Chapter 2BOONE #4
She’s in a pair of old overalls, white shirt underneath, Carhartt jacket slung over her shoulders. One knee’s got a streak of dirt across it. Her red hair’s tied in a knot at the top of her head, loose strands falling in her face. The same red hair she passed on to my sister, Wren.
Her face is all freckles and fire—fierce brown eyes that miss nothing and a mouth that always has the last word.
“You gonna stand there gawking, or you planning on being useful?” she says, one brow lifted.
“Depends,” I say, crossing my arms. “What kind of hard labor are we talking about?”
She peels off a pair of gloves and tosses them at me. “Harder than standing there lookin’ pretty, I’ll tell you that much.”
I shake my head, laughing under my breath as I pull the gloves on. Saying no to Molly Wilding? Not an option. Never has been.
I drop to one knee beside her, stretching my fingers out in the gloves, already feeling the dirt push in through the seams.
“Alright,” I mutter. “Let’s hear it. What am I getting roped into this time?”
Mom lets out a long sigh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Damn aphids,” she mutters, motioning to a row of kale.
“Little bastards are all over my greens. I’ve been trying neem oil, but it’s not cutting it.
If I don’t get them under control, they’ll take out half the bed before I know it. ”
I smirk, grabbing a handful of the leaves, flipping them over to check for the tiny pests. “Aphids, huh? Never thought I’d be back here playing exterminator.”
She huffs out a laugh, brushing dirt from her knees. “Never thought you’d be back here, period.”
I glance over at her, but she’s just watching the plants, assessing the damage, her hands moving with the ease that comes from decades of working the earth.
I don’t say anything, just start picking off the worst of the it.
After a beat, she flicks her eyes toward me. “Where you been?”
I shrug, keeping my hands busy. “Stopped by the Bluebell.”
Mom raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching like she already knows exactly how that went. “And?”
I let out an exasperated sigh, flicking a bug off one of the leaves.
She nods knowingly. “That well, huh?”
I laugh a little, shaking my head.
Her voice softens just slightly, just enough. “Did you see Lark?”
I keep my hands moving, rolling my shoulders like the answer’s no big deal. “Saw her, yeah. Barely. She bolted the second she laid eyes on me.”
Mom presses her lips together, nodding slowly.
My mom’s always loved Lark the same way she loves Wren and Sage. Back then, she wanted us together. Wanted me to stay, to build a life with her, to put down roots where she thought I belonged.
But I had to get out. It wasn’t about Lark. It wasn’t about not loving her. That was never the problem.
Hell, I don’t think I could’ve stopped loving Lark if I tried.
And maybe I did try, in my own way. Tried to push her to the back of my mind, to let the years put distance between us, to convince myself that first love is just that—first. Not forever.
But love like ours doesn’t just disappear. It lingers. It burrows into the spaces between who you were and who you’ve become. It settles deep, gets into your bones. It creates a home in you and stays there no matter how far you run.
Lark was my best friend before she was anything else. My shadow, my anchor, the one person who felt like home before I even understood what that meant.
And I loved her. God, did I love her.
Not just how teenagers think they love each other—the big, sweeping, all-consuming love that feels like it’s the only thing that matters. But in small ways, too, creeping in when you’re not looking.
I loved her so much it scared the hell out of me—because if I’d stayed, I would’ve never left.
And back then, I needed to get away from my dad, from this ranch, from the weight of it all pressing down on me—telling me exactly who I was supposed to be before I even had a chance to figure it out for myself.
I wanted space. I wanted freedom. I wanted something—anything—outside of Summit Springs.
I was eighteen. Young and fucking dumb.
I clear my throat, keep my head down, keep picking through the leaves. “You talk to Lark much while I was gone?”
Mom lets out a sigh, flicks her fingers at a beetle crawling too close to her lettuce. “I tried,” she says. “Whenever I was in town for feed or seed, I’d swing by the Bluebell. See if I could catch her.”
She shakes her head. “Most days, I couldn’t. And when I did, it was short. Real short.”
She tugs at the cuff of her glove, mouth tight. “I miss her.”
That hits harder than I expect it to. Low in the chest, sharp.
Then she elbows me, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You missed out, you know. She only got prettier. Not sure how, but she did.”
I huff out a laugh. “Jesus, Mom.”
“What?” she says, grinning. “I’m not blind. She’s always been something.”
She’s not wrong. But I don’t need to hear it from my mother.
She watches me, eyes narrowing like she’s picking up on more than I want her to. Then her voice goes softer, nudging again. “You gonna fix it with her?”
I let out a slow breath. “Don’t know how.”
She tsks , like that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. “You sit your ass down and talk to her. That’s how.”
I snort. “Sure. Based on her reaction today, I’ll get right on that.
Mom shrugs, unfazed. “She’s just not ready yet.”
“Clearly,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.
She looks over at me again—really looks—like only moms can. “Doesn’t mean she won’t ever be. Time changes people.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
She nudges me again. Not as sharp this time. “It changed you.”
I don’t answer right away. Just let that settle.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “I guess it did. ”
She leans back on her heels, face tilted toward the sky like she’s chasing a memory, then glances back over at me with a grin. “You remember how your dad and I met?”
I groan. “How could I forget?”
I’ve heard the damn story so many times it’s practically burned into my brain. Molly O’Connor, twenty-one and full of fire, sitting front row at the Cheyenne Frontier Days rodeo, watching Lane Wilding get rag-dolled by a famous bull nicknamed The Widowmaker.
He landed hard—busted ribs, bruised pride, spitting in the dirt like it had personally offended him.
And my mother, God help her, took one look at him cursing on the ground and thought, Yep. I want that one.
It wasn’t romantic—not even a little. It was more like watching a train wreck in slow motion and feeling weirdly invested in the outcome.
She wasn’t the girl who chased after rodeo stars or fell for bruised egos in big belt buckles.
Molly O’Connor, back then, had been one of the biggest rising stars in the music industry—writing chart-bound songs in cheap motel rooms, crisscrossing the country on tour, barely keeping track of time zones.
She’d only ended up at that rodeo in Cheyenne because her band had a night off and someone said the beer was cold and the bulls were mean. It was supposed to be a detour.
But the way my dad pulled himself up after that loss—blood on his lip, his pride in pieces? The way he got up and walked out like he didn’t owe the world an explanation? That got her attention. And once she was looking, it was hard to look away.
After the rodeo, she spotted him at a dive bar just outside of town, nursing a beer, his ego still bleeding.
She didn’t go up to him right away—just watched him for a while, noted the way he carried himself, his eyes constantly moving, like he was always waiting for the next thing, the next ride, the next fight.
And then—because Molly O’Connor had never once waited for permission in her life—she walked right up to him, plucked the cowboy hat off his head like it belonged to her, set it on her own, and said, “Didn’t take you for a man who lets a bull do all the talking.”
Lane looked up, slow and unimpressed, like he had all the time in the world to decide if she was worth the trouble. “Didn’t take you for the kind of woman who steals hats from strangers.”
She tilted the brim down with a grin, like she was trying it on for size. “Didn’t steal it. Just figured you wouldn’t be needing it, what with all the sulking. Cowboys don’t cry, don’t you know?”
His jaw tightened, just enough to be noticeable. “That bull was a mean son of a bitch.”
She shrugged, a little spark of challenge in the movement. “So am I.”
That was it. That was the match strike.
He leaned back against the bar, arms crossed, smirk threatening the corner of his mouth. “And what’s it gonna cost me to get my hat back?”
She tapped a finger against her chin, like she hadn’t already made up her mind. “Buy me a drink.”
Lane exhaled like she was already exhausting. “Get her whatever she wants,” he told the bartender without looking away.
She tugged the hat a little lower over her eyes. “Good answer.”
And that was that.
They drank. They danced. She kissed him first—right there in the middle of the bar, with George Strait’s You Look So Good In Love crooning through dusty speakers and a half-dozen cowboys hollering like they’d just witnessed history. Maybe they had.
Later, when she walked out, she did it with his Stetson on her head and a look over her shoulder that said everything else she didn’t.
“If you want it back,” she said, fingers hooked in the brim, “you’ll have to come find me, cowboy.”
And he did. Of course he did.
Mom smirks, brushing the dirt off her hands. “Guess how long it took your dad to find me.”
I shrug, pretending like I don’t already know where this is going. “A couple months?”
She shakes her head. “Two years. ”
I blink. “Two years? Damn. I guess you’ve always left that part out.”
She nods, leaning back on her heels, looking pleased with herself. “Two whole years. And by the time he did, I was already going steady with someone else.”
Of course she was.
I scoff. “And what’d Dad do?”
She grins, that mischievous glint in her eye that makes me certain whatever’s coming next is going to be good.
“Well,” she says, dusting off her knees, “he walked right up to the poor guy, looked him dead in the eye, and said, ‘Hope you haven’t gotten too attached, son. You were just keeping my girl busy till I got here.’”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Jesus.”
“Mmhm.” She nods. “Then he spent the next six months pestering me into going on a date with him.”
“Pestering you?” I lift a brow.
She grins. “You think your dad ever took no for an answer?”
I shake my head, let out a low chuckle.
Dad had been stubborn as hell. Set in his ways. A force you didn’t push back against unless you were damn sure you could hold your ground.
But if there was one thing that man loved without question—it was Mom.
He was different around her. Softer, even when he didn’t know how to show it.
Still had a temper, still barked when things didn’t go his way, but with her…
he was steady. Looked at her like she was the only thing that made sense.
Like the rest of the world could burn, and as long as she was standing there, it didn’t matter.
And she loved him right back.
She goes quiet, eyes fixed on the ground like she’s seeing something only she can.
Then, low and almost to herself, “I wish he was here.”
I’ve barely ever seen my mom cry in my entire lifetime. She keeps her grief tucked away, locked up tight, like it’s something private. Something she won’t let the world see.
Doesn’t mean it’s not there .
I slide an arm around her shoulders and pull her in.
“Time,” she says after a beat, her gaze lifting to mine, “it’s a tricky thing, isn’t it? You always imagine there’s an endless supply until suddenly, the well runs dry.”
Her hand squeezes my arm, a firm, no-nonsense grip. “Don’t squander yours on half-measures with Lark. Fix it, before the clock runs out.”
She smiles, presses a quick kiss to my cheek, and then tosses her gloves onto the dirt.
“C’mon,” she says. “Let’s go inside. I made lemonade, just the way you like it. Tart enough to make your teeth hurt.”
And just like that, the moment’s over.
But the words, sharp and true, stay.