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My mother, Jennifer Thatcher, smiles warmly and strides across the room, her kitten heels clicking against the linoleum.

“Mom?” I ask numbly, standing from my seat.

“Addie, sweetheart,” she greets me, rounding the table to pull me into a hug.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, the reality setting in. Mom is here. In Montana. At Thatcher Ranch.

“I wanted to surprise you,” she says, pulling back to grin down at me. “I was supposed to get in earlier, but my flight was a bit delayed.” She huffs in irritation but then quickly regains her smile.

Tate stands from his seat beside me, scooting over and offering the seat to my mom. “We’ve been eyeing the door all evening,” he says with achuckle. He waves to Hank, who gets up to fix a plate and bring it over to Mom, setting it down in front of us.

I sit down, glancing sideways at Cruz in shock. He looks surprised as well, but shoots me a small, encouraging smile.

“I’ve been worried about you, you know,” Mom says quietly, pulling my attention back to her. “Especially after our last call.” She shakes her head, tucking a strand of her perfectly curled hair behind her ear. “I know sometimes we don’t see eye to eye. I try to comfort you, but I think it … makes it worse sometimes.”

My initial discomfort softens. I know both she and my dad truly love me and want the best for me, despite their shortcomings. I smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Mom,” I say.

She pats my knee with a smile.

We finish dinner in amicable discussion, Mom catching up with Theresa, Tate, and Lucy. As dinner dishes are starting to get cleared, the sound of tinkeringglass grabs everyone’s attention. Hank is standing at the head of the mess hall beside my dessert table.

“Now, it’s time for the best part of the night,” he announces with a wide grin. “I’m sure everyone has noticed this gorgeous dessert spread,” he says, and the hall erupts in murmurs of agreement. “Thanks to our talented Miss Addison Thatcher over here,” Hank gestures my way, and I feel myself blush slightly, “we have three varieties of gourmet cakes—including a gluten- and dairy-free one! Now, line up in anorderlyfashion,” he instructs, “if you’d like dessert. But first, let’s give Miss Addison a round of applause.”

The room erupts in claps, hoots, and hollers, and I try my best not to turn beet red—despite the fact that their acknowledgement warms my heart. It’s strange. Normally being called out like this would be my worst nightmare. And don’t get me wrong, I’m still not about to stand up and make a speech, but I’m surprisingly not anxious in this moment.

Mom turns to me with a look of shock.

“You made those?” she asks.

I nod.

“You’ve been, like,workinghere?” she reiterates.

I shake my head with a snort. “I mean, it’s not like that. It started because Hank needed help in the kitchen and I was bored, and then I got really into baking and …” I gesture to the dessert line.

Mom still seems a bit lost for words.

“Go show her the cakes you made,” Cruz suggests from beside me.

I nod, taking his advice. “Yeah, Mom, wanna see them?”

“Okay,” she says, although she doesn’t seem fully convinced. We make our way across the mess hall to the table of desserts. I stand off to the side, close enough for us to see, but not in the way of the line of people passing through.

“I started with muffins,” I explain, “but then just got really excited about all different kinds of pastries and desserts, and then it snowballed into me making stuffevery day. And when Hank suggested I be in charge of the desserts for the big dinner tonight, I thought cake would be a good choice.” I’m rambling, and I realize that, but just like when I’d described my cakes to Cruz earlier, I can feel the happiness bubbling up inside of me like champagne. I explain the cake types, how I researched them, how I made them, pointing to each one in order. But halfway through my explanation, I realize that Mom’s expression hasn’t changed. That she’s still gazing down at them in … confusion. I trail off and pause for a minute. “Mom?” I ask quietly.

She shakes her head, chuckling softly. “I’m sorry. They look lovely, sweetie,” she says with a smile that I’ve come to know as a placating one. “I’m just not sure I understand what … thepurposeis of all this.”

“Purpose?” I echo.

“Yeah, I mean—why?”

“Well … like, I said before—Hank needed help and—”

“No, I understand that,” Mom interrupts. “I mean, how does this serve your purpose inbeinghere?” She gently takes my arm, pushing us farther from the table, away from prying ears. “Recovering fromwhat happened, thinking about your job, your future.”

“I …” I stammer.

“Haveyou thought about it? How you’re going to recoup your role when you get back? Avoid further mishaps?” she presses.