10. Wade
WADE
I parked behind two trucks in Jolene's drive. One was hers, a beat-up Chevy with a dented tailgate. The other was Callie's, sitting there in the dark like it had been there for hours, like she'd been planning this the whole damn time.
The porch light was on, throwing long shadows across the gravel.
The house was small and plain, white paint peeling near the roofline, shutters that needed fixing.
A single light glowed in what looked like the kitchen window.
Out past the fence line, the tall grass stirred and then went still. The air smelled like hay.
I got out of the truck and stood there for a second, my hand on the door, trying to steady myself.
My chest felt tight, my pulse too fast, but I pushed it down.
This was fixable. Everything was fixable if you just had the right approach, the right angle.
I'd built an empire out of knowing how to solve problems, how to close a deal when the other side didn't even know they wanted to make one. This was no different.
Except it was Callie. And she'd left her wedding ring on my pillow.
The ring sat in my jacket pocket now, hard and small and wrong against my ribs.
I'd found it on the pillow on my side of the bed, right in the center where I'd see it the second I walked in.
That was the part that kept circling in my head, the part I couldn't shake.
Not tossed on the dresser. Not left in the bathroom.
On my pillow. Like she'd wanted to make sure I understood.
I didn't understand a goddamn thing.
I crossed the gravel and climbed the porch steps. The boards creaked under my boots. I raised my hand and knocked, three sharp raps that sounded too loud in the stillness.
Jolene opened the door maybe ten seconds later.
She did not look surprised to see me. She looked like she'd been expecting this, like she'd been standing in the hallway waiting for me to show up.
She was still in her work clothes, jeans and a faded t-shirt with some kind of logo on it, boots caked with dried mud.
Her hair was pulled back in a braid that had come half undone, and there was a smudge of dirt on her jaw.
She didn't say a word. Just stood there in the doorway with one hand on the frame, her body angled to block the way in.
"I need to see Callie," I said.
Jolene's expression didn't shift. Her eyes stayed on mine, flat and steady. "She's here."
"I know she is," I said, and I gestured toward the driveway behind me. "That's her truck."
"Yeah."
"So let me talk to her."
Jolene tilted her head, studying me like I was a stray she'd found on the side of the road and wasn't sure what to do with. Her mouth was a thin line. "You sure that's a good idea, Wade?"
"She's my wife," I said, and my voice came out harder than I meant it to, sharp enough that Jolene's eyebrows went up a fraction. I took a breath and tried again. "I just want to talk to her. That's all."
Jolene didn't move. Her eyes stayed on mine, calm and unimpressed, and I had the uncomfortable feeling I was being weighed and found lacking.
She was a small woman, couldn't have been more than five-three, barely came up to my shoulder, but she stood in that doorway like she could hold it against an army if she had to. Like she'd done it before.
"Jolene." Callie's voice came from somewhere behind her, quiet and flat, and the sound of it hit me in the chest like a fist. "It's fine."
Jolene glanced back over her shoulder, her expression softening just a fraction.
Then she stepped aside without a word, moving to the side of the door and leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
She didn't go far. Just far enough to let Callie through.
She stayed right there, planted like a guard dog, and I knew she was planning to listen to every word I said.
Callie came into view, stepping out of the hallway and into the doorway.
She was still wearing the dress from the party, the dark green one.
That felt like a lifetime ago. Her hair was still pinned up, a few strands loose around her face.
She wasn't crying. There were no red eyes, no tear tracks, nothing.
Her face was calm, smooth, emptied out. She looked at me the way you'd look at a stranger asking for directions, polite and distant and completely uninterested.
"Wade," she said.
Just my name. Not a question. Not a greeting. Just a flat statement of fact.
"Callie." My throat felt tight, and I swallowed hard against it. "Can we talk?"
She didn't answer right away. She just stood there, her hands loose at her sides, her shoulders straight, her body angled like she might step back and close the door at any second.
Then she nodded once, barely a dip of her chin, and stepped forward into the doorway.
Jolene moved back to give her space, but not far. Just far enough.
Callie stopped with one hand on the edge of the door, her fingers pale against the wood. She looked at me and waited.
"Okay," she said. "Talk."
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
I'd driven here with the whole thing planned out in my head, what I was going to say, how I was going to fix this, how I was going to bring her home.
But now that she was standing in front of me with that flat, faraway look in her eyes, every word I'd rehearsed felt thin and useless, like trying to patch a dam with tissue paper.
"I don't know what happened tonight," I said. "But whatever it is, we can fix it."
Callie's eyebrows went up, just barely. "Can we."
It wasn't a question. It was something else, something I didn't know how to name. Something that sat in the air between us like smoke.
"Yeah," I said. "Of course we can. Just tell me what you need."
"What I need," Callie repeated, and there was a faint edge to her voice now, something sharp under the calm. She tilted her head, watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes. "How, Wade?"
"How what?"
"How are you going to fix it if you don't even know what's wrong?"
My chest tightened, my pulse kicking up another notch. I felt like I was standing on ice, like the ground under me was cracking and I couldn't see where it was solid. "Then tell me. That's all I'm asking, Callie. Just tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it."
She didn't say anything. She just looked at me, her expression smooth and distant, and the silence stretched out between us like something physical, something I could feel pressing against my ribs.
Behind her, Jolene shifted her weight, her boots scraping against the floorboards, but she didn't speak.
"You want your own account?" I said, because it was the only concrete thing I could think of, the only thing I could offer that made sense.
"For the rescue, I mean. You want access to the ranch finances so you don't have to come to me every time you need something?
Done. I'll set it up first thing tomorrow. "
Callie blinked. Her face didn't change, but something in her eyes did, something I couldn't read.
From behind her, Jolene made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sigh. I ignored her and kept my eyes on Callie.
"Or I can put your name on the care protocols," I said, and the words came faster now, tumbling over each other like if I could just find the right combination she'd understand, like if I could just hit the right note this would all make sense.
"For the stock. The land maintenance reports.
The health records. All of it. You've been doing that work for ten years, Callie.
You should have your name on it. You should get credit for it.
The family will say so, in front of people. I can make that happen."
Callie's expression still didn't shift. She stood there like a statue, her hand on the door, her eyes on mine, and I felt like I was shouting into a void.
Then, quietly, she said, "I don't want your money, Wade."
"It's not my money," I said, and I heard the frustration creeping into my voice and couldn't stop it. "It's ours. It's the ranch. You're part of that. You've always been part of that."
"I don't want my name on a protocol, either," she said, and her voice was so calm it made my skin prickle, made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "I don't want any of that."
I stared at her. My pulse kicked up hard, a sick thud in my chest, and I didn't understand. I didn't understand any of it. "Then what do you want?"
She didn't answer. She just watched me, her face smooth and empty, like she'd already gone somewhere I couldn't follow and this was just her body standing here going through the motions.
"Callie," I said, and I heard the crack in my voice and hated it, hated how desperate I sounded. "Come on. Just talk to me. Tell me what's going on."
"I am talking to you," she said.
"No, you're not. You're standing there like I'm some stranger off the street. Like I'm nobody."
Callie didn't answer. She just looked at me.
The silence hit me like a fist to the gut. All the air went out of my lungs. I sucked in a breath and tried to find solid ground, tried to find something to hold onto, but there was nothing. Just her standing there looking at me like I was a problem she'd already solved.
"Jesus, Callie," I said, and my voice came out rough. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes dark and unreadable. Then she said, "Why do you think I left, Wade?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy and cold. My mouth went dry. I didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense. Not one that explained why she'd walked out in the middle of our anniversary party without saying a goddamn word to me or anyone else.
"I don't know," I said. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."
"Then figure it out," she said.
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration building in my chest like steam in a kettle with nowhere to go. "Callie, I can't read your mind. I need you to tell me."
"No," she said, and her voice was still calm, still even, and that scared me more than if she'd been shouting. "You don't."
My jaw tightened. I wanted to reach for her, to pull her out of that doorway and make her look at me like I was her husband instead of some stranger she was trying to get rid of. But I kept my hands at my sides and made myself breathe.
I told her. The words came out before I'd thought them through, and I gave her my answer straight, the only one I had.
Callie's expression didn't change. She just stood there, watching me, waiting.
I kept going, talking faster now, trying to fill the silence, trying to find the thing that would make her nod, make her soften, make her come home.
Nothing. Not a flicker. Not a word.
"Callie," I said, and I hated how my voice sounded, how raw it was. "Please. Just give me something here. Tell me what you want me to do."
She shook her head, slow and deliberate, like she was saying no to more than just my question. Like she was saying no to all of it. Then she stepped back, her hand still on the door, and said, "Go home, Wade."
"No," I said, and the word came out sharp and desperate. "No, I'm not doing that. I'm not leaving. Not like this. You can't just walk out and then refuse to tell me why."
"I can," she said. "And I am."
"Callie—"
"I want you to leave," she said, and her voice was flat and final, like a door closing, like a lock turning.
I stood there on the porch, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my chest tight and my throat burning.
I wanted to argue. I wanted to push past Jolene and drag Callie back to the truck, back to the ranch, back to our life where things made sense.
But the look on her face stopped me cold.
She wasn't angry. She wasn't hurt. She was just done.
"I called you," I said, and I sounded pathetic and I knew it. "Before I left. Your phone rang and you didn't answer. I called more than once."
"I know," she said.
Her voice was quiet. Not apologetic. Just acknowledging a fact.
"Callie," I said, and I didn't know what else to say, didn't know what words would reach her. "Don't do this."
She didn't answer. She just stepped back into the hallway, her fingers tightening on the edge of the door. Jolene moved closer to her, a silent wall of support, and I saw Callie's shoulders relax just a fraction.
"Goodnight, Wade," Callie said.
Then she closed the door.
I stood there staring at the wood, at the peeling white paint, at the dim reflection of the porch light in the window beside it. My pulse hammered in my ears, too fast, too loud. My hands felt empty and useless hanging at my sides.
Inside the house a floorboard creaked. Then silence. A dog barked somewhere far off, and the wind picked up, cold against the back of my neck, carrying the smell of dirt and the faint ghost of Callie's shampoo that I'd caught when she'd stepped close enough for me to see the exhaustion in her eyes.
I didn't move. I just stood there at the top of the porch steps, the ring in my pocket pressing into my ribs like an accusation, and tried to make sense of what had just happened.
The cold air pressed in around me. Out in the field beyond the drive, the dark grass stirred and went still again.
None of it made sense.
I turned away from the door and went down the steps.