Chapter 17
Fable
It was strange how two people who’d been through something so uniquely devastating, like losing a parent, could somehow meet and then continue to connect.
It felt like the universe was trying to collide us together in a way that didn’t make sense.
We were two souls, both battered and bruised in our own traumatic way, and the world continued to show us.
Beau understood something Mike could never, something Harleigh could never.
Unless you experienced that same life-changing pain, you would never.
Mike had never lost anyone. Besides the fact that he lacked all empathy for anything remotely human, he didn’t understand what it felt like to carry that kind of pain.
Not on the deep, soul-crushing level of losing a parent.
With Beau, it was different. There was an unspoken understanding there, even when he didn’t say much.
Aside from the most awkward hug I’d ever received—which I appreciated tremendously for the sheer effort behind it—it was painfully hilarious to watch Beau trying to keep his boundary.
That awkward bend at the waist, his hands stiffly placed as neutrally as possible, was enough to make me laugh until I cried.
We walked toward his house in silence, the crunch of grass under our shoes filling the air. My jeans were freezing, clinging to my skin, and my hands were filthy, but I wasn’t worried or stressed about it.
“Sorry for making that weird earlier,” I finally said, breaking the quiet. “I didn’t mean to laugh, but it was just . . .”
“Awkward.” He finished for me.
I nodded, smiling back. “Yeah, but I appreciated what you were trying to do. Consoling me, I mean. I, uh, I don’t usually share that stuff about my parents.” I tucked my hands into my pockets. “Actually, I don’t share much personal stuff with anyone, if I’m honest. I hate sympathy or whatever.”
“I wasn’t being sympathetic,” he said, his deep amber eyes locking onto mine. “I genuinely understand.”
The sincerity in his voice and the way he looked at me made my chest ache in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“I know,” I said softly, giving him a tight-lipped smile.
“Here we are,” he said, stopping in front of his house and gesturing toward it.
Beau’s house sat atop a small hill, its bright red paint vibrant against the backdrop of endless green pastures.
The wraparound porch was wide and inviting, lined with sturdy wooden posts and a few rocking chairs.
From up here, the view stretched out for miles, offering a sweeping glimpse of Lindley’s rolling fields and scattered trees.
Behind the house stood a massive barn, its matching red paint weathered just enough to give it character. The whole property felt like it had been plucked straight out of a postcard—a perfect snapshot of small-town ranch life.
“Wow,” I muttered, walking up the steps and dropping into one of the wooden rocking chairs. It creaked slightly as I leaned back, the rhythmic sway calming. “This is exactly how I imagined Lindley when Harleigh convinced me that moving out here was a good idea.”
Beau leaned against one of the porch posts, arms crossed, his grin slow and easy. “Told you, Cowgirl. Not so bad, huh?”
I laughed, pushing my toe against the porch, rocking slightly in the chair. “Not that bad at all.”
There was something about looking out over miles of open land that felt cathartic. No buildings, no concrete, just space. It was the kind of peace that was impossible to put into words.
Beau’s eyes drifted down, and he frowned slightly. “Your pants are wet.”
I nodded, stifling another laugh. “Yeah, from when you awkwardly tried to hug me, and I fell on the ground.”
He shook his head before walking toward the door. “Come inside,” he said, pushing it open without hesitation.
I hesitated, my feet stuck to the porch like they suddenly weighed a ton. Was this crossing some kind of line? We’d barely established this new let’s-be-friends boundary, and walking into his house felt . . . intimate. Like stepping into a space I wasn’t sure I belonged in yet.
He seemed so casual about it, like it didn’t even cross his mind that it might be an issue. Maybe it didn’t have to mean anything. Maybe I was just overthinking it—like always.
Taking a breath, I stood and followed him to the door, the warmth from inside already beckoning me in from the cold.
His house was one big open space, and the moment I entered, warmth blanketed me. The living room and kitchen blended into each other, divided only by a long, dark wood island. Oversized leather furniture dominated the space. The floors were a rich wood, giving the entire house a cozy, earthy feel.
The kitchen in the back looked newer, though it matched the darker tones of the rest of the house. Stainless steel appliances gleamed, and the dark cabinets gave it a modern edge that somehow still fit the rustic vibe.
Beau gestured toward a staircase tucked off to the side. “Three bedrooms upstairs, but the biggest bathroom is through my room. Go on and get in there.”
I blinked, staring at him. “And do what?” My eyebrows raised like I’d somehow missed an important part of this plan.
“Get changed,” he deadpanned.
“Into . . .?” I asked, tilting my head.
The corner of his mustache twitched, that telltale smirk threatening to break loose.
He gestured to the stairs, but I stayed planted, throwing my hands on my hips. “Did I miss some big gesture here?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m going to grab you some pants. Sweats that should fit—or you can tie to fit.”
“And this is happening because . . .?”
“You’re cold, and I’m a gentleman,” he huffed.
I couldn’t help it—I loved when he got annoyed. Watching his eyebrows furrow and his mouth twitch upward was way more fun than it should’ve been. That mouth that once gave me some friction when—
Nope. Nope. Stop.
“Alright,” I said before I could overthink it. “Can-can I use the bathroom too? To, you know, wash my hands or whatever?”
His eyebrows furrowed briefly, but then he nodded. “Of course.”
He gestured toward the stairs again, and I followed him up, his boots thudding softly on the wooden steps. At the top, he pointed out a few closed doors before stopping in front of his room.
His bedroom was spacious but simple, with a big four-poster bed dominating the center of the space.
The bed was made, the sheets a muted charcoal gray, and in the corner was an oversized leather chair.
The walls were mostly bare, except for one section that caught my attention.
Tucked along the far side of the room was a collection of framed photos, a few ribbons, and news clippings.
My curiosity tugged me closer. The pictures told a story of a younger version of Beau atop bulls mid-buck, one hand high in the air, his face set with determination. There were group shots too, him surrounded by riders, their smiles wide and hats tipped.
Some of the news clippings were faded, their headlines bold and proud: “Rookie of the Year” and “Banks Secures First Win in Denver.” A couple of plaques hung next to them, their gold lettering gleaming faintly in the light.
He walked up beside me, his eyes drifting to the wall. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stood there quietly, his gaze fixed on a picture of him mid-ride, frozen in a moment of chaos and control.
“You’re not scared? That you’ll get hurt?” I glanced over at him.
“Nah. I mean, sure, sometimes I get on that bull and wonder if it’ll be my last ride. But mostly? I get on the bull to feel something.”
“To feel something?” I repeated, the words sticking in my head.
I didn’t understand completely—but at the same time, I did. It was like a foreign language I suddenly knew how to translate. Because wasn’t that the same reason I’d left Mike? Even if I was doomed to be alone, I’d ended it because I wanted a chance to feel like myself again.
“Yeah. To feel like I’m doing something impossible. A challenge I know I can beat. It’s freeing up there. Man versus animal.”
His words lingered in the air. That one night with Beau in the hotel, I’d felt it too. The rush of something raw, something real, something that made the rest of the world blur into the background, even if it didn’t last long.
It was the same reason I’d walked away from everything in Chicago so easily.
I wasn’t running from the past—I was chasing that feeling.
That fleeting, freeing moment of relief.
Even if it only lasted for a little while, it was worth it, and I wanted to experience it again.
It made me forget about the pain that ached deeply in my chest.
“I, uh, I need to go pee.”
I pushed past him and shut the door to the restroom, closing off the view of the bedroom.
My brain chose this very moment—albeit an illogical one—to start spiraling.
Though I was tucked into a perfectly warm, safe house, my body felt like it was under attack.
Heat clawed up my chest, and my hands burned with the sharp sting of pins and needles.
Turning, I hurried to the sink and cranked on the water, not waiting for it to warm. My hands moved automatically, scrubbing at the dirt. I couldn’t shake the thought: I was dirty.
No one was ever going to love me.
I had no family.
I was alone.
The water rushed over my skin as I rubbed harder, my nails biting into my palms.
Dirty, dirty, dirty.
My chest tightened, and I couldn’t get a full breath, and the edges of my vision began to blur.
A knock at the door jolted me, snapping me halfway out of the panic.
“I found a pair of sweatpants,” Beau called from the other side.
He had no idea what was going through my mind. The guilt that gnawed at me for being fucked up was insurmountable.
I froze, staring at my red, raw hands under the running water, the sound of his voice grounding me just enough to breathe again.
“I’ll leave them here,” he added after a pause.
The rustle of fabric against the floor let me know he’d done just that.
I closed my eyes, taking slow, shaky breaths as the water continued to pour over my hands. I wondered if he knew I was fucked up. If men had some sixth sense about my tendencies, which made me unlovable.
“Thanks,” I whispered, knowing he probably couldn’t hear me, but saying it anyway.