Chapter 32 Boone
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Boone
Morning comes wrong in the woods.
Too quiet. No fences creaking. No animals shifting in their stalls. No soft thud of hooves or impatient nickers reminding me the world’s moving whether I am or not. Just trees and wind and a stillness that’s listening.
I wake up already braced.
The cabin smells of pine sap and cold air, and the faint ghost of last night’s fire burned down to ash. The quiet presses in from all sides, and there’s nowhere to outrun it.
Sadie should be here.
That’s the first wrong thing my brain latches onto.
She should be padding down the hall in mismatched socks, asking for cereal before she’s fully awake. She should be humming nonsense songs while she waits for toast. She should be asking if today is a school day, even though she knows the answer.
Instead, she’s two hours away.
In a classroom full of kids who’ve learned exactly where her soft spots live.
My chest tightens.
I picture her at her little desk, shoulders drawn in, listening harder than she should have to. Wondering if today’s the day someone says something sharp again. Wondering if it’ll be loud or whispered, accidental or mean on purpose.
Kids don’t always mean to be cruel. They just repeat what they hear.
And someone’s been teaching them.
I see it every time Sadie comes home quieter than she left. Every time she shrugs and says it’s fine with that too quick smile. Every time she changes the subject when I ask about school.
She’s learning how to carry it alone.
That terrifies me.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand there longer than necessary, staring at the floor, waiting for answers. My phone sits on the small table by the window, exactly where I left it. Screen dark. Silent.
I grab it before the coffee’s even on.
Because if I don’t check now, I’ll imagine everything going wrong by nine a.m. And I can’t fix what I can’t see.
My thumb hovers over Principal Jenks’s number, then I set my phone down and reach for the landline mounted by the kitchen.
I don’t want to be that parent who calls too often. The one who’s labeled difficult. The one who overreacts.
But I’m already past that line.
Because this isn’t about scraped knees or missed homework. This is about my kid learning that being different makes you a target. About her wondering if something’s wrong with her family, with her life, with her.
I dial the number.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
I stare out the window at the trees, bare branches scratching the sky, reaching for something solid.
The line clicks, and then, “Boone Taylor.”
“Morning, Principal Jenks.” My voice sounds calm. I don’t feel it.
“Good morning, Boone. I was actually planning to call you later today.”
That twists low in my gut. “Is Sadie okay?”
“She’s fine,” Jenks says immediately. “She’s in class. But I know you’re calling about what has been going on.”
I close my eyes.
“Yeah, I am.” I pause. “I think Sadie is still struggling, and I want to know what’s happening with Eli.”
“Eli has been spoken to,” Jenks says. “Firmly. His behavior has crossed a line, and we’ve addressed that with both him and his mother.”
“And Carol?” I ask. “How did she take it?”
“She was… defensive,” Jenks admits. “But she understands this will not be tolerated.”
I stare at the floor.
“Understanding and changing aren’t the same thing.”
“No,” Jenks agrees. “They aren’t.”
“I don’t want Sadie labeled,” I say quietly. “Not as sensitive. Or difficult.”
“She’s a lovely child,” Jenks says without hesitation. “And she is not the problem here.”
I breathe out slowly, the kind of breath that scrapes on the way out.
“I just need to know what you’re doing to make sure this doesn’t keep happening,” I say. “Because I can’t be there every minute. And I won’t teach her to toughen up just so other people can stay comfortable.”
“You won’t have to,” Jenks replies. “We’re increasing supervision during unstructured times. We’re having a classroom conversation about kindness and family differences. And I will personally check in with Sadie.”
My shoulders loosen a fraction.
“And if it happens again?”
“You call me,” she says immediately. “Not the office. Not a teacher. Me.”
“Thank you.”
She hesitates. “Boone… you’re doing right by her. Please don’t doubt that.”
“I try.”
“I know.”
The call ends softly.
I stand there for a long moment afterward, listening to the wind move through the trees.
I don’t know how to protect Sadie from every sharp edge in the world.
But I know this—I will not be quiet, and I will not let her learn that she has to be.
I pour coffee. It tastes bitter. I drink it anyway.
Behind me, a floorboard creaks.
“Morning,” Delaney says.
She’s cautious. She knows I’m wound tight and doesn’t want to snap anything.
“Morning,” I answer.
She moves into the kitchen area of the cabin. She rinses a mug, keeps her hands busy.
“Was that… the school?” She winces. “I wasn’t trying to overhear, but…”
“Yeah. It was.”
She nods. Doesn’t press.
“They say it’s handled, with Eli,” I add, and the words come out sharper than I intend. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
Delaney turns then, mug forgotten in her hands.
“That doesn’t mean it feels handled,” she says.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “No. It doesn’t.”
She sets the mug down and leans back against the counter, giving me space but not distance. It’s something she’s good at, being there without crowding.
“She’s six,” I say. “Six. And she’s already figuring out how to make herself smaller so things don’t get worse.”
Delaney’s mouth tightens. “That’s not okay.”
“I know.” My tone roughens. “But knowing doesn’t stop it from happening.”
She waits. Lets the silence stretch without trying to fill it. That’s another thing she does right.
“I keep thinking about all the little stuff,” I continue. “Not just Eli. The questions. The looks. Mother’s Day projects that come home half-finished because she doesn’t know what to do with them. Kids asking why her dad shows up to everything instead of her mom.”
Delaney swallows. “Kids can be cruel without realizing it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And parents can be cruel on purpose.”
Her eyes flick up, sharp but gentle. “Carol.”
I nod once. She’s heard me moan before. “Carol.”
She exhales slowly. “I’m really sorry, Boone.”
“I don’t know how to fix it,” I admit. The words taste of failure. “I can’t change the town. I can’t control what kids repeat at school. And I can’t explain things to Sadie without hurting her more.”
Delaney studies me for a long moment, then says quietly, “You’re already doing the most important part.”
I huff. “Which is?”
“Listening,” she says. “Believing her. Not telling her she’s too sensitive or that she needs to toughen up. You’re teaching her that her feelings matter.”
I look away, jaw tight. “Feels like not enough.”
She steps a little closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I know she’s there.
“When I was a kid,” she says softly, “the worst part wasn’t what people said. It was when no one stood up and said, ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’”
I glance at her. “You had that happen a lot?”
She gives a small, humorless smile. “More than I’d like.”
The cabin creaks around us, wind brushing the windows.
“I keep worrying she’ll think this is her fault,” I say. “That if she were different—quieter, tougher, easier—none of this would happen.”
Delaney shakes her head immediately. “Then she’s learning the wrong lesson. And you’re not teaching her that.”
I blow out a breath. “I just… I don’t want her to grow up thinking people leave because she’s inconvenient.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Delaney stills.
“Marissa left,” I say finally. “Packed a bag and said she needed space to figure herself out. Told me it wasn’t about Sadie. But you tell a toddler that enough times, and it doesn’t stick.”
Delaney’s eyes soften. “Kids personalize everything.”
“So do adults,” I mutter.
I lean back against the table, arms crossed. “I keep thinking… what if this all piles up? What if school becomes another place she braces herself? What if she starts expecting people to walk away?”
Delaney takes a careful breath. “Then you keep showing her that you won’t.”
“I am,” I say. “Every day.”
“I know,” she replies. “But Boone… it’s okay to acknowledge that it still hurts.”
My laugh comes out rough. “That’s not something I’m great at.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t have to be great at it. You just have to be honest.”
I meet her gaze. “Marissa said she felt trapped in Coyote Glen. Like the ranch was swallowing her whole. And sometimes I wonder if I missed something. If I pushed too hard. If I made staying impossible.”
Delaney steps closer now, close enough that I can smell coffee and soap.
“Boone,” she says firmly, “someone leaving doesn’t mean you failed them.”
“You don’t know that,” I argue.
“I do,” she says quietly. “Because I stayed in places I shouldn’t have for far too long, thinking love meant enduring whatever someone handed me. And when I finally left, it wasn’t because the other person failed, it was because I didn’t know how to ask for what I needed.”
That lands.
“She made a choice,” Delaney continues. “A hard one. A selfish one. And Sadie’s allowed to feel that loss without it meaning you weren’t enough.”
I stare at the floor, throat tight.
“She asks about her sometimes,” I admit. “Not much. Just… little things. If her mom likes horses. If she ever baked cookies. If she remembers her.”
Delaney softens. “And what do you tell her?”
“The truth,” I say. “That her mom loved her. That sometimes adults make choices that hurt people they love. That it wasn’t Sadie’s fault.”
Delaney nods. “That’s exactly right.”
I look up. “It doesn’t feel right when she comes home quiet.”
“No,” Delaney agrees. “But quiet doesn’t mean broken.”
She hesitates, then adds, “And she’s got more people in her corner than you think.”
I snort faintly. “You volunteering?”
A small smile tugs at her mouth. “I’m around, aren’t I?”
Painful warmth expands in my chest.
“She adores you.”
Delaney’s eyes flicker. “I adore her too.”
The quiet settles again, different this time. Less sharp.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “Not of Eli. Not of Carol. Of messing this up. Of teaching Sadie the wrong things without meaning to.”
Delaney reaches out then, resting her hand briefly over mine.
“You’re teaching her how to stand,” she says. “And that someone will stand with her. That matters.”
I swallow. “Thank you.”
She squeezes my hand once, then lets go, giving me back my space.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” she adds.
I nod slowly. “Feels like I’ve been trying to for a long time.”
She meets my eyes. “You don’t have to anymore.”