Chapter 35 Delaney
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Delaney
A few days later, Coyote Glen feels… quieter.
Not actually quieter. This town does not understand the concept of quiet. But quieter around me. Like people have collectively decided I’m either old news or too much effort to speculate about before noon.
I’ll take it.
I escape the ranch under the pretense of needing coffee, which is not a lie so much as a survival requirement.
Boone barely looks up from his phone when I grab my jacket, Caleb mutters something about having fun, and Silas flashes me a grin that suggests he knows exactly what kind of day I’m going to have.
Rude.
Downtown Coyote Glen looks as it always does. Charming in a way that feels intentional. Painted storefronts. Hanging flower baskets. A chalkboard sign advertising Soup of the Day, because soup is a lifestyle choice here.
I breathe in the pine-heavy air and head straight for Coyote Cup.
If I don’t get caffeine soon, I will absolutely start making poor decisions. Possibly involving baked goods.
The bell over the door jingles as I walk in, and the familiar smell of espresso and cinnamon wraps around me as a hug that doesn’t ask questions. The place is busy but relaxed. Locals lingering, mugs refilled without judgment, conversations overlapping in a way that feels communal.
I spot them immediately.
Ivy’s commandeered a corner table, one leg tucked under her, posture relaxed in a way only someone who’s survived all those children can manage.
Olivia’s across from her with Jacob’s stroller parked beside the table, an extension of her body.
And Sloane is perched halfway sideways in a chair, sunglasses still on, hair twisted into a messy knot that somehow looks deliberate.
My chest loosens.
This still feels new. Being able to walk up to a table and just… join in. No catching up. No explanations required. Just slipping into the middle of someone else’s life like it’s allowed.
“…and then my ankles just gave up,” Ivy is saying as I approach.
Olivia snorts. “That’s pregnancy for you. Your body decides it’s done taking suggestions.”
Sloane lifts her coffee. “I maintain that pregnancy is the ultimate hostile takeover. That’s why it isn’t me…”
I slide into the empty chair while they’re laughing, setting my bag at my feet.
“There she is,” Ivy says, pointing at me with her muffin. “The ranch miracle.”
I blink. “I came in halfway through a medical horror story, and that’s my introduction?”
“You should hear the part about the heartburn,” Olivia says sweetly. “We’re sparing you.”
“Thank you,” I reply sincerely. “I’m fragile.”
Olivia’s gaze softens as she looks at me. “How is everything?”
I think about it.
“Better,” I say. “Still messy. But better.”
Ivy nods like that’s a perfectly complete answer. “Messy but better is my favorite genre.”
Savannah appears then, balancing drinks like a caffeinated fairy godmother. My iced vanilla latte lands in front of me, cold and perfect, and I swear I feel my soul return to my body. She already knows me too well. That’s one of the amazing things about small towns.
She smiles brightly, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Like she knows she’s about to drop something into the middle of the table that might change the weather.
“Delaney?” she says. “There was a guy in here yesterday asking about you…”
My hand freezes around my cup.
A man.
My stomach does a slow, unpleasant roll.
“About me?” I ask carefully.
Savannah nods. “Yeah. Said he was hoping to get in touch about a job. Left a number. I didn’t give him anything,” Savannah adds quickly. “No info about you. He just left his number and asked me to pass it along.”
The table goes quiet.
“A job?” Ivy echoes.
Why is this happening now? After the posts. After my name started circulating again.
Savannah pulls a small scrap of paper from her apron pocket and sets it beside my coffee like it’s no big deal.
“He said he’d be in town a few days. Wanted you to call if you were interested.”
Interested.
The word feels heavier than it should.
“Thanks,” I manage.
Savannah hesitates, clearly reading my face. “He seemed professional,” she adds quickly. “Well dressed. Confident. Intense, but not in a creepy way.”
Intense is not a comforting descriptor for me.
But I nod anyway. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
She retreats, leaving the paper between us.
Ivy leans forward immediately. “Alright. We’re not glossing over that.”
“I’m not even sure what that is yet,” I say.
Sloane tilts her head. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The one where you pretend you’re fine while internally building a panic PowerPoint.”
Rude. Accurate.
My first instinct is to look for the catch. Because there’s always a catch. I pick up the paper, stare at the number. Local. Or at least not obviously New York. Plenty of industry people use temporary numbers.
“So,” Olivia says gently, “a job?”
“Apparently.”
Ivy’s mouth quirks. “Well. That tracks.”
“How does that track?” I ask.
“You’re talented,” she says plainly. “People notice talent.”
I swallow. “That hasn’t always been… good.”
Sloane’s expression softens. “I know.”
I stare into my coffee like it might offer guidance.
“I trained for years to work in high-end kitchens,” I say. “That was the plan. The whole plan. I didn’t imagine myself here, cooking pancakes shaped like dinosaurs.”
“Do you hate that?” Olivia asks.
I don’t answer right away.
“No,” I admit finally. “I love it.”
The truth lands softly but solidly.
“But this was supposed to be temporary,” I continue. “A reset. Somewhere quiet to heal before I figured out what came next.”
“And now next is calling,” Ivy says.
I nod.
“And that scares you,” Olivia says.
“Yes.”
“Because?”
“Because every time I think about going back into that world, my chest tightens,” I say. “Like I’m standing in a kitchen that’s too hot and I can’t find the exit.”
“That’s trauma,” Olivia says calmly.
“Oh, good,” I mutter. “Love that for me.”
Ivy leans back. “Avoiding everything that scares you isn’t healing either.”
“I know,” I say. “But neither is throwing myself back into a situation where I might lose myself again.”
Sloane watches me closely. “Do you want to call him?”
The question catches me off guard.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Part of me does. Being wanted for my skills again feels validating.”
“And the other part?” Olivia prompts.
“The other part thinks about Sadie,” I say quietly. “About the ranch. About how safe I feel there.”
Safe.
The word sits differently now. Less fragile. More intentional.
Ivy nods. “You’re allowed to want more than one thing.”
“I know,” I say. “I just don’t know how to want them without losing something.”
Sloane shrugs. “Has anyone asked you to choose?”
“No.”
“Then don’t,” she says simply.
I exhale. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” she says. “But it’s yours.”
I fold the paper carefully and slide it into my pocket.
“I’m not calling yet,” I decide. “But I’m not throwing it away.”
“That sounds like growth,” Olivia says.
Ivy lifts her mug. “To reasonable indecision.”
We clink cups.
As the conversation drifts to Sloane’s latest media disaster, Ivy’s kids, and Olivia’s coffee truck plans, I feel lighter. Not because I have answers, but because I don’t feel alone in the questions.
When we eventually stand to leave, Sloane hugs me tight.
“Whatever you choose,” she murmurs, “don’t let fear decide for you. You know we’ve always got you.”
“I’ll try.”
Outside, the mountain air is crisp and grounding. I pause on the sidewalk, hand slipping into my pocket, fingers brushing the folded paper.
A few days ago, I thought my life was shrinking.
So I walk back toward the ranch.
Toward the place that feels like home.
With a number in my pocket.
Just in case.