Chapter 54
Beau
My mother always said a shower could cure anything. When Dad came home grumpy, weighed down by a bad ride or a rough loss on the circuit, she’d send him straight to the shower. Sure enough, he’d come out calmer, ready to talk about what went wrong.
That was exactly what I did with Fable.
She collapsed into my arms, her body shaking, and I held her for a moment, then led her straight to the shower.
She lifted her arms without hesitation when she realized what I was doing, letting me undress her slowly. I guided her forward, stepping her into the steady stream of hot water.
If we were at my house, I’d have drawn her a bath, let her soak while I sat beside her, rubbing circles on her back, washing the weight of the night off her myself.
“I’ll be right outside.”
She nodded slowly and silently, and it killed me to watch her so broken.
Moving into the kitchen, I pulled open the fridge and grabbed what I could for a quick sandwich. It wasn’t much, but she needed to eat, and after the night she’d had, I doubted she’d think about it on her own.
Before anything else, I went to the sink and washed my hands. Thoroughly.
Because it mattered to her. Because she trusted me too.
I dried them off and made her sandwich. I set it on a small plate, then grabbed a glass and filled it with cold water.
Ex-fiancé.
The word rattled in my head, unsettling, frustrating.
Who knew?
I sure as hell hadn’t.
There was so much I wanted to ask. So much I needed to understand. Yet, every thought felt like a tangled mess, and I couldn’t pin down where to start.
Instead, I set the plate and the glass on the small two-person kitchen table, then pulled out a chair and sat, waiting.
A few minutes later, she stepped out of the bedroom, dressed in a short cotton robe, her wet hair twisted into a bun on top of her head.
I didn’t speak. Just watched as she moved closer, giving her the space to decide where this went next.
“Hi,” she said softly.
I stood and pulled out the chair for her.
She nodded, dipping her chin, eyes still downcast as she stepped forward and lowered herself into the seat. I slid the chair in gently, then went back to my spot across from her and sat down, the wood creaking under my weight.
Under the table, I curled my fingers tight, like I could hold myself still if I gripped hard enough.
“This was very thoughtful,” she said, gesturing toward the sandwich and water in front of her. “Thank you.”
Finally, she looked at me.
Her green eyes met mine, and like that, I melted.
Everything about the night—the anger, the frustration, the unanswered questions—took a back seat to the quiet vulnerability in her gaze.
She swallowed hard before asking, “How . . . how is your arm? Your head?”
I lifted my hand in a casual gesture. “Broken, but nothing that won’t heal.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but hesitation held her back.
“I-I—”
“It’s okay, Fable.”
She shook her head, her breath hitching as tears slipped down her face. “I— he— I didn’t know he was coming here.”
“I know.”
She wiped at her cheeks, but the tears kept falling.
“Ironically,” I added, leaning back slightly, “I saw him earlier today. At the coffee shop.”
Her eyes went wide. “At Nance’s?”
I nodded.
“Wow.” She exhaled sharply.
“I didn’t know who he was at first, but when he said he was coming from Chicago . . . I had my suspicions.” I sighed, watching her carefully. “Please, Fable. Eat.”
She picked up her sandwich and took a small bite.
I let her eat for a moment before speaking. “I was out on the porch when I saw the bulls get out. I grabbed Ginger to help Kline round them up. Rode past your house on the way, and you were asleep.”
She let out a long, slow sigh, rubbing her fingers over her temple. “It’s been a long few weeks.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’d say so.”
She took another bite, chewing carefully before setting the sandwich down and exhaling again. Her shoulders rose and fell. “I didn’t tell you I was engaged,” she said softly.
I stayed quiet, giving her space to say what she needed to.
She wet her lips, shifting slightly in her seat. “Not because I’m not over him. Not because it still matters.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t. I caught him cheating, and I ended it. Because he’s abusive. Because he’s vile. Because I should’ve left him long before I did.”
My chest tightened, but I didn’t speak, just let her say the words out loud, let her get them out without interruption.
She swallowed, her hands curling slightly into fists on the table.
“It wasn’t some love I couldn’t let go of, some heartbreak I’m still holding on to.
” Her voice was steady now, sure. “It’s shame.
Shame that I ever said yes to him in the first place.
Shame that I let him convince me I was nothing. That I let it go on as long as I did.”
I let the words settle between us before finally nodding. “Okay,” I said simply.
Tears welled in her green eyes, making them glassy under the dim kitchen light. “I found out I was pregnant days after I buried my parents.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I insisted.
She shook her head. “No. I do. I want to.”
I nodded, and she swallowed, turning in her chair so she was fully facing me.
“I was already drowning in grief, already barely keeping my head above water. Suddenly, there was this . . . this life inside me. Something I wasn’t ready for, but something that felt like maybe—maybe—I could have a family again.
” She swallowed hard, blinking against the tears slipping down her cheeks.
“I was stressed. Emotionally exhausted. But I was trying. We were moving to the city when I was fifteen weeks pregnant. Packing, planning, getting everything in order. Everything was going fine.” She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head slightly.
“But of course, the damn elevator was broken. Our apartment was on the fourth floor. I was already exhausted, but I didn’t have a choice—I carried what I could down the stairs.
” Her fingers curled against the table. “Mike was pissed. Not at me, not yet, but at the whole process. He was frustrated about the couch, about how it was going to fit through the doorway.” Her breath hitched.
“It started as an argument. I told him it would fit. That we had to get it up the stairs first. He wouldn’t listen—he never listened when he was mad.
” She took a shaky inhale. “We were in the stairwell, staring at the stupid couch and arguing about how it would fit when he slammed his hand into the wall.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine, glossy and haunted.
“I thought it was an accident,” she whispered. “At first.”
I stayed silent, letting her keep going, letting her get it all out.
Her next breath was ragged. “But it wasn’t an accident. In his fit of rage, when he turned back to me, I don’t think he even thought about it. He-he pushed me.” Her whole body shuddered. “And down I went,” she whispered. “Three flights of stairs. Tumbling. Stomach to back.”
My chest tightened, my fingers pressing into my thighs under the table.
She sniffled, wiping at her cheeks, but the tears kept coming. “I remember the way it felt. The way my body tried so hard to protect what was inside me. The way I curled in, how I landed, the sharp pain that made me know before they even told me in the hospital.”
I’d been angry before—hell, I’d been furious at the way Mike spoke to her while I eavesdropped tonight, the way he grabbed her, the way he attempted to slither back into her life like he still had a claim on her.
This was something else entirely.
This was rage.
Not the kind that burned hot and fast. Not the kind that flickered and died out after a fight.
This was deep, slow-burning fury, the kind that lived in the bones. The kind that made my hands itch, my jaw tighten, my stomach coil with the need to do something, to fix something, even though I couldn’t change what had already been done.
She had been pregnant. She had been grieving, vulnerable, exhausted, alone. And he—he—had shoved her. Had let her fall. Had stood there and watched as the worst happened.
I wanted to hit something. Wanted to break something.
Wanted to drag that sorry son of a bitch back out here and make him feel what he had done to her.
“That wasn’t your fault, Fable,” I said, my voice steady, even as everything inside me roared otherwise. “Not one bit of it.”
Her chin trembled, but she swallowed, blinking rapidly as she shook her head. “I told myself that,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I tried to believe it. The shame . . . it never leaves.”
“You were grieving. You were exhausted. And you were pushed.” My chest ached, but I kept my eyes on her, making sure she heard me. Really heard me. “You didn’t fall, Fable. He pushed you.”
Her breath hitched, and a fresh wave of tears welled up in her eyes.
“I know,” she whispered, so soft I barely caught it. “I know he did.”
“What happened at the hospital?”
Fable inhaled sharply. Her voice was quiet, almost clinical, like she was forcing herself to detach from the memory to get the words out.
“When I fell . . . there was too much damage. The impact caused placental abruption, and I hemorrhaged before they even got me to the hospital. They tried everything, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. My uterus . . . it tore.”
My stomach twisted, my jaw clenching.
“They had to do an emergency hysterectomy,” she murmured. “There was no choice. If they didn’t, I would’ve died.”
I sucked in a slow breath, my chest tight, my throat thick with all the emotions coursing through me.
“I lost everything that night,” she whispered, her eyes distant, as if she wasn’t here in this kitchen anymore but back in that sterile, fluorescent-lit hospital room.
“He didn’t even come,” she continued, her voice cracking. “He called the ambulance. He told them where I was. But he didn’t ride with me. He didn’t wait. He didn’t—” She swallowed hard. “He sent me alone.”
My stomach twisted. “Harleigh?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know her then. It was before we started working together.”
I swallowed. “No one was there for you?”
Her lips parted, her breath shaky, her head moving in a small, broken shake. “I woke up alone.”
She broke.
Tears spilled down her face, her chest heaving.
I shifted instinctively, pulling my chair closer, my free hand moving to cup her jaw, my thumb brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.
“That’s what he meant,” I uttered.
She nodded, more tears slipping free.
“I can’t have kids,” she whispered. “For so long, he told me that no man would love me because I was broken. That I wasn’t a real woman. That a woman’s job was to bear children, to build a family—and I couldn’t . . . I can’t do that.”
Her body trembled, but I didn’t let go.