Chapter 4BOONE #2
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m not saying it is.” Truth is, I have no idea what the hell she was thinking. But I know Lark—or I used to—and she wouldn’t have done this unless she thought she had to. “I’m gonna hear her out.”
Wren scoffs, mouth twisting. “She lied to you. Stole twelve fucking years from you. And now what? You’re just gonna roll over?”
Something in me snaps. Quiet, controlled—but sharp.
“That’s enough.” My voice comes out low, steady, and sharp enough to slice through the tension. “Yeah, we’ve got things to figure out. A hell of a lot. But she’s still Hudson’s mom. Still Lark. And if anyone’s got something to say about her, they’d better rethink saying it around me.”
Wren sits back, lets out a cold little laugh, arms crossing tight over her chest.
Then Mom speaks—calm, steady, in that voice that means she’s already decided where she stands. “Boone’s right.”
She looks at Wren, then Sage. Doesn’t flinch.
“We don’t know everything yet. But here’s what I do know—Lark and Hudson are family. That doesn’t change. And if either of them feels anything less than welcome here?” Her gaze flicks between my sisters like a shot fired. “Then we’ve got a problem.”
Sage raises her hands. “I didn’t even say anything.”
Mom doesn’t even blink. Just stares Wren down until she finally mutters, “Whatever,” under her breath.
Mom nods once, satisfied. “Lark’s been a part of this family since she was a kid. That doesn’t stop now.” She turns to me. “You should invite them for dinner. After you talk to her. Let her decide if she’s ready.”
I nod, slow and stiff, blinking hard like that’ll clear the pressure building behind my eyes.
Feels like I haven’t taken a full breath since I walked through that front door.
Since everything split wide open and now I’m just supposed to carry on like normal.
Like I’m not sitting here trying to wrap my head around the fact I’ve got a twelve-year-old son I didn’t even know existed.
And layered right on top of that—like it’s nothing—is the reality that I’m still trying to adjust to being home. Whatever home means now.
Everything here feels different. Familiar, sure.
But not the same. The kitchen smells like it always did—coffee and dust and something warm from the oven—but I can’t stop scanning corners, clocking exits, tuning into sounds I shouldn’t be reacting to.
The scrape of a chair leg on the tile, the low creak of a cabinet door—it all pulls my shoulders tight, gets my pulse jumping like I’m still overseas.
So no, this conversation isn’t just hard. It’s brutal. They’re looking at me like I’m supposed to have answers, like I didn’t just step off a plane and fall straight into the middle of a life I missed too much of.
Twelve years gone. A family that kept going without me. A kid that looks like me and doesn’t even know what that means.
It’s a lot. Hell of a lot.
And I’m doing everything I can not to come apart at this table.
Mom reaches over, rests a hand on my shoulder, gives it a quiet squeeze like she can sense how close I am to unraveling. “You okay?”
I lean back, stare at the ceiling like maybe there’s an answer written up there. “I don’t know.”
Because I don’t. How the hell do you go from waking up in the morning thinking you’ve got a handle on your life—only to find out it’s been built around a child-shaped hole you never saw coming?
But underneath the shock, beneath all the what-ifs and should’ves and the ache in my chest, there’s this pull. Something deep and solid.
I want to know him. Everything.
I want to take him fishing—same way Dad used to take us.
Show him how to cast a line, gut a trout, clean his hands with river water and grit.
Teach him how to throw a proper punch, how to shift gears in an old truck, how to fix a busted fence when the wire snaps clean through.
I want to stand in a field and toss a ball back and forth until it’s too dark to see.
Get him on a horse, take him up through the hills, show him the corners of this land that carry our name.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I want to be his dad more than I want to be angry with Lark. And maybe that counts for something.
Maybe it’s not just about Hudson. Maybe it’s my way back to her, too.
Maybe this is how I stop walking around Lark like she’s a damn live wire, waiting to shock the hell out of me. Maybe this is how we stop resenting each other—her for staying, me for leaving, both of us carrying damage we never talked about.
Maybe we figure out how to raise our son without blowing the whole thing to pieces.
Even if we never find our way back to being…whatever we were, maybe we can still be solid. Civil. Show Hudson what it looks like when two people give a damn—even if it’s complicated.
But even thinking it feels like a lie. Because a part of me—a big, stupid, all-consuming part of me—will always love Lark.
Doesn’t matter how much time’s gone by. Doesn’t matter how many nights I spent convincing myself I was over her. How many times I told myself to let it go. Doesn’t matter how many other women I’ve touched, how many names I’ve forgotten before the sun came up.
None of them were her.
Not one of them even came close.
I’ve had my chances. The military isn’t exactly known for fostering deep, long-lasting relationships. Everybody’s fucking everybody, looking to kill time. Trying to forget something or someone, trying to feel something they know won’t last.
But nobody’s ever been Lark. And maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe I set them all up to fail because none of them had her name. Because none of them smelled like honeysuckle and lavender. Because none of them knew how to look at me and see past all the wreckage.
They’re not the girl I used to catch fireflies with on hot summer nights, mason jars glowing between us like we’d bottled the whole damn universe.
They’re not the girl who clung to me on the back of my dirt bike, arms tight around my waist, shouting in my ear to go faster—always faster.
They’re not the girl who climbed up to the barn roof with me just to watch the storms roll in, lightning flashing across the sky, shoulders brushing, hearts hammering like we were invincible.
They’re not the girl I kissed under the bleachers, or the one I snuck out with after midnight, headlights off, hearts racing. They’re not the girl I memorized before I even knew what the hell love was supposed to feel like.
Lark Caroline Westwood.
She ruined me in the best damn way—and I’ve never found my way back since.
And maybe that’s why I’m not as angry as I should be.
Ridge’s voice crackles through the speaker, breaking the heavy quiet that’s been sitting on the room like a damn storm cloud.
“So does this officially mean I get to be the fun uncle now?”
Sage snorts. Wren shakes her head. Mom rolls her eyes. But my mouth twitches, even if everything inside me still feels off-center.
“Not in this lifetime,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Or the next one.”
Ridge scoffs, all wounded pride. “Why the hell not?”
I exhale through my nose, push back from the table. “Because you’re a little shit.”
He laughs—sharp and full of pride. “Yeah, well, I learned from the best.”
I smirk. “Difference is, I grew out of it.”
Everyone groans. Ridge’s laugh rings through the speaker again. “Oh, fuck off, Boone. You’re still as stubborn as ever.”
“Maybe,” I mutter, already grabbing my hat. My legs are restless. Head’s too loud. “I’m going for a ride. Don’t wait on me for supper.”
I don’t wait for a response. Just head for the door and let it close behind me.
Outside, the air bites a little, sun hanging low but bright. Smells like leather, old hay, dust warming on the breeze. Same as it always has. Familiar in a way that cuts a little deeper today.
Barn’s quiet, but not still. Covey and Witt are parked near the tack room, shooting the shit between chores. Covey’s got half a glove hanging from his back pocket, Witt’s nursing a toothpick like he always does.
They don’t say much—don’t have to.
Covey lifts his chin when he sees me. “Springsteen or Red?”
I glance at the stalls.
Red’s mine. Quick, sharp, a little mean when he’s bored. Built for moving fast and cutting hard.
But Springsteen—he was Dad’s. Big bay gelding, blaze down his face, steady as a heartbeat. The kind of horse you ride when you don’t want to think—just need to move.
I rub the back of my neck. “Springsteen today.”
Covey nods, already reaching for a saddle. “Need a hand?”
“Nah,” I say, stepping toward the stall. “I’ve got it.”
Springsteen flicks an ear when I open the gate, turns his head like he’s been waiting on me.
I press a hand to his shoulder, run it down the line of his neck—feel that familiar warmth, steady and grounding.
He shifts just a little, leans into the touch like he knows I need the silence more than anything else right now.
“Yeah,” I murmur, “me too, buddy. Me too.”
I throw the pad over his back, smooth it out, then swing the saddle up in one motion. The cinch tightens with practiced pulls. It’s second nature. Doesn’t ask anything of me but muscle memory.
Bridle goes on easy. Bit settles in place. He doesn’t fight me—never does. Just stands solid while I finish adjusting the straps. I give his flank a quick pat, then lead him out into the sunlight.
The air’s crisp. Light fading into that early evening gold. Feels good. Honest.
I tighten the girth one last time, plant a boot in the stirrup, and swing up in one clean motion. Settle into the seat. Adjust my reins.
Springsteen shifts under me—big and quiet, like he’s got something wound tight in him too. I press my heels in, light but sure, and give a soft cluck of my tongue. He steps forward, steady at first. Then I nudge him again, and we pick up pace.