14. Chapter 14
Cade
I've been sitting at the kitchen table with my phone propped against a coffee mug for ten minutes before the call notification appears. Nine AM sharp. Whatever else Kristen Vance is, she's punctual about things she considers a tribunal.
I tap to join.
The grid populates with faces I recognize from staff emails. Dr. Reyes in his office, tie slightly loosened. A PR director whose name I can never remember. Two HR representatives with matching neutral expressions. And Kristen herself, second row, smiling in the way that doesn't touch her eyes.
Quinn's audio joins a beat after mine. She's in the barn, using the clinic setup as her backdrop. Deliberate. I notice the documentation folders stacked in frame behind her, organized and visible. She thought of everything.
"Thank you all for joining," the PR director says. "We're here to discuss the Sullivan recovery protocol and address documentation questions raised by Ms. Vance."
Kristen leans forward. "I appreciate the organization's willingness to examine this situation thoroughly. The current contractor arrangement presents significant structural ambiguity that could expose us to liability."
I watch Quinn's face on my screen. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't reach for her wrist. She just waits, and that stillness still catches me off guard.
"Ms. McKenzie," the PR director continues, "you've submitted extensive documentation regarding Mr. Sullivan's treatment. Can you walk us through the protocol?"
And Quinn does. Calmly, precisely, without a single wasted word. Range of motion progression. Pain scale benchmarks. Actual timeline against projected recovery. I watch her pull up the screen share and walk through charts I've seen on the chalkboard every morning for weeks.
And I think about the hours she spent building this defense while I was out working the fence line, believing she could protect herself with data alone.
She can. The data is airtight.
But data isn't what Kristen is after.
"And can you explain why this treatment is being conducted at your family's private property rather than at our certified facility?"
Quinn walks her through the stress markers, the media exposure, the documented improvement in his sleep and cortisol levels within the first week of relocation. Clinical. Irrefutable.
"Approved by Dr. Reyes," Kristen repeats. "Based on your recommendation. From a patient you were already treating. At a property owned by your brother." She pauses. "You don't see the perception problem?"
"Perception isn't the same as reality. The outcomes speak for themselves."
Kristen's smile doesn't waver. She turns to a different camera angle.
"Mr. Sullivan. Thank you for joining us. As the patient at the center of this arrangement, we'd like to hear your perspective on the current recovery environment."
Here it is.
I knew this was coming. I've known since Noah told me about the contractor proposal three days ago, known since Quinn and I agreed on the porch that we'd tell the truth and face whatever came from it. I've had plenty of time to think about exactly what I'm going to say.
The thing about catching is that you have to commit to a call before the pitch arrives.
Hesitate and you've already lost the play.
I made this decision in the south pasture watching the light go down, when I understood that if perception was the only weapon Kristen had, then I was done being the reason Quinn had to hide what was true.
"Happy to share my perspective," I say.
"Can you describe the recovery environment you've experienced under Ms. McKenzie's care?"
"The facility is purpose-built. Ms. McKenzie brought or shipped everything she needed to replicate her clinic setup.
Treatment table, resistance equipment, measurement tools.
The protocol is identical to what she would have provided in Boston, except without the media following me to my car every morning. "
"And the living arrangement? You're staying at her family's property?"
"I'm staying at her brother's ranch, yes. All treatment occurs in a converted barn space. It's professional, structured, and documented. Ms. McKenzie files session notes within twenty-four hours and maintains regular check-ins with Dr. Reyes."
Kristen's pen taps against her notepad. "Have any personal dynamics affected your objectivity about the quality of care you've received?"
I take one breath. Not because I'm uncertain. Because this is the part that matters, and I want to get it right.
"The care has been exceptional," I say. "Ms. McKenzie has maintained every professional boundary since the day I walked into her clinic. Any personal feelings in this situation have been mine alone, and they have never interfered with the protocol she established."
A beat of silence.
I watch Quinn's thumbnail in the corner of my screen. She's gone very still.
Kristen leans forward. "So you're confirming that personal feelings exist in this arrangement."
"I'm confirming that Ms. McKenzie has conducted herself with complete professionalism regardless of anything I might feel. Which, as far as I understand, is the relevant question."
The PR director shifts in his chair. "I think we have a clear picture of the clinical outcomes and the patient's perspective. Ms. Vance, do you have additional documentation concerns?"
Kristen smiles. "I believe the committee has enough information. Thank you all for your time."
The boxes disappear one by one.
I set my phone down on the kitchen table and listen to the quiet of the ranch house. Somewhere outside, a cattle gate swings in the wind. Noah's truck is gone. He knew we'd need the space.
Quinn appears in the kitchen doorway two minutes later.
I can't read her face. That's unusual. I've learned most of her expressions over the past weeks: the way she holds her jaw when she's processing something clinical, the slight tension around her eyes when she's protecting herself from something that isn't clinical at all.
Right now she looks like both at once.
"You said it," she says.
"Yes."
"You told them you had feelings for me. On a recorded organizational call."
"I told them the truth." I keep my voice steady. "That any feelings were mine. That you maintained every boundary. That my recovery is ahead of schedule because you're exceptional at your job."
"They'll use that."
"They'll have to reconcile it with my ahead-of-schedule, complication-free recovery numbers." I push back from the table. "Good luck to them."
She steps into the kitchen. I can see her working through it, looking for the catch, the place where the data doesn't hold.
"You made yourself the story."
"I was always going to be the story. The catcher rehabbing at his therapist's family ranch. Kristen was never going to let that go unremarked. At least now the narrative is accurate. You stayed professional. I'm the one who wished you wouldn't."
Quinn presses her hands flat against her thighs. Not reaching for the rubber band. Holding herself still instead.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did." I take a step toward her, just one.
"Because sitting there while she tried to twist your professionalism into something suspicious wasn't an option.
Because watching you spend three days preparing for a tribunal you shouldn't have to face and saying nothing wasn't something I could do. "
"Cade."
"I know what you're going to say." I stop. Keep the distance. "That we need to wait for the outcome. That whatever this is between us can't exist until the committee decides."
"Isn't that true?"
"Maybe." I meet her eyes. "But you should know something regardless of what they decide."
She waits.
I hold her gaze.
"The truth is you've maintained every professional boundary since the day I walked into your clinic.
The truth is my elbow is ahead of schedule because you're the best at what you do.
The truth is whatever I feel about you has never once interfered with my commitment to this protocol, because you wouldn't let it.
The truth is also that I feel something.
And I'm not going to apologize for saying it out loud. "
"You knew exactly what you were doing up there."
"Yes."
"You gave her the admission and took the weapons out of it at the same time."
"That was the idea." I hold her gaze. "I'm not the one who crossed the line.
The line is still there. You're on one side, I'm on the other, and that's true even though I'd rather it not be.
She has to prove it happened. Not that it could have, not that the circumstances allowed for it.
She has to prove it happened. And it didn't. Because you wouldn't let it. "
The kitchen is very quiet.
Quinn's phone buzzes on the counter. She glances at the screen, and something flickers across her face.
"It's Reyes."
She answers it. I stay where I am and watch her. Her shoulders are tight at first, then I see them drop. See the exhale she doesn't know she's letting out. Her free hand, which was pressed against her thigh, slowly uncurls.
She nods once at something Reyes says. Twice. "I'll have the full notes filed by end of day. Thank you."
She lowers the phone.
"The proposal was withdrawn," she says. Her voice is steady, but her eyes aren't. "The committee reviewed the outcomes. I'm getting a commendation letter."
I finally exhale. I don't think I've taken a full breath since I made up my mind in the south pasture three days ago.
"Quinn." I say her name and mean all of it. "You did it."
"We did it."
Neither of us moves. The kitchen is very quiet. Through the window, the south pasture sits exactly as it has all week — fence line solid, cattle unhurried, the barn door standing open the way Quinn leaves it after a session.
I close the distance between us.
Not all of it, but enough. Close enough that I can see the moment her decision changes in her eyes, that shift from careful to something else.
I take her hand. Turn it over slowly.
I press my lips to the inside of her wrist, where she wears the rubber band like armor. Just that. One breath, one beat, and then I step back.
"Finish the protocol," I say. "File the notes. Do everything exactly right." My voice drops. "And then, Quinn McKenzie, I'm going to take you somewhere that isn't a clinic or a barn. And I'm going to tell you everything I couldn't say while you were my therapist."
I leave her standing in the kitchen.
Out on the porch, the Montana sky is doing something ridiculous with the late-morning light, all gold and open, the kind of sky that makes Boston feel like a different planet. I pick up my guitar and sit on the step where I always sit.
I did what I said I'd do. Whatever comes next, I meant every word.
That turns out to be enough, for now.