Page 13 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

That day, Sutton had prepared herself for the worst, what she hadn't calculated for was the other half of Lynlee's story that was still missing—the anonymous donor who was a number in a filing cabinet. The biological father who'd signed a form in some clean white clinic and had absolutely no idea that form would eventually become a small person, who collected plastic horses and charged adults a dollar for bad words.

He deserved to know he had a daughter out there and Lynlee deserved to know where she came from.

It had taken three years and one very expensive, very discreet private investigator to get a name.

Dr. Colter Callahan. Bridlewood, Montana.

Sutton had stared at his photo for a long time. The dark hair, the strong jaw, and his sea-glass green—unmistakably Lynlee's—eyes.

She'd done her research, and then she'd done some more. Because she was not—absolutely not—walking into a man's life and handing over her daughter until she knew, with certainty, that he was the kind of man who would hold that gift rather than set it down.

Sutton had one chance to get this right because Lynlee only had one childhood. So she'd done the only sensible, reasonable, totally-not-unhinged thing available to her—she'd enrolled in a vet tech program in San Francisco and, after she graduated, applied for a paid internship at the Full Barn Animal Clinic in Bridlewood, Montana.

A normal person might have sent a letter. Or made a phone call. Sutton had instead relocated three states away and gotten a professional license, which, in hindsight, was either the most thorough due diligence in the history of parenthood or a cry for help. Possibly both.

CHAPTER 6

She pushed open the door of Espresso Yourself and was greeted with a bright and earthy welcome of percolating coffee and cinnamon, cutting through the dry western air outside. The quiet hum of conversation mixed with the hiss of steaming milk, and for a moment she just stood there, letting the cool A/C chill her sunbaked skin.

The décor was moody, a little bit country and little bit rock-and-roll, standing out like a little rebellion in the heart of the Old West in a town that otherwise seemed frozen in shiplap and aged brick.

“How was your first day of preschool?” Sutton asked her daughter.

“I already told you about school,” Lynlee said, swinging her little arms and skipping side to side.

“I know, but I love hearing you tell it.”

That was all the invitation Lynlee needed. “I drew ponies with Parker, and he has freckles just like us, and he said he can come to my birthday party ‘cause he’s not goin’ anywhere!”

“Who’s Parker?”

“He’s the Best to Friend! He likes horses and we built a huge block tower. Like taller than me!”

Sutton felt a rush of relief wash over her as she watched Lynlee chatter away, eyes bright and hands waving wildly.

Day one and her daughter had found a friend, who drew, built block towers and liked horses. It was a small thing, but to Sutton, it felt enormous. It was proof that she hadn’t made the wrong decision in coming here.

“And my teacher, Miss Molly,” Lynlee went on, lowering her voice as though sharing something important. “She smells like old crayons sometimes and sings the ABCs really fast and kina’ loud. But that’s just a fact,” she added seriously. “Not gossip.”

Sutton bit back a smile. “Thank you for the clarification.”

“And guess what?” Lynlee rolled up on her toes, her eyes bright enough to outshine the string lights above them. “We gots to play pony today and Miss Molly said my neigh was perfect.”

She proudly demonstrated with a soft little chortle.

“I believe it,” Sutton whispered. “I absolutely do.”

“Next,” the barista called and Sutton and Lynlee stepped up to the counter.

A woman with a sleeve tattoo of a peony leaned against the counter. Jet-black hair peeked from the back of a scuffed ballcap that read Coffee Bean Whisperer. A pin was stuck to a black tank top that clung to her willowy frame, declaring her name was Jo. The edges of her ripped black jeans frayed over red combat boots that had clearly seen better days. She looked like a mix of coffee-shop rebel and biker-gang charisma.

“What can I get you?” Jo asked.

“A white chocolate mocha.”

Jo didn't write it down. Didn't even look up. Just studied Sutton for one long, unhurried second the way a doctor studies an X-ray.

"Aged Tuscan roast," she said. "Single origin, bright finish. No sugar."