after closing and taught us how to play poker. Taught us how to swear properly. Told me more than once that if I everhurt Lark, she’d skin me alive or dismember me.
Her eyes flick toward the back door, just for a second. I pretend not to notice.
“Are you staying long?” she asks.
