Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Boone
Monday should be simple: feed the horses, check the fences, meet the hay delivery, and try not to think about Delaney in the kitchen two nights ago.
Simple.
Except today is the annual “Fire Safety Demonstration” at Mountain Ridge Elementary, and Sadie insisted that I come watch.
I tried to say no because of the ranch, but she looked up at me with those big brown eyes and said, very softly, “But I’ll miss you.”
And that was that.
So now I’m standing in a patch of grass behind the school with parents I barely talk to, watching the Coyote Glen Fire Department try to teach first graders how not to flood the entire county with a fire hose.
“Back it up there, Karl,” Jesse Fletcher shouts as a spray goes rogue and nearly takes out the PTA tent. “Equipment costs more than my truck!”
The kids scream and laugh. A couple of parents wince. One mother clutches her latte so tight it must be all she needs this morning.
Sadie is glowing.
Pigtails bouncing. Jacket sleeves too long. Micah’s tiny hand hooked confidently in hers as they shuffle forward to the front of the line, leading a parade.
I watch her whole face stretch into a smile so big it could hold up the sun.
These moments are the reason I’d walk through fire for her. They’re worth it. Every second.
Karl and Leo crouch beside the kids, helping them aim the spray at the big wooden fire target shaped as a cartoon house.
“Okay, on three,” Leo says. “One, two—”
“My turn!”
I stiffen.
Eli Spence.
Of course.
He barrels forward, shoving between Sadie and Micah with the grace of a bowling ball in a dryer. Micah stumbles. Sadie goes rigid.
I step closer, every muscle in my body sharpening.
Karl steadies the hose. “Hey, buddy, we take turns.”
“But I’m special!” Eli whines.
I stop dead.
Because Sadie flinches.
Just a tiny brace, shoulders curling, expecting sharpness.
I’ve seen that flinch before.
From adults.
From teachers with too loud voices.
From Marissa.
A memory slices through me…
Marissa pacing our old kitchen. “I can’t do this, Boone. I can’t be here. I can’t breathe here.”
Sadie, barely toddling, reaching for her mother’s leg, and Marissa stepping back. That little jolt in Sadie’s tiny shoulders. The earliest version of oh.
Something I love doesn’t want me.
I shake the memory off, throat tight.
Micah steps forward now, brave as ever.
“She was first,” he declares quietly.
And then Eli turns to Sadie.
His mouth moves.
I can’t hear the words, but I see the joy draining out of her face. Eyes drop. Lips press together in that tight, fight-the-tears way.
My whole gut twists.
I start walking without realizing it.
Fast.
Weaving through parents and strollers, heat building behind my ribs.
Just in time to hear Eli say…
“You don’t have a mom, so you don’t get first turn.”
Everything in me goes still.
Sadie’s chin trembles.
“Stop it. Sadie has her dad, and that’s special too,” Micah insists.
Eli snorts. “No, it’s not. It’s weird.”
That’s it, the thing that hits bone.
Because I know exactly where that wound lives in Sadie, deep, tender, shaped like the outline of a woman who walked away.
Marissa left when Sadie was barely two, promising to “figure herself out” and come back.
She didn’t.
Every time something small touches that bruise, a kid on the playground, a Mother’s Day craft, a conversation she overhears, Sadie goes still.
Quiet.
Holding pain.
And now this.
“Sadie.”
She turns immediately, eyes big and shiny, but fighting so hard to be brave.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m okay.”
She’s not.
Not even close.
“Come here,” I tell her gently.
She steps into me, small hand curling into my shirt. She’s been holding tears on her tongue and needs somewhere safe to put them.
I rest my hand on her back, anger locked behind my ribs.
“Everything alright?”
She nods.
Lie.
I look at Eli. He’s smirking, proud of himself.
His mom stands nearby with the PTA officers, smiling as if her kid is the golden retriever mascot of the school.
I look at Sadie again.
Her face is pale, her eyes bright with held back humiliation.
No.
Not acceptable.
“Want to watch from here?” I ask softly.
She nods fast, burying her face deeper into my side.
I exhale through my nose, rubbing her shoulder in slow circles.
I wait until the kids rotate stations before heading toward Carol.
She’s mid-conversation about fundraising banners and “elevating the Harvest Gala aesthetic,” whatever that means, when I clear my throat.
“Carol.”
She turns, smile tight and plastic.
“Boone. How… unexpected.”
Right. Because I’m not at PTA meetings every week. Because without a wife in tow, I must not care about my kid.
“Can I talk to you about something?”
“Oh?” she chirps. “Of course.”
“It’s about Eli.”
Her smile freezes.
“I think he said something to Sadie. Something that upset her.”
“Oh,” she says, tone already shifting into dismissive. “Well, I’m sure it was a misunderstanding. Sweet boys get their wires crossed sometimes.”
“He told her she doesn’t get a turn because she doesn’t have a mother.”
Her expression flickers with embarrassment, but she masks it quickly.
“Boone.” She sighs. “Children say things. Eli didn’t mean anything cruel.”
“A kid doesn’t have to mean it for it to hurt.”
My patience is thinning.
“I’m sure Sadie misinterpreted,” she shoots back with a laugh too light to be real. “She’s sensitive. Everyone knows that.”
My jaw locks so tight it aches.
“Carol,” I try again, keeping my voice level, “I’m not accusing him. Just… maybe talk to him. That’s all.”
She stiffens.
“Eli would never intentionally target your daughter. And frankly, it sounds like Sadie needs to develop a bit of resilience.”
My blood runs hot.
But I breathe.
Because blowing up won’t fix this.
And Carol Spence is not a battle I can win with anger.
“Alright,” I say, stepping back. “Thanks for your time.”
She gives one of those dismissive PTA nods that means I’m already forgotten.
I walk back to Sadie, who now holds a paper cup of water Jesse passed out.
Micah stands with her, loyal as ever.
She looks small.
Tired.
“You okay?” I ask again.
She nods.
Same lie.
But she slips her hand into mine.
And I don’t let go.
The demonstration ends with foam everywhere and Leo letting the kids climb the side of the truck for photos. Sadie goes through the motions, smiles for pictures, hugs Micah goodbye, but she stays pressed to my leg, holding onto a lifeline.
Too quiet.
By the time we reach the truck, she climbs into her booster seat without a word.
As I buckle her in, she whispers, small as a breath, “Daddy?”
“Yeah, peanut?”
“Do you… do you think it’s weird?”
My chest tightens.
“Do I think what’s weird?”
“That I don’t have a mom.”
I drop into a crouch so we’re eye level.
“No,” I say. “I think it’s part of your story. And stories… they’re all different. Yours is beautiful.”
She swallows.
“But Eli said—”
“Eli was wrong. And I’m going to make sure he knows that.”
She nods slowly, staring at her hands.
I smooth her hair back, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“I’m right here. Always.”
Her fingers curl around mine, warm, small, trusting, before she lets go.
I shut her door gently and walk around to the driver’s side. The wind is cold against my face, or maybe that’s just my blood cooling.
As I start the engine, one thing circles in my skull, relentless: This is not over. Something is happening beneath the surface here with Carol, with Eli, with whatever message is being passed around this school, and I intend to find out what.
Even if I have to rip the whole damn problem up by the roots.