Chapter 2BOONE
BOONE
Well, fuck.
I should’ve just settled for the burnt-ass coffee at the Sinclair gas station. Bitter as sin in one of those flimsy cups that breaks if you grip it too tight. Should’ve just paid with a crumpled bill that smells like horse sweat and diesel and kept my ass moving.
That would’ve been the smart thing. The easy thing.
And yet—here I am. Standing dead center in the one place I told myself I could handle, pulse kicking like it knows I’m full of shit, staring at the door Lark just walked out of like it’s gonna open again.
It won’t.
She saw me. Locked eyes with me. And then walked straight out.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just gone.
And hell, I can’t even blame her for it.
I drag a hand across my jaw and let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the tightness settling in my chest. Twelve years is a long damn time. Long enough to fool myself into thinking maybe this wouldn’t hit so hard. That I could show up and blend back into this town like I never left it.
Turns out, I don’t know shit.
I shift on my feet and glance around the diner, trying to act like I’m not bleeding under the surface. Like I didn’t just watch the girl I spent half of my life loving walk out of here as if I was nothing more than a ghost.
The Bluebell’s the same, but different.
The twinkly lights are still in the windows, glowing soft and warm even in the afternoon. The black-and-white checkered floor is worn. The smell of bacon grease and fresh coffee still hangs thick in the air.
But there are changes, too. The booths don’t swallow you whole anymore, the walls have been painted a softer shade of yellow. The coffee machine isn’t rattling like it’s got one foot in its damn grave.
Alice would’ve hated that. Would’ve said it lost its soul.
Alice.
I should’ve been here when she passed. Should’ve sat in this diner, paid my respects, listened to people tell stories about the woman who practically raised Lark, who made sure no one left this place hungry.
The woman who used to feed Lark and me buttery grilled cheese sandwiches at midnight, who used to roll her eyes when I stole fries off Lark’s plate, who told me once, when I was seventeen, You better take care of that girl, Boone Wilding, or you’ll regret it.
I shift my weight, scan the room without thinking. Exits. Windows. Who’s watching. Who’s not. Years of training hardwired into my system.
Old habits.
“Boone Wilding.”
I turn toward the voice, trying to shake the past off my shoulders before it drags me straight to the floor.
George Calloway’s standing by the register, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, looking at me like I might disappear if he blinks. “Was starting to think you weren’t coming back,” he says, voice steady.
I nod once. “Took me a while.”
“Town’s quieter without you and your brother tearing it up.”
George Calloway is a local rancher, or at least he was before he got too old to be breaking colts and running cattle.
Now, he mostly sticks to trading livestock and dealing in farm equipment, always with an ear to the ground on whatever’s happening in Summit Springs.
He’s the man who knows everyone’s business without ever being the one to spread it.
If you need a good horse, a reliable bull, or a fair deal on a used tractor, you go to George.
He studies me for a second longer, then tips his chin. “Sorry ’bout your old man.”
“Thanks.”
“Lane was a tough bastard. But he was solid. Called it like he saw it.”
Lane Wilding was a lot of things. A hard-ass.
A cowboy through and through. A former national rodeo champion.
But to this town, he was a damn legend. People respected the hell out of him, even when he was tough as nails.
He worked harder than anyone, built the reputation of the Wilding name into something untouchable.
What they don’t say is that he was hard to love. That he never knew when to let up, that he carried the weight of the ranch like it was something no one else could hold. That he expected perfection, and anything short of it wasn’t worth his time.
He left a legacy.
And a hell of a shadow.
But I don’t say any of that. I just shake George’s hand, accept the claps on the back from a few others, nod through the welcome home, boy and the damn shame about Lane comments, try to get my feet back under me.
I push forward, drop onto a barstool at the counter, plant my forearms on the cool metal surface.
The diner moves around me—plates clinking, the scrape of silverware, the hum of conversation.
A John Denver song plays low from a radio in the back, one that Alice used to love.
It’s all familiar in a way that makes it feel like slipping into an old jacket and finding it still smells like you, even after all this time.
Not really.
My back’s to the window, and I hate that. Always have. Twelve years in the special forces wired that into me good and deep. You don’t sit with your back exposed. You sit where you can see the exits. Where you’ve got a clear line of sight. Where no one can come up behind you without you knowing it.
I shift slightly on the stool, angling myself just enough to catch the reflection in the pie case glass.
Not perfect, but it’ll do. There’s a truck that backfires out on Main, and even though I know what it is—can tell by the pitch, the echo off the buildings—I still tense.
My jaw locks. Shoulders go tight. It’s automatic.
I scan the room. The clang of a dish being dropped near the pass-through makes my hand twitch. Just a fraction, but it’s there. A reflex that doesn’t go away, even when it’s scrambled eggs and not incoming fire.
It’s not fear. It’s habit. Muscle memory with sharp edges.
There’s a group of ranchers near the corner booth, boots kicked out, laughing loud enough to shake the walls. One of them slaps the table and my ears ring for a second—not from the noise, but from what it reminds me of.
I blow out a slow breath through my nose and flex my hands on the counter. Remind myself where I am. That I’m home. That I’m safe.
Even if my body hasn’t caught up to the idea yet.
“Well, well, well. Look what the fucking cat dragged back in.”
I glance up just as Dawn rounds the counter, bright red lipstick in place, her sharp eyes scanning me like she’s trying to decide how much shit she can give me before I leave again.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she says, leaning on the counter like she’s settling in.
I shake my head with a half-smile. “Something like that.”
“You look older.”
“Good,” I say. “Would hate to think I did all that aging for nothing.”
She snorts. “Still got that mouth on you.”
I smirk. “Still letting underage kids drink in the parking lot?”
She grins, bright and shameless. “Hell no. I got smarter about that.” She leans in closer and whispers, “Moved them back behind the neighbor’s stables now—out of sight, out of mind.”
I bark out a laugh, because that is something she would do.
Dawn was the first person to ever hand me a shot, slid it across the counter in a soda cup with a wink and a “don’t tell your daddy .
” She let Ridge and me hang around after closing and taught us how to play poker.
Taught us how to swear properly. Told me more than once that if I ever hurt Lark, she’d skin me alive or dismember me.
Her eyes flick toward the back door, just for a second. I pretend not to notice.
“Are you staying long?” she asks.
I exhale, glance at the menu even though I don’t need to. “Not sure yet.”
She hums and slides me a cup. “Well, figure it out over some coffee, boy.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, let the heat work its way into my fingers, then take a long pull. Black. No cream. No sugar. Strong enough to put hair on your damn chest or clean rust off an engine block.
Lark used to say I was unhinged for drinking it like this.
Said coffee was supposed to taste like something you’d actually want in your mouth.
Then she’d tear open a pile of sugar packets like she was fueling a racehorse, dump ’em in one after another, stir like her life depended on it.
Half the time, it’d slosh over the side and hit the counter.
I’d call it melted candy. She’d tell me I had the taste buds of a seventy-year-old war vet with nothing left to live for.
The memory tugs at something. Doesn’t make me smile, not exactly—but it’s close.
I glance at the stool next to me. Same one she used to sit on when her feet didn’t hit the floor yet. Used to swing her legs while we played Go Fish and, later, Texas Hold ’Em—cards sticking to the counter while Alice wiped down tables and our dads were off doing God knows what.
Feels like a lifetime ago.
Probably because it was.
Harvey Westwood was solid. Quiet type, didn’t waste words—but when he did speak, people shut up and listened.
My old man respected him, which says a hell of a lot.
Weren’t many folks he could tolerate for more than a couple hours, outside of my mom.
But him and Harvey? They understood each other.
Same work ethic. Same no-bullshit way of moving through the world.
Harvey was the kind of ranch hand you wish you could clone—showed up early, stayed late, never complained. Just got the damn job done .
With Alice tied up running the diner and Harvey working sunup to sundown, Lark ended up at our place more often than not.
She practically lived at the Wilding Ranch.
Knew every inch of the land—where the ground dipped just enough to twist an ankle, which horses wouldn’t buck you clean off if you tried to ride them bareback.
She could tear across the back field without flinching at a rattler or stepping in fresh cow shit. She fit there, same as the rest of us.