Chapter 18
Emmaline
The hum of my car’s engine was steady, almost soothing, but it didn’t calm the sick knot in my stomach.
I’d meant to do this sooner, but the insanity that was my life now had gotten away from me over the past week and a half since the wedding.
Now, I was driving down two hours of highway with sweat slicking my palms, trying to decide if I should have called first. A phone call might’ve been kinder.
Quicker. Cleaner. But this was news too big to deliver over a recorded line.
Wesley deserved to hear it from me face-to-face.
If no one else had gotten to him first.
That was the thought that kept twisting in my gut like a blade.
Because if Mom or Aunt Karen had made the drive already—and God knew they were vindictive enough to do it—then Wesley would be waiting for me armed with whatever version of the truth they’d spun.
A version where I was a traitor. Where I’d sold us both out to the Gibsons for convenience.
I pressed harder on the gas.
The prison loomed on the horizon like a scar on the land, concrete and fences bristling with coils of razor wire.
I hated it. Hated the sound of the gates clanking shut behind me when I parked in visitor intake, hated the metal detector’s accusing beep when I forgot to strip off a belt or hair clip, hated that antiseptic smell that was part bleach, part hopelessness.
The guard at the desk knew me by now. “Maddox.” No matter how many people had called me Mrs. Gibson in the past week, I wasn’t changing my name.
There was no point. The guard checked my ID, then nodded me through the ritual pat-down.
No jewelry, no metal, nothing you could turn into a weapon or trade.
I tugged the chain from my neck and slid it and my wedding rings into the little plastic locker before I second-guessed myself.
My naked throat prickled with an odd sense of exposure.
As if I’d just stripped away the last of my armor.
I almost turned around then. Almost said this was a mistake and fled back to the car. But they were already buzzing the next door open, and Wesley was waiting.
I walked through.
The visiting room was bright but not cheerful, fluorescent lights too harsh over metal tables bolted to the floor. The low murmur of voices filled the space, other families talking in careful tones, trying to bridge gaps concrete walls had carved.
And then there he was.
My baby brother.
Except he wasn’t a baby anymore. The first time I’d seen him here, I’d had to choke down a cry at how thin he was, how the orange uniform hung off his frame.
Now… he’d filled back out. His shoulders were broader, stronger, his skin tanned from whatever outdoor work detail they’d assigned him.
A man grown. There were lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
A weight in his expression that made him look older than me, even though he was three and a half years younger.
When his gaze landed on me, his mouth tipped into a quick grin—the same lopsided smile he’d worn as a kid when he was trying to charm his way out of trouble. Relief punched through my chest like a physical blow. He wasn’t mad. Not yet, anyway.
I sat across from him, the metal chair cold even through my jeans, hands twisting together in my lap. The table between us stretched vast as an ocean. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” His dark eyes searched mine like he was looking for cracks in my composure. Wesley had always been able to read me too well, even as kids. Especially when I was trying to hide something. “What’s got you driving all the way out here on your Sunday off? Did you already hear the news?”
That derailed the carefully rehearsed explanation I’d been about to start. “What news?”
He beamed. “They’ve scheduled my next parole hearing.”
My heart began to thud as I reached for his hands. “Really? Wes, that’s incredible!”
“Yeah. Hopefully, a freak hurricane won’t derail the opportunity this go round.”
His first eligibility had circled around right when Gibson Hollow had been literally underwater, and the parole board had decided that wasn’t a stable environment to release him into.
Given we’d barely been able to keep our heads above water, literally and metaphorically, there hadn’t been a damned thing any of us could do at the time.
“That was like a once in a century disaster. This is wonderful! Of course, I’ll do anything you need.”
“Thanks, sis. I’ve got a good feeling about it this time.” He squeezed my hands and settled back in his chair to study me. “Not that I’m complaining about the visit, but you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
I tried to smile, aiming for reassurance, but it wobbled at the corners. “There’s something I need to tell you before you hear it from anybody else.” The words sat thick in my throat, clumsy and inadequate for what I was about to drop on him, especially in light of the news he’d just shared.
His brows lifted, and I watched him straighten slightly in his chair, shoulders squaring the way they always did when he sensed trouble coming. “That bad, huh?”
I opened my mouth, the words sitting right there on my tongue. Closed it again when they refused to come out. Tried again and felt them stick like peanut butter. Of course, that made me think of Bodie again, and that dark kitchen over sandwiches and tea.
“Emma.” Wesley’s voice sharpened, that protective edge sliding into place—the same tone he’d used when we were kids and Mom went off on one of her rages, when he’d step between us and take whatever was coming so I wouldn’t have to. “What happened? You’re starting to scare me here.”
I blew out a shaky breath, my hands clenched so tight in my lap that my knuckles had gone white. Just say it. Like ripping off a bandage. “I got married.”
His chair scraped an inch across the linoleum floor as he jerked back, the sound sharp in the murmur of the visiting room. Several other families glanced our way before turning back to their own whispered conversations. “You what?”
The volume earned us a pointed look from the guard posted at the wall—a stern-faced man who’d probably observed every family drama imaginable play out in this room.
Wesley caught the warning and lowered his voice, but his disbelief still crackled between us like live wire.
“To who? When? I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone. ”
“Bodie Gibson.”
For a moment, the only sound was the persistent buzz of the lights overhead and the distant clang of doors somewhere deeper in the facility. I practically saw Wesley’s brain grinding to a halt, trying to process what I’d just said.
“Jesus Christ.” He scrubbed both hands over his face, fingers digging into his temples like he was trying to massage away what he’d just heard. When he looked at me again, his eyes were wild. “Tell me you’re screwing with me.”
“I’m not.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact in a way that made them sound even more surreal.
His hands dropped to the table with a soft thud, and his expression was carved from equal parts shock and fury. The careful control he’d learned in here was cracking at the edges. “What the hell are you thinking? You married a Gibson?”
“I married Bodie.” The correction came out low, almost a whisper, but fierce too. Because there was a difference. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Like hell it isn’t.” His voice was rough now, scraped raw with old pain and fresh betrayal. “He’s the one who put me in here. He’s the one who slapped the cuffs on and read me my rights while half the town watched.”
The words hit like a physical blow, even though I’d been braced for them from the moment I’d decided to drive out here. “He was doing his job.”
“He arrested me. Testified against me in court. You think I’ve forgotten that?”
“No.” My throat felt scraped raw, like I’d been screaming. “But this isn’t about you.”
His eyes widened, and for a second he looked exactly like the kid he’d been when we were small—hurt and confused and trying to figure out why the world kept shifting under his feet. “Not about me? I’m sitting in this goddamn place because of him, and you married him. How is that not about me?”
I leaned forward, palms flat against the cold metal table, desperate for him to understand what I couldn’t quite explain to myself.
The surface was scarred with tiny scratches and dents from years of tough conversations, family dramas, and broken hearts.
“This is about the bakery. About Gran’s will.
She left it to me, Wes, but only if I’m married by the end of probate. Otherwise, it goes to Mom and Karen.”
My brother froze, his jaw going tight. I watched the anger flicker and shift as he processed this new information, the pieces clicking into place. “She really put that kind of condition on it?”
“She really did.” I tried for a laugh, but it came out hollow and bitter. “Guess she decided spinster bakers don’t make good legacies. Or maybe she thought I needed someone to take care of me, like I can’t manage on my own.”
His expression softened a fraction, sympathy warring with the anger still simmering in his eyes.
We both knew what would happen if Marla and Karen got their hands on the bakery.
They’d sell it faster than you could say “development opportunity” and split the proceeds.
Everything Gran had built, everything that connected us to better times, would be gone.
Then his face hardened again, reality reasserting itself. “So you ran to Bodie?”
“He offered.” The words sounded weak even to my own ears.
“He offered.” Wesley spat the words like poison he was trying to get out of his mouth. “And you think that doesn’t sound like guilt? Like he’s trying to make it up to us for putting me here? Maybe ease his conscience a little?”