Chapter 3 #2
She shrugged, not sure how to answer. Olivia wasn't always so quiet. But Liv was. "I guess I'm still trying to find my feet."
"Seriously? It's been a few days. The crew likes you. Heather likes you. Arletta guards your scones like family secrets. Even Kenny hasn't glared at you today. That's basically our love language."
Liv set down her measuring cup. "I usually try to keep my life parts separated from my personal ones. Makes it easier."
Mike leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Sometimes that works. Sometimes it just makes you lonely."
Liv looked away, changed the subject. "What about you? I was told if there were any injuries in the kitchen or on the ranch that you were the guy to go to since you're a trained medic. Why aren't you a doctor?"
His expression shifted. He didn't bristle. He just... slowed.
"I thought I would be," he said after a beat.
"Spent years as a combat medic. Thought that meant I'd go civilian doc after.
But…" He trailed off, then shrugged. "Turns out I like patching up wounds that have ingredients.
Pastry bruises. Burnt offerings. Feeding people's souls instead of just stopping the bleeding. "
"That's poetic," she said softly.
Mike was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer. Careful.
"My dad used to say healers don't always wear white coats." He traced the edge of the counter with his thumb. "Sometimes they wear aprons."
Liv waited.
"He was a pastor. Preached in town every Sunday. Fished on Mondays. God was simple to him. Love harder, forgive faster, and always bring an extra plate to the table." Mike's jaw worked. "They were heading home from a youth retreat. Him, my mom, and a couple of close friends..."
He stopped. Cleared his throat.
Liv's chest ached just watching him.
"Drunk driver," he said finally. Flat. Like if he said it any other way, it might crack him open. "They didn't make it."
Liv set down the spoon she'd been holding. Her hands were shaking.
"Mike, I—" Her voice broke. She tried again. "I'm so sorry."
He nodded. Didn't look at her.
"Charlotte’s parents died, too. Jeff and Sherry.
Same crash. They'd made a vow with Lyle to be godparents to each other's kids.
Lyle didn't have kids, but he took his promise seriously.
So now he's raising Charlotte as his own.
Heather stepped in when they got married.
They're a family unit now, but we like to think that Charlotte belongs to all of us. "
Liv wanted to say something, anything, but nothing in her vocabulary worked for grief like that.
Mike rubbed the back of his neck. Stared at the floor.
"I still flinch when I hear loud pops," he said quietly. "Can't sleep in hotel rooms. And I..." He hesitated. "I worry when trucks idle too long near the road."
Liv's lungs stopped.
He'd noticed. He'd been watching out for her this whole time.
The words came out before she could stop them.
"Laughter I can't place," she whispered. "And flowers. When they show up without a card."
Mike's eyes came up. Met hers.
Neither of them moved.
"You're safe here, Liv."
She nodded, almost believing him.
"Maybe someday you'll trust me enough to tell me what's got you so spooked."
Liv carried her tea out to the back porch just as the sun started its slow melt into the horizon. The air had cooled, finally, and the breeze smelled like hay and wood smoke.
She leaned against the porch rail, letting her shoulders drop for the first time all day.
Then she saw it.
Grey. Dusty. Parked at the same bend in the road as yesterday.
The mug slipped.
She caught it, barely, tea sloshing over the rim and burning her knuckles. But she didn't move. Couldn't.
Boot steps, slow and deliberate, came from the side of the house.
Liv spun, heart in her throat.
Kenny stood at the corner of the porch, shoulder against the post, arms crossed. He wasn't looking at her.
He was looking at the truck.
"How long's it been there?" His voice was low. Calm. But there was something underneath it, something that made Liv's pulse kick harder.
"I—" She swallowed. "Two minutes. Maybe three."
Kenny nodded once. Didn't take his eyes off the road.
"You know who it is?"
"No."
He waited. Let the silence stretch.
"But you got a guess," he said.
Liv's hands tightened around the mug. "I don't know what you're—"
"Yeah, you do."
The truck's engine turned over. Slow. Easy. Like whoever was driving had all the time in the world.
Then it rolled forward and disappeared around the bend.
Kenny pushed off the post. Looked at her for the first time.
"You're gonna want to tell Mike," he said quietly. "Before this gets messy."
"It's not—"
"Yeah, it is." He turned and walked back toward the barn, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose.
Like he hadn't just stripped her down to nothing with six words.
Liv sat on the edge of the bed, burner phone in her lap, staring at the single contact saved in the directory.
Detective Sanchez.
She'd tried him four times in the past week. Four times, straight to voicemail.
Her thumb hovered over the call button.
One more time. Just once more.
She hit dial.
One ring.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Two rings.
She pressed the phone tighter to her ear.
Three.
"Please," she whispered. "Please pick up."
Four.
Five.
"You've reached Detective Mark Sanchez with the NYPD. Leave a message and I'll—"
She hung up.
Sat there, phone in her hand, staring at the screen until it went dark.
Then she opened the contact. Stared at his name.
And deleted it.
The phone asked if she was sure.
She was.
She wasn't.
She hit yes anyway and the number vanished.
Liv set the phone on the nightstand. Pulled her knees up to her chest.
Her parents were somewhere in the Caribbean on a six-month-long cruise. No cell service. No way to reach them even if she wanted to.
Not that she knew what she'd say.
Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. I'm hiding in Texas under a fake name because I watched someone get murdered and now the killer's people might be looking for me. How's the buffet?
She pressed her forehead to her knees.
She had no idea if it was safe to text anyone. No idea if this cheap prepaid phone could be traced. No idea if she'd ever be able to go home. Salvage her business.
Or if there'd even be a home or business to go back to.
Outside her window, the ranch was quiet. Crickets. A dog barking in the distance. The faint creak of the windmill by the barn.
She'd only been here a week.
And already, it felt more like home than Manhattan ever had.