Chapter 1LARK #4
The Tate family owns one of the biggest ranches in Summit Springs.
Old money, old land. They’ve got their hands in everything—livestock, real estate, politics when it suits them.
Wendell’s been running things since his father passed, but it’s no secret he has bigger ambitions.
He’s had a foot in local government for years, slowly working his way up, making sure his name stays in the conversation for something more.
And lately, he’s been coming around the Bluebell like he’s looking for something .
I cross my arms and lean against the counter. “What can I do for you, Mr. Tate?”
He tilts his head, like he’s considering how to answer, even though I already know what’s coming.
“Just checking in. Making the rounds.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize the diner was on your list of rounds.”
He lets out a low chuckle, the kind that’s meant to sound easy, casual. “Summit Springs is changing, Miss Westwood. It’s always good to stay ahead of things.”
There it is. The thing he never quite says outright, but always manages to imply. That the town is growing. That people like him are the ones who make sure it grows in the right direction. That places like mine might not fit into whatever vision he’s crafting behind closed doors.
“And how exactly are you trying to stay ahead of things?”
Wendell tilts his head, like he’s considering the question, but I know better.
He already has an answer. He just likes the performance of it, the illusion of thoughtfulness.
He glances up at the menu, dragging it out, pretending like he’s weighing his options.
It’s almost funny. I’ve never once seen him eat here.
“Oh, you know,” he finally says, casual as anything. “Keeping an eye on what’s working. What’s not. Making sure Summit Springs is evolving in the right direction.”
I keep my expression even. “And what direction is that?”
He smiles, slow and practiced. “One that benefits everyone.”
Everyone . The word lands wrong. Heavy in a way that tells me we have different definitions of who that includes.
I rest my palms against the counter. “You think something’s not working?”
His eyes flick back to mine, assessing, calculating. “I think we can agree the town is changing.”
He’s not wrong. It is. More tourists, more businesses, more people looking at Summit Springs like it’s something they can mold into whatever suits them best. It’s subtle, but it’s happening .
“I think things are fine the way they are,” I say.
Wendell nods, like he expected that. Like he knows I’d say it even before I do. He lets his gaze wander, scanning the room, like he’s taking stock of every inch of the place. “The Bluebell’s got a certain charm,” he says finally. “People like that. They get sentimental.”
Sentimental. I want to laugh. That’s not a word men like Wendell Tate believe in. They believe in opportunity. In ownership. In things that come with a price tag and a development plan.
I tilt my head. “And you don’t?”
His grin doesn’t waver, but I see the shift in his eyes. “I appreciate a place with history,” he says, lifting his hands, palms up like he’s giving me something. “But progress is important too.”
Progress . Another word that means something different coming from someone like him.
I lean in slightly. “People also like things that don’t need fixing.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, like I’m being naive. “Everything needs a little fixing eventually.”
I don’t respond, just watch him, waiting for him to get to his point. But he doesn’t. Instead, he finally—finally—orders. “I’ll take the chicken-fried steak.”
I blink at him. “Are you sure?”
His grin widens, like he enjoys this little back-and-forth. “Why not? Might as well get the full experience.”
Without another word, he pulls a neatly folded bill from his wallet and drops it into the tip jar. A generous amount. Deliberate. Like he wants me to see it. Like he wants everyone to see it.
I roll my eyes. Men like Wendell can never just tip. They have to make a production out of it.
He moves toward one of the booths, sliding in with the kind of ease that says he’s in no rush to leave. Of course he’s not.
Dawn appears beside me, arms crossed, watching him settle in. “Think he’s trying to become a regular?”
I huff out a laugh. “If he asks for the usual next time, I’ m shutting this place down.”
She shakes her head. “Wendell Tate doesn’t come around unless he wants something.”
She’s right. And he wants something. I just don’t know what.
Dawn glances at the clock and sighs. “Alright, Westwood. It’s past three. Get outta here.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Since when do you keep track of my hours?”
She shrugs. “Since Hudson’s got baseball on Saturdays.”
She’s right. He does. And I should go.
I glance toward the back. It’s one of the things I love most about this town—how they look out for Hudson like he’s theirs, not just mine.
How people like Dawn know his schedule better than I do some days.
But loving Hudson is an easy thing to do.
He’s a good kid. Does his homework, gets good grades, makes friends like it’s second nature.
He’s polite without being told, remembers people’s names, holds doors open even when no one asks him to.
Most days, I wonder if he deserves more than a mom who’s always exhausted, always trying to keep up. But then I see how much this town loves him, how people like Dawn make sure he’s got what he needs before I even have to ask, and I think maybe I’m doing something right.
Dawn nudges me again. “Go. We’re good.”
I hesitate. “You sure?”
She nods toward the kitchen. “Nell’s coming in. We’re covered.”
Nell’s one of the managers at Bluebell. A damn good one. She keeps the waitstaff in line, runs the place just as well as I do, maybe better.
I nod, untying my apron and tossing it onto the hook by the pass-through. “Alright. But if Wendell asks for anything else, tell him we’re fresh out.”
Dawn smirks. “Already planning on it, honey.”
I shake my head, laughing, as I head toward the office to wake up Hudson. I push the office door open with my hip, already knowing what I’ll find.
Hudson, curled into the bean bag, arms folded over his chest, hood pulled low, mouth parted just slightly in sleep.
His baseball magazine is balanced on his stomach, the cover curling at the edges, pages soft from being flipped through too many times.
He’s getting too tall for this. His feet almost touch the floor now, his legs stretching longer every year.
I hesitate, letting myself watch him for a second.
His face is softer like this, the sharp edges of his growing older smoothed out in sleep.
I wonder how much longer I’ll get this version of him—the one who still dozes off in my office, who still reaches for my hand without thinking when we cross a busy street.
I kneel beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. “Hey, bud,” I murmur. “Time to get up.”
He groans, stretching his legs out with a dramatic sigh, but his eyes stay closed.
I shake him again. “We gotta go. Baseball.”
That gets him. His eyes crack open, unfocused for a second before he registers what I’ve said. “Baseball?” His voice is heavy with sleep, drawn-out like he’s still processing.
I nod. “Yeah. Home first, then practice.”
He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, then reaches for his magazine and folds it under his arm.
A habit, something that’s just part of him now.
If I went out to the car and checked his backpack, I’d find at least three others stuffed inside, along with crumpled snack wrappers and stray baseball cards he keeps forgetting to put in his binder.
I pull my jacket off the chair. “Go warm up the car for me. I just need to finish up some paperwork real quick.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Just grins, swipes the keys off my desk, and heads for the back door like I didn’t just hand him his favorite daydream.
This is it, for him. Step one. First, it’s warming up the car. Then it’s backing it out of the driveway. Then it’s taking himself to practice without me at all.
I catch the look on his face before he disappears outside. “Don’t even think about it.”
He throws me a lazy smile. “Wasn’t thinking about anything.”
I roll my eyes. Sure he wasn’t .
Hudson grins and disappears outside.
I let out a slow breath and turn back to my desk. Just a few things to sign off on—order sheets, schedules, invoices. Things I don’t even need to think about, just skim and sign, my name in swirling ink over and over again.
When I’m done, I grab my jacket and catch my reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall.
Long, thick blonde hair, a little messy from the day.
Blue-green eyes, sharp even when I’m tired.
A faint scar on my chin—barely noticeable now, but I know it’s there.
And then there’s the things I don’t want to look at.
The purplish half-moons under my eyes, proof of too many late nights, too many early mornings.
The faint lines on my forehead, barely there, but enough that I see them now. The exhaustion etched into my skin.
People used to call me pretty.
Back when I was younger, even after I had Hudson—still basically a kid myself, holding a newborn with shaky hands and running on caffeine and panic and blind instinct. I didn’t know what I was doing, but they told me I was pretty like that made up for it.
I wasn’t clever. Or confident. Or prepared in any way.
But I had a nice face. And apparently, that was supposed to be enough.
Pretty was the fallback. The thing they offered when they didn’t know what else to give me.
Like it was a ribbon tied around the wreckage.
Like it somehow made everything else less hard, less heavy.
But pretty never paid the bills.
Pretty didn’t get up at 3 a.m. when Hudson had a fever. Pretty didn’t fix the plumbing or make payroll or show up every day when I wanted to disappear.