Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
WOMEN LIKE THAT DON'T STOP UNTIL SOMETHING MAKES THEM STOP.
KINSLEY
The Oregon morning bites cold as Wyatt and I cross the hospital parking lot toward a building that promises mediocre coffee and the chance to see Jake awake.
Wyatt's hand finds mine; his fingers warm against the chill. "Think he'll milk this for sympathy?" he asks.
"Absolutely." I squeeze his hand. "And we're going to let him."
Inside, fluorescent lights buzz overhead. We follow signs to Jake's room, and I can already hear voices—Jake's laugh, weak but genuine.
He's propped up in bed, pale beneath his tan but awake. Madison sits in the bedside chair, her usually perfect composure unraveled—tangled hair, mascara traces beneath red-rimmed eyes.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite power couple," Jake says, attempting a grin. "Come to make sure I didn't kick the bucket and mess up your fancy party plans?"
I laugh despite myself. "Obviously. Can't have you dying on us and stealing all the sympathy."
"Rude," Madison mutters, but there's a smile tugging at her lips.
"How are you feeling, man?" Wyatt settles into the chair on the other side of the bed.
"Like I got stepped on by a seventeen-hundred-pound horse with an attitude problem." Jake's grin is weak but genuine. "But hey, at least I looked good doing it."
"You looked like a rag doll," Madison says as she folds her arms.
"The only thing scarier than the broncs I ride is facing my mamma." Jake makes a pouty face at Madison. "Will you protect me?"
She huffs. “I’m on her side.”
"Savage," Wyatt laughs.
The banter feels almost normal. This is what Jake needs—not pity, but proof that some things survive even the worst wrecks.
"Has your mom made it yet?" I ask.
Madison nods her head. "She was here all night. I finally convinced her to go back to the hotel for a shower and some sleep. She'll be back this afternoon."
My eyes catch on an arrangement near the window—roses and lilies in an expensive vase. A stuffed horse sits beside it wearing a tiny western shirt, and there's a gift basket wrapped in cellophane filled with gourmet snacks and a card propped against it.
"Who sent the flowers?" I ask.
Madison's expression sours. "Brittany. Because apparently Jake is 'Wyatt's best friend' and she wanted to 'send her love.'" The air quotes are vicious.
My stomach tightens. “Brittney was here?” My voice cracks.
“They came by delivery.” Madison makes a face. “I do not like that woman. She’s obsessed with Wyatt—it’s weird.”
"That's what happens when you're the best," Jake says with a weak grin.
"You guys have seen Dateline, right?" Madison warns. "You can't just ignore this stuff. Women like that don't stop until something makes them stop."
Wyatt glances at me. "Madison," he says as a warning.
"I'm serious." She looks between them. "This isn't normal fan behavior. Normal fans don't go behind the chutes, don't send gifts to someone’s best friend, don't—"
"I won't let anything happen," Wyatt says firmly. His hand finds mine and tightens. "We're handling it."
But are we? The question sits heavy in my chest, mixing with the image of those flowers—, a reminder that Brittany knows where we are, what we're doing, who matters to us. She's already proven that she doesn't respect boundaries.
"You okay?" Wyatt's voice pulls me back.
"Yeah." I force a smile. "Just tired."
He doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go, turning back to Jake with some story about the drive up here.
I watch him as he talks—the easy confidence, the way he makes Jake laugh despite the pain—and something shifts in my chest.
I'm falling for him.
I’ve worked so hard to keep my heart safe and he’s cuddled up next to it. It’s okay. I'm starting to understand something I didn't before: caring for someone, maybe even loving them, and trusting them are two different things. I can love without trusting.
Maybe that's enough for now. Maybe love grows first, and trust follows if you're patient. If you're brave.
So far, Wyatt hasn't given me a reason not to trust him. That has to count for something.
"I'm sorry," Jake says, pulling me back to the moment. "But I don't think I'll make it to your party. Turns out hospitals don't let recently trampled cowboys travel."
"Shocking policy," I say. "What will the insurance companies think of next?"
He chuckles and winces.
"I think we'll be okay." I let my gaze drift toward Madison. "But I know there will be several broken hearts if you're not there."
Madison's cheeks flush.
Wyatt reaches into his jacket and pulls out something that catches the light—bronze and silver gleaming. "Figured you might want this." He holds up Jake's latest buckle. "Didn't think you'd make it over to pick it up."
Jake's eyes light up. "Well, dang." He takes the buckle, turning it over. The pain lines around his eyes ease just from holding it. "Makes it all worth it, doesn't it?"
"You're all touched in the head." Madison's voice cracks, half exasperation, half something that sounds like love. "And I won't be making it to the party either. I promised Jake's mom I'd help her get his sorry butt home."
Jake grins. "You're gonna miss seeing me in a suit."
"I'll survive the disappointment," Madison quips.
My phone buzzes insistently. I pull it out and scan the messages. Madison hands me a notepad without a word.
"Someone's popular," Jake observes.
"The glamorous life of event planning." I feel the weight settle onto my shoulders. "Apparently parties don't organize themselves."
My phone rings. Brook's name. "I should probably take this one." I step into the hallway.
"Kinsley," Brook's voice comes through bright with excitement. "Please tell me you're sitting down."
"I'm in the hospital hallway, so standing, but—"
"Senator Martinez RSVP'd yes! And he's bringing his wife and daughter."
My chest expands. "That's exactly what we needed."
"That's not even the best part." Brook is pumped. "His RSVP apparently opened some kind of floodgate. I've had twelve more confirmations since yesterday, including three state legislators and the president of the Cattlemen's Association."
I lean against the wall, scribbling notes on Madison's notepad. "This is incredible."
My phone buzzes with another call—Hailey's name flashing. "Brook, can you hold on?"
I manage to merge the calls, and their coordinated excitement about flights, media requests, interview schedules wash over me. I write as fast as I can, capturing details I'm already forgetting.
When I finally hang up, I stare at the notepad. All these important people believe in what we're doing. Strangers who've heard our story and decided it's worth their time, worth their support.
I'm about to head back into Jake's room when my phone buzzes. Unknown number.
You're not as good as you think you are, and some legacies deserve to die.
The words blur. My hands go unsteady.
I stand there in the empty hallway, staring at the screen until the words stop making sense. Then I walk back into Jake's room on legs that don't quite feel attached to my body.
"Kinsley?" Wyatt's voice sounds far away. "What is it?"
I hand him my phone without speaking. Watch his expression shift from concern to something harder. His jaw tightens.
"What's going on?" Jake tries to sit up.
"Someone's been sending Kinsley anonymous texts," Wyatt says.
The question I've been avoiding forces itself past my lips. "Do you think it's my dad?"
The room falls quiet except for Jake's monitors.
Wyatt studies my face. "Do you think it's your dad?"
I should know, shouldn't I? But the truth is, I barely know Ford at all. There's a memory that surfaces: I was eight, maybe nine, and I'd won a small barrel racing competition. I called to tell him, breathless with pride. He didn't answer. I left a voicemail. Never heard back.
"It feels like something he would do. But then it doesn’t. I’ve never been worth his time.” I fold in on myself.
Wyatt pulls me to him and rubs his hand up and down my arm. "I'm sorry, Kins."
"I need to get home," I say finally.
As we prepare to leave, Ford remains a shadow—present but absent, connected but distant, just like he's always been. Maybe his indifference is weapon enough.
Is it possible he's sending these texts? I don't know. But if he is, I'm stepping into a fight with my own father—and that's a war I never wanted to wage.