And for the first time since she was sixteen years old, she relaxed.
thirty-eight
Bear’s palms were sweating on the steering wheel. Full-on sweating, slipping against the leather every time he adjusted his grip. The custody hearing was at eleven in Missoula, and he’d left Valor Ridge with two hours to spare because the thought of being late, of hitting traffic, of a flat tire— the thought of anything going wrong today made his ribs feel too small for his lungs.
Greta sat in the passenger seat, quiet, her leg pressed against the console where it could touch his. Not talking. Just there.
In the back, Logan stared out the window with his earbuds in.
The kid hadn’t said five words since they’d gotten in the truck. Bear kept catching glimpses of him in the rearview— jaw set, shoulders drawn up, the careful blankness he’d worn since the phone call from Jennifer Hayes three weeks ago. The day Bear had explained that his ex-wife’s great-aunt— a woman Logan had met twice in his life— was filing for custody.
He shifted his grip on the wheel and tried to breathe.
Greta’s hand settled on his thigh, warm through the denim. “You’re going to crack a tooth.”
He unclenched his jaw.
“Two more hours,” she said. “Then it’s done.”
He nodded. Couldn’t manage words.
In the back, Logan pulled one earbud out and leaned forward. “Are we almost there?”
“Forty minutes.”
Logan nodded and put the earbud back in.
Bear watched him in the rearview for another beat before he looked back at the road. Forty minutes to Missoula. Forty minutes of trying not to think about a judge with a stranger’s face deciding whether his son went home with him or back to a state Bear hadn’t set foot in since the funeral.
Greta’s thumb moved on his thigh. Small motion. Steady.
“He came back,” she said. Low. Just for him. “Remember that. When you’re in there. He came back on his own.”
Bear’s throat closed.
Three weeks after Logan had moved into the bunkhouse at Valor Ridge, the kid had packed a duffel bag and walked out at four in the morning. Bear had woken to King whining at the door. Found the bunk empty, the boots gone, a note on the dresser that saiddon’t come looking for me.
Bear had come looking anyway. Had driven every road out of Solace for six hours with his chest collapsed in on itself, certain his son had hitchhiked back toward Denver, certain he’d failed at the only thing that mattered to him.
He’d found Logan at the bus station in Hamilton at ten in the morning, sitting on a bench with the duffel at his feet and a one-way ticket to Denver in his hand. The kid had looked up when Bear walked in. Hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t gotten up.
Bear had sat down beside him on the bench and not said anything either.
They’d sat there for an hour. The 10:47 bus came and went. Logan didn’t move. At 11:30 he’d stood up, picked up the duffel,and walked out to the parking lot without looking at Bear. Climbed into the truck. Pulled the seatbelt across his chest.
Halfway home, Logan had said:I almost got on the bus.
Bear had said:I know.
That was it. They hadn’t talked about it since.
But Logan had come back. On his own. No one had made him.
Bear’s hand left the wheel and found Greta’s where it rested on his thigh. He covered her fingers with his and squeezed once.
She squeezed back.
Missoula in late morning was bright and clean, the river running fast on the south side of downtown. Bear took the exit for the courthouse and navigated through one-way streets he didn’t recognize, his GPS announcing turns in a voice that grated against his nerves.
