6. Chapter 6
Quinn
Noah meets us at the gate in the same dusty Ford he's driven since before I left for Boston, mud still caked in the wheel wells from spring planting. He hugs me hard and quick, then shakes Cade's hand once, firm, assessing. The handshake of a man deciding something before he's said a word.
Noah pulls the truck onto the ranch road and the fence line stretches out ahead of us. I feel the complicated mix of relief and dread that only home can produce.
The mountains rise behind the property like they've been waiting.
Like they knew I'd be back eventually, dragging another problem behind me.
The pastures roll green and gold under late afternoon light, cattle dots against the horizon, and the main house sits exactly where it's always sat, white porch railings bright against the weathered wood.
"Barn's ready." Noah doesn't look at me when he says it. His hands stay easy on the wheel, his voice carrying the same measured calm it's carried since he left his law practice in Seattle to run this place. "Equipment came Tuesday. I set it up the way you drew it."
"You didn't have to do all that yourself."
"Paige helped." His mouth twitches. "Mostly she supervised while I lifted."
I snap my rubber band once, then twice. "I should have come earlier, and done it myself."
"You had a patient to prep for transport." Noah's eyes flick to me, then to the rearview mirror, checking on Cade in the back seat. "How's the elbow holding up after the flight?"
"Stiff." Cade's voice is quieter than it's been all day. I watched him go still somewhere over Wyoming, his usual energy draining out of him as the landscape opened up below. "Nothing worse than usual."
"We'll ice it before dinner." I pull up the protocol on my phone, checking the notes I made during the flight. "Twenty minutes, elevation, then gentle range of motion."
"Yes ma'am."
I don't turn around. Don't acknowledge how soft he sounded, how sincere instead of teasing. He's been talking like that all day.
The truck crests the small rise before the house, and the barn comes into view, doors standing open. Late sun catches the equipment inside, and even from here I can make out the shape of the treatment table, the resistance band station, the floor space cleared for movement work.
It looks like my clinic, and yet it looks like nowhere I've ever worked.
"Paige wants to come for dinner tomorrow." Noah pulls the truck alongside the main house. "I told her to give you a day to settle."
"She'll come tonight anyway."
"Probably." He cuts the engine. "Graham called. Said to tell you the media pressure's already dying down in Boston. Cade's publicist put out a statement about a private recovery facility and everyone's moved on to the trade deadline."
Behind me, Cade exhales. I hear the tension release in that single breath, and I add it to the list of things I'm tracking: his cortisol response, his sleep patterns, his ability to let his guard down when no one is watching.
I'm always watching.
We unload in silence. Noah handles the heavy bags while I carry the equipment cases toward the barn, leaving Cade to manage his own duffel with his good arm. He doesn't argue about it. Doesn't try to take more than he should.
Another thing I track.
The barn smells like hay and pine shavings, with an undertone of fresh paint and new wood. Noah must have replaced the flooring in the treatment area because the boards under my feet are smooth and even, nothing like the warped planks I remember from summers spent avoiding horse chores.
I walk through the space slowly. Resistance bands hang from the tack hooks, color-coded exactly how I specified. The chalkboard above the bench lists the Week Three protocol in my own handwriting, copied from the fax I sent. Floor space for every exercise. Light from the high windows.
An old horse blanket folded on the bench, soft and worn. That last part isn't in my notes. But it's a nice extra touch from Noah.
My throat tightens. I press my fingers against the rough wool and breathe through the feeling. When I turn around, Noah is standing in the doorway.
"It's perfect." The words come out softer than I intended. I clear my throat. "The floor is better than my clinic floor."
"Figured you'd be here enough to notice." He crosses his arms, watching me with the careful attention he used to reserve for depositions. "Cade seems different than I expected."
"How so?"
"Quieter. Less..." He searches for the word. "Performative."
"He's tired. He's been tired for weeks." I turn back to the equipment, running my hands over the goniometer to confirm it survived the trip. "That's why we're here."
"That's not the only reason."
I don't answer.
"You haven't brought anyone here." Noah says it quietly, not unkindly. "Not since before."
He doesn't say the pitcher's name. He doesn't have to.
My throat tightens for the second time. "This is different."
"I know." He nods once, like he's settling something for himself. "That's sort of my point."
My brother waits the way he always does after he says something like that — patient and unhurried, letting silence do the work. It used to infuriate me when we were kids. Now I recognize it as a gift. The space to not explain myself.
"Dinner's at six," he says finally. "Pot roast. Paige dropped off groceries yesterday so there's no excuse for anyone to eat protein bars."
"Thank you, Noah."
He nods once and leaves me alone in the barn.
I spend the next hour unpacking and organizing. The familiar rhythm of it settles something in my soul. Color-coded folders in the bench drawer. Session notes template printed and ready. Ice packs in the small cooler Noah set up in the corner. Band tension levels marked and arranged.
By the time I finish, the sun has dropped behind the mountains and the barn has gone golden with evening light.
Cade appears in the doorway. He's changed into jeans and a flannel shirt I've never seen before, sleeves rolled carefully to avoid his elbow brace. His hair is damp from a shower.
"Noah said I should find you." He doesn't come in. Just stands at the threshold, watching me with the same quiet attention he gave the mountains from the truck window. "Something about ground rules."
The snap of my rubber band centers me. "Come in."
He crosses the space slowly, cataloging everything just as I did an hour ago. His eyes track the equipment, the chalkboard, the blanket on the bench. When he reaches the treatment table, he runs his good hand along the edge.
"You did all this."
"Noah did most of it. I just sent instructions."
"You sent detailed instructions that someone else executed perfectly because they trust your judgment." He looks at me. "That's not a small thing."
I pick up the folder I've been building since we landed. Inside: his updated protocol, the Montana-specific modifications, the daily schedule that will govern our time here. "We should review the working terms before dinner."
"Okay."
"Sessions run seven to ten AM. Afternoons are yours unless I schedule supplemental work." I open the folder, pointing to the printed schedule. "There are additional mobility sessions twice a week at four PM, but we can adjust those based on how you're responding."
Cade nods. He's close enough that I can smell him. Not his usual scent from the clinic, the coffee and woodsy aftershave. Something different now. Soap from Noah's shower? The sharp air of Montana clinging to his skin?
"The fact that we're sleeping under the same roof changes nothing about our professional relationship." I meet his eyes. Hold them. "The ethics acknowledgment you signed in Boston applies here. Different setting, same boundaries."
"Understood."
"My family will be around. Noah lives here full-time. Paige will visit. Graham might come for a weekend if his schedule allows." I close the folder. "Their presence doesn't change our dynamic. You're my patient. I'm your physical therapist. That's the only relationship that matters here."
Cade is quiet for a long moment. The light through the barn windows catches the planes of his face, the bruised shadows under his eyes, the tension he carries in his jaw. When he speaks, his voice is lower than usual.
"Quinn."
Just my name. The way he said it in Boston, the night before we left.
"I understand the boundaries. I understand why they matter to you specifically, not just professionally." He steps closer. Not threatening. Not pressing. Just present. "I'm not going to make this harder than it has to be."
My heart rate increases. I track the sensation clinically: elevated pulse, shallow breathing, a flush along my collarbone I'd flag in anyone else's chart. All normal physiological responses to proximity and perceived threat.
Except he's not a threat. That's the problem.
"Thank you." I step back, creating distance. "Dinner's at six. We should head to the house."
He lets me go first and doesn't follow too closely. Doesn't touch me when I pass him in the doorway.
The dinner that follows is simpler than I expected. Noah serves pot roast, roasted vegetables and bread from the bakery in town. And he asks Cade questions about baseball with the careful neutrality of someone trained to extract information without revealing intent.
I watch Cade navigate the conversation. He answers everything directly, no performance, no charm offensive. When Noah asks about the shoulder injury that almost ended his career at twenty-six, Cade tells the truth without embellishment.
Fifty percent odds. Six months of isolated rehab. Coming back different than he left.
Noah's shoulders drop slightly by the time we clear the plates. He refills Cade's coffee without being asked, which is its own verdict.
After dinner I sit on the porch with my acoustic guitar and work through a Phoebe Bridgers chord progression. I always do this here. This porch is the one place I allow it.
The night is cool and quiet. No traffic. No sirens. No Boston hum. Just the porch settling under my weight and somewhere out past the fence line, a coyote calling to no one in particular.
I play the same four chords over and over, letting muscle memory take over while my mind processes the day. The flight. The barn. Cade's voice saying my name like it meant something.
I don't hear him come outside until he sits on the step below me.
His weight settles against the wooden boards. He doesn't look at me. Just faces the pasture, his profile lit by the single porch light behind us.
"I know that song." His voice is quiet. Careful. "You play it differently than the recording."
My fingers freeze on the strings. The chord rings out and then fades, absorbed by the dark.
"Good night, Cade."
I stand. The guitar stays in my lap for a moment, then I gather it against my chest like armor.
He doesn't stop me. Doesn't turn around. Just sits there on the step, looking at the mountains, as I go inside.
I log today's intake notes before I brush my teeth. The laptop screen glows in the dim bedroom Noah prepared for me, casting blue light across the quilt that has been on this bed since I was twelve.
I open Cade's file. Scroll to today's entry. Type the word I always reach for when there's nothing safe left to say: compliant.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. The cursor blinks.
I close the laptop without adding anything else.