Chapter Fifteen #2
I quickly lock up the house and shoot a text to the new social worker to let her know I’ve found a place. She responds that she’ll be out Tuesday for a preliminary inspection. The thought makes me wanna puke, but I confirm and pocket my phone, taking the stairs two at a time.
Thank fuck the guys are here. I’ll need all the help I can get if I’m going to pull this off in two weeks.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I cut across the pasture toward the Big House, taking in Honey Bea and all the changes I’ve missed.
Last time I was really here was after I was discharged.
Spent eight weeks holed up in my old room, recovering from multiple surgeries after the IED explosion.
Shrapnel tore through my left shoulder, and the explosion broke my right femur.
Left me with a chest full of scars and a limp I still feel more often than not.
Got out of here as quickly as I could. Moved to Wildwood and rarely looked back—except for on holidays. But those are in a dimly lit dining or living room, and I’ve always been buzzed enough to ignore the ache.
Now, I’m realizing how fucking selfish I’ve been.
The trek from my house to the one where I grew up is about half a mile, but it’s a pretty walk. Five thousand acres, passed down from my grandfather. Five thousand more bought when my dad married my mom. Ten thousand acres of blood, sweat, and sunburns.
It’s too much for one family and somehow still not enough for Archer dreams.
The wheat fields we use to supplement income when the flowers can’t bloom, the acres that stretch long and golden in summer heat—those were Grandpa’s idea.
The working livestock, tractors, long days and weather-worn hands, that was my dad’s dream.
To work the land, build something solid, something that couldn’t be taken away.
The wildflowers, though? The beehives? The bursts of color that flow like water across the hills in late spring?
Those were hers.
A honey bee farm. A wraparound porch. A house full of laughter and flowers. That was my mom’s dream.
So they built it together.
When we were old enough, she taught us everything she knew. They grew when they could, scaled back when they had to. And somehow, it worked.
For a long time, they made it work.
Until it didn’t.
Until we lost him.
Now, it’s mostly my mom and the girls holding everything together. Colby and Clementine—seventeen, wild, and still figuring out their place in the world, but they love to help out at the farmers markets.
Hazel’s got her own house on the far end of the property, tucked against the trees where nobody bothers her. She’s always preferred the animals and crops to flowers and honey.
And Gemma... she hasn’t lived here in years. Moved to North Dakota after her husband got a job up there. She visits, just not often.
Used to be more, but I’m the last person to be judging.
I pass the horse barn on my way up the hill. Two of the mares are out in the coral, flicking flies off their flanks with their tails. One of them tosses her head when she sees me, and I grin.
“Well, hey there, Dolly,” I murmur, stepping up to the fence. She’s a dapple-gray with big eyes and an attitude, but she’s old enough to know me. “You givin’ Clem hell again?”
She hooves at the dirt, tail swishing in fast snaps that make me laugh.
Next to her, a senior chestnut nudges closer, her muzzle more gray than brown.
“Hey, June Bug,” I say, running my fingers down her velvet-soft nose, whiskers catching on my calluses. “Still the prettiest girl in the bunch, huh?”
She huffs like she knows it, pushing my hand away. Cocking her head to the side, she reaches through the bars and digs for my pockets like she remembers exactly what I used to keep in them.
Chuckling, I trail my finger down the white diamond between her eyes.
“Sorry, girl. I’ll bring some sugar cubes before I leave.”
I spend a bit more time with the horses, then goats, before moving on, passing the chicken coops and barns on my way.
Surprisingly, the familiar path helps soothe my nerves. This land is in my blood—every fence post, every worn trail. I could walk it blindfolded and still find my way home.
By the time I make it to the Big House, the sun is setting and a soft breeze carries the faint hum of music.
I smile before I even round the corner. My mom always listens to classical music when she’s with the bees.
Swears it makes them smarter, sweeter. She says you can taste the difference in the honey.
That the right song’ll have them working twice as fast, building stronger combs, and filling the frames like they’re drunk on the vibrations.
Sure enough, when I round the back of the house, I spot her in the distance by the apiary—white suit unzipped and hanging loose around her waist, veil pushed back off her short hair, bare hands moving calmly over the frames.
Her mouth moves, talking to the bees in a low voice, like she’s coaxing them to behave.
The apiary’s gotten bigger since I last saw it.
Gotta be more than a thousand hives lined up in rows, each painted a different pastel color to help the bees find their way home. Wildflowers bloom in intentional chaos all around the area—purple coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, lemon mint, and bee balm.
Everything smells like sunlight and sugar. Like home. Feels better than I thought it would. Damn near cathartic.
She doesn’t see me yet, and I don’t call out. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not in a rush to fill the space with guilt, grief, or explanations.
Right now, I just want to take it in.
The place that raised me.
The woman who never stopped loving me, even when I gave her every reason to.
After a while, she finally spots me and finishes what she’s doing before stripping off her gear as she walks toward me. She doesn’t call out until we’re close, always thinking of her bees.
“Twice in one month? What do I owe the pleasure?”
My smile falters, and my heart flips in time with my gut. I swallow hard.
God, I’m a fuckin’ dick.
“Ma…” I press my hat to my chest and rake a hand through my hair. “I gotta talk to you about something.”
“Oh, my.” She gives me a long look, then shakes her head like she’s seen this coming. “This looks like a porch talk.”
My throat burns, but when she wraps me up in a hug, some of the weight eases off my chest. She’s a foot shorter than me, her brown and silver strands catching my beard as I bend down, but a hug from her has the power to soothe even the deepest cuts.
Don’t know how I always forget that.
“Oh, baby," she whispers like I’m still five. "I’ll get the sweet tea.”
Few minutes later, we’re sitting side by side on the old wicker bench with the faded yellow cushions—the ones covered in daisies and bees she refuses to throw out. She hands me a glass, doesn’t say a word, just sips slow and gives me space.
It reminds me of Georgia, and for a second, I wonder if that’s why I’m so drawn to the woman. It’s familiar. Calming .
But I immediately know it’s not just that. With her, it’s something different entirely.
I stare at the fields stretching out in front of us, then finally say it.
Rip the fucking Band-Aid off, Archer.
“Marlee’s dead.”
Mom gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. Her iced tea glass nearly slips free, but she sets it down at the last second.
I wasn’t sure if she’d heard through the gossip rings, or if the news had even reached Heart Springs, but judging by the tears in her eyes, it clearly hasn’t.
“How?” she manages to ask.
And for the second time, I tell someone a tragedy. Only thing I hold off on is Aurora. I need another breath before I can slice into the wound again.
She listens, shoulders tight, hands bundled between her knees.
“I thought she moved away. Where did this happen?” Then she frowns—like the dots are trying to reach but can’t quite connect. “Wait. How did you even find out?”
I chug half my tea like it'll make the words easier. It doesn’t.
“A social worker told me.”
Her eyes light up like a switch got flipped. “Georgia?”
I jerk a nod, biting the inside of my cheek as I watch her fight an incredibly inappropriate smile.
“Oh my Lord, I knew it. Saw her at the farmers market this morning, and I just felt it in my bones.” She pats my leg. “Something's going on between you two, isn’t it?”
“You saw her?” I ask, the words out before I can stop myself.
There’s a look in her eyes that sends a tingle down my spine. Matches the look she had outside Thread & Thimble all those weeks ago. Like she’s hiding something—plotting.
Before I can ask what the hell she’s done, she continues, and her words have my jaw clenching.
“She met the twins—girls adore her. And Hazel invited her to girls’ night at the Saddle.”
My stomach twists knowing exactly what Hazel and her friends get up to on girls’ nights in town. Hazel can drink more than most big men I know—and handles her liquor like any cowboy—but she’s reckless and wild on a good day.
Drunk and surrounded by her feral girlfriends? I’ll be surprised if someone doesn’t wind up arrested, or in a random’s bed.
Thought of Georgia in the middle of all that? Alone with my sister?
Hate it. Hate it hell of a lot more than I have any right to.
“Y’all shouldn’t be inviting her to anything,” I mutter, glancing away to hide my unwanted irritation.
“’Specially not girls’ night. Georgia’s not from here, and she’s not staying.
” I chug some tea. “Besides, she’s not my social worker any more.
We’ll probably never see her again. Last thing we need is the girls getting attached. ”
“The girls, huh?” she murmurs, chuckling.
“You’re already halfway obsessed with the woman, Ma. The twins spend any more time with her, they’ll start calling her their new sister.”
“Knew it,” Mom mutters, voice laced with plotting and conspiracy. “You’re unraveling at the seams, aren’t you?”
I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. “No, Ma. It’s not like that.”
Could be, my brain unhelpfully supplies, and I bite my cheek harder—until I taste blood. I cannot think about her like that anymore. I won’t allow it.
Mom scoffs, almost as if in answer to my internal pep talk. “Please. I see the way you glare at each other. All fire and ice.” She smiles, soft and wistful. “Just like your daddy and me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but all that comes out is a sigh. I can’t debate the right and wrongness of Georgia and me right now. Not with her. Especially not when I don’t even know what the hell is going on…if anything.
Not when I still have more to tell my mom—the reason I’m here in the first palace.
“Forgot about Georgia for now, Ma. There’s more.”
She stills, waiting.
And then I tell her about Aurora.
How Marlee named me guardian.
How a little girl I’ve never met is now counting on me.
Mom’s face crumples and then hardens again, confusion flashing across her features. “But... how? I thought you hadn’t seen Marlee since that summer you went out to Ruthy Hatter’s cabin on leave.”
“Not in over a decade,” I say roughly.
“Then why?”
I shrug. “Dunno. Your guess is as good as mine.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then straightens her spine, nods like it’s already decided.
“Okay. Well.” She claps. “Where’s my grandbaby?”
Just like that. No hesitation. No judgment. Just love.
I blink hard, the tightness in my chest twisting into something damn near unbearable.
“With a temporary foster placement,” I choke out, hating the taste of the admission on my tongue. Her face falls. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I need a new place to live, and…” I trail off, shrugging.
Because she’s my mom, and knows my thoughts better than I do, she fills in, “You went home.” I nod and she smiles, squeezing my hand. “He finished it for you, Kade. Wanted you to have something safe and familiar to come back to, no matter how many pieces your soul was in.”
The weight of the truth sucker punches me, and a tear escapes before I can pretend it doesn’t exist.
“From what I saw the last time I checked on it, there’s a few leaks, and a couple rooms need finishing, but nothing your family and friends can’t pull together in time.
” Mom smiles, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and says, “Since you’re here.
.. you wanna take a ride out to the lake with me? Might help you.”
I shake my head, throat thick. Fuck. The hits just keep coming. “Not today.”
She sighs, kisses my cheek, and pulls back just enough to study me, her blue eyes shining with pride and something even heavier.
“I can’t believe you’re a daddy,” she says softly. “I always knew your dreams would come true.”
“Oh my fucking God!” Hazel yells from somewhere behind the screen door seconds before is smashes open. “You’ve procreated?”
Before I can react, twin screams echo across the porch.
“You have a baby?!”
At the same time, a staticky voice crackles through the chaos. “Who has a baby? Kade?!”
All our heads whip around.
Colby’s standing there, holding up her phone, and Gemma’s face is frozen in mid-shriek on FaceTime.
“Tell me everything!” Gemma demands, clapping like a psycho.
I choke on a laugh, settle deeper into the old wicker bench, and let the chaos roll over me.
The sun dips lower behind the fields I grew up running through. The smell of honey and wildflowers thick in the air. The taste of sweet tea sharp on my tongue as my family gathers around me.
And for the first time in a long damn time, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.