Chapter 2BOONE #2
She ate dinner at our table most nights.
Would swipe apple slices off my mom’s cutting board before they made it into the pie, dunk ’‘em straight into a jar of Jiffy like she paid the bills around there. Mom would give her that look, but Lark didn’t care.
She had her own toothbrush in the bathroom, her own seat at the table.
After a while, Mom quit calling Alice to check in—she already knew Lark would be there.
She might’ve been an only child, but not when she was with us.
Lark was small back then—skinny limbs, too much energy, like she was always half a second from bolting in some direction even when she wasn’t moving.
Her hair was this wild, almost-white blonde, always a little messy, like brushing it never made the top of her priority list. And her eyes—hell, they never could make up their mind.
Blue one minute, green the next, always somewhere in between.
She had all these little quirks.
Couldn’t just walk like a normal kid—she had to skip, balance on the edge of the sidewalk, climb fences just because they were there. When she really laughed, it came out in a breathless little hitch at the end, like her lungs couldn’t catch up to the rest of her.
She hated the sound of Styrofoam rubbing together.
Used to shove her to-go boxes at me and make me open them so she didn’t have to hear it.
Had to sleep with one foot out from under the covers.
Peeled labels off every bottle she touched—left little piles of shredded paper behind like she couldn’t help it.
I find myself wondering if she still does any of that.
I take another sip of coffee, let it sit heavy and hot in my chest.
Twelve years.
Long enough for everything to change.
Long enough for some things to stay exactly the same.
“Boone Wilding,” a voice drawls behind me. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look who’s back in town.”
I glance up and spot Wyatt Dawson a few feet away, cowboy hat in one hand, steaming coffee in the other. He’s a few years older, runs cattle about twenty miles out. Been around as long as I can remember. I stand and shake his hand—firm grip, steady eye contact. It’s how men like us were brought up.
“Good to be back,” I say, because that’s what you’re supposed to say.
Wyatt nods, eyes flicking to the empty stool beside me before settling back on mine. “Heard about your dad,” he says, voice a little softer now. “Hell of a man. Damn good rancher. Funeral was somethin’ else. Never seen that many folks packed into one church.”
I give a small nod. Didn’t get to go, so I wouldn’t know.
He studies me for a beat, like he’s expecting more. But I’ve got nothing to give him, so he shifts gears.
“Heard you went into the military after high school.”
“Yeah.”
“What branch?”
“Army.”
He lets out a low whistle, tips his head. “What’d you do?”
I drag a hand through my hair, debating how much I feel like saying. These conversations always go the same way. Curiosity, sure. Genuine interest, maybe. But they don’t understand how heavy some answers sit once you let ’em out.
“Special Forces,” I say after a pause.
Wyatt’s brows shoot up. “Green Beret?”
I nod once.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, blowing out a breath. Shakes his head a little. “What does that even mean? What’d you do?”
I set my coffee down, roll my neck, trying to ease the tension that’s been riding shotgun since I got back. “Bit of everything. Unconventional warfare. Direct action. Training up foreign units. Intel stuff. Some counterterrorism.” I shrug. “Spent most of my time overseas.”
He just stares at me for a second. “Jesus.”
I don’t respond. Just pick my coffee back up, let the heat settle in my chest.
“Where were you last?”
“Syria.”
He lets out a low whistle. “You done?”
“With the Army? Yeah.”
Wyatt nods, takes a sip of his coffee, like he’s trying to put the pieces together. “So…what now?”
That’s the question, isn’t it?
Truth is, I never looked that far ahead. The Army laid out the map, told me where to go, what to do, when to move. That worked—until it didn’t.
Then Dad died. Stroke. Sixty-two. Went fast. Quiet. Not how I pictured it, not for a man built like stone.
I came back to check on Mom. My sisters, too. Ridge is still chasing rodeo glory. Wren’s got her horses. Sage could probably run the whole damn town if she wanted. They’ve all got their lanes.
And then the letter came. The one saying that Dad left the ranch to me.
Didn’t expect that. Always figured I was the one he never quite forgave—for leaving. For choosing something else. But now? It’s mine. The land. The weight of it. The name that built it.
All of it.
I’ve always loved the ranch. Still do. But loving something doesn’t mean you’re supposed to chain yourself to it for the rest of your life.
That’s why I started therapy.
Didn’t think I’d be the guy sitting on a couch, talking about feelings. But Meredith—my therapist—told me I talk about my life like it belongs to someone else. Like I’m just passing through it, doing what’s expected instead of what I actually want. Said I need to start making choices that are mine.
She wasn’t wrong .
I think I just needed to say some shit out loud. About the ranch. The Army. Jack.
He was my best friend. My brother in every way that mattered and he didn’t make it home. I don’t think I’ve ever really talked about that—not in a way that mattered.
I blink, realizing Wyatt’s still watching me.
“I don’t know what’s next yet,” I say, pushing back from the counter. “Still working on it.”
I pull a few bills from my wallet and toss them on the counter.
Wyatt nods, like that makes sense even if he doesn’t fully get it. “Whatever it is, hope it works out for you.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I clap his shoulder on the way out. “How’re things with you?”
He snorts. “Cows still need feeding. That about sums it up.”
I crack a half-smile. “They always do.”
We shake hands again, and I step outside, cold air biting at my jaw as I head for Lucille.
She’s my old ’‘79 Chevy K10—beat to hell but still kicking. Paint’s faded to a dull navy, more primer than color, rust creeping up around the wheel wells.
Front bumper’s got a dent from a fence post that sure as hell wasn’t there the day before I hit it.
I got her when I was sixteen—hand-me-down from my dad after she sat in the barn for a decade, collecting dust.
First time I fired her up, Kenny Rogers came crackling through the speakers.
You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.
The name stuck.
Lucy’s been with me through everything. Sneaking out after curfew. Sunrise hay hauls. Beer-soaked midnight drives with me behind the wheel, Ridge riding shotgun, and Lark tucked in the middle seat, her bare feet on the dash.
I climb in and slam the door. She rattles hard, like she’s holding it together out of pure spite.
I pull onto Main and roll the window down, let the cold hit my face. Sharp and clean. The kind of cold that wakes you up whether you want it to or not.
Town looks the same. And somehow, not at all.
Summit Springs doesn’t change quick. It holds onto things—old barns with sagging roofs, feed stores with hand-painted signs that’ve been touched up a hundred times but never replaced. Dusty trucks. Men who still spit their tobacco into Coke bottles and call it a good day’s work.
The grain elevator’s still standing out on the edge of town, same one we used to climb just to prove we weren’t scared. We were. But we did it anyway.
Outside McKee’s Hardware, there’s a rodeo poster flapping against a telephone pole—sun-faded and peeling at the corners. Promising a jackpot big enough to make any broke cowboy feel lucky for five minutes.
I pass the Sinclair station. Old man Jorgensen still runs it. He once let me and Ridge buy beer at seventeen—told us we could have it if we helped him unload a shipment of oil drums. Thought we were pulling one over on him. Took us too long to realize he was just getting free labor.
And Rosie’s Café? Still got the same three specials written in dry-erase marker that don’t erase all the way anymore.
I slow down when I hit the feed store. Memory hits before I see it—Lark standing there, trying to talk me into buying her a baby duck. Swore up and down Alice wouldn’t care.
She very much cared. But we brought it home anyway.
Then there’s the rodeo grounds.
Bleachers look smaller now. Dirt’s still packed tight from years of hooves tearing it up. We all put in time here. Earned our bruises.
I rode broncs for a stretch—back when I thought I couldn’t be broken.
Eight seconds of pure adrenaline. Muscle and instinct.
You hold on while the horse does everything it can to throw you into next week.
You move with it, not against it, and pray you make it to the fence before you get your ass stomped into the ground.
Ridge was the bull rider. Took after Dad that way. He was climbing on bulls before he had a license, coming home bleeding and taped up, face split open from a horn—grinning like it was nothing.
Wren was the natural. Born with the kind of quiet patience that animals trust. She could get a skittish colt to take a saddle just by being there. Never rushed it. Never forced it. Just…understood them.
Sage was wild like Ridge. Always chasing after us boys, trying to prove she could keep up. Usually did. Even if it cost her a broken wrist or a busted lip.
And Lark—she ran barrels like the damn thing was personal. Lean, fast, hair flying behind her, legs tight against the saddle. Eyes locked. Determined. Like she had something to outrun.
We spent whole summers here. Warm beer behind the chutes. Hooking up in the dark. Talking big about getting out. About the lives we were gonna have once the world got bigger than this place.