***
On the way back to the ranch, I stop at the local store and grab what I need for my favorite comfort meal. The kind my mother used to make when everything else felt like it was falling apart. Something warm. Familiar. Grounding.
Something that saysI’m tryingwithout having to say words.
By the time I’m back, Gage is still out with the ranch hands. I get to work in the kitchen, letting the routinesteady me. Garlic sizzling in the pan. Chicken grilling. Vegetables roasting until they smell like home.
I plate everything carefully—two dishes. Equal portions. A silent olive branch.
The back door slams open.
Gage stomps in, dusty and exhausted, and walks right past me like I’m not even there.
“Gage.”
He stops at the foot of the stairs and turns slowly, clearly bracing himself.
“I thought we could sit down,” I say, gesturing to the table. “I made dinner. Consider it a peace offering.”
He looks at the plates. Really looks at them.
Then he shakes his head. “I’m not hungry. Long day. Longer one tomorrow.”
He turns to go upstairs.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing down the urge to scream. Ever since I got to Bell River, it feels like everyone’s been taking turns testing my patience.
God, I miss my therapist.
“No,” I say, sharper than I intended. “You need to sit down and listen to me.”
He freezes halfway up the stairs and turns back slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” I cross my arms, grounding myself. “Something is going on in this town, and I don’t have anyone else to talk to. Consider me desperate for needing you in my corner.”
He comes down one step at a time, like each one costs him something.
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating—”
“This isn’t an insinuation,” I cut in. “Hollis Ranch needs help. There are permit issues, Gage. Real ones. And the commissioner dismissed me like I was wasting his time.”
His jaw tightens. “You talked to Killem?”
“Yes.”
His eyes darken. “That man is a snake. I told you to leave things alone, but you never listen.”
“Someone has to give a crap about this place!”
“I do!” he snaps. “I’ve been busting my ass here since I was nine years old. Don’t you dare waltz in and pretend you suddenly care more than I do.”
The words sting—but I don’t back down.
“Just because I don’t have history here doesn’t mean I don’t care,” I say quietly. “I’m trying to help.”
He steps close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Then he pulls back.
“You’ve done enough.”
