Chapter 4BOONE #3
The rhythm settles into my bones as we move—hooves hitting dirt, leather creaking, wind picking up just enough to cut through the heat still clinging to the back of my neck. The barn disappears behind us. So does the house. So does the noise.
Fields open up in front of us—gold grass swaying, fence lines slicing clean through the land, cattle grazing off in the distance like nothing’s changed.
This…this is the only thing that makes sense today.
I think about my old man. About the way he raised us. He was hard—on us, on himself. All grit and expectation. You earned what you got, and if you couldn’t keep up, you got left behind.
I respected him. Hell, I loved him. But softness wasn’t something he offered. Not even when we needed it.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he left all this to me. Because he knew I’d do it differently.
I want to do it differently. Especially with Hudson.
I don’t want to be the guy who shows up barking orders and calling it love. I want to be someone he can come to when shit gets hard.
I want him to know me. Not just know of me.
But the thought creeps in—quiet, ugly. What if he doesn’t want that? What if I’m too late? What if he never even asked about me?
That one sticks. Buries deep.
My grip tightens on the reins. Jaw locks up. What if he’s better off without me?
What if I’ve already missed my shot—and I didn’t even know I was supposed to take it?
I blow out a breath, low and hard, and lean into the saddle as Springsteen carries me farther out.
Away from the house, away from the noise.
Just the sound of hooves on packed dirt, the wind moving through the trees, the faint groan of branches stretching in the breeze.
This stretch of land’s always worked like a reset—like if I ride far enough, let the reins out just a little more, I can put some distance between me and everything I don’t want to deal with.
That’s when I see it.
Old Faithful.
Been sitting here longer than the Wilding name’s been stamped on this ranch. Calling it a house might be generous—it’s more bones than anything now. Sagging roof. Porch half caved in. Paint peeled down to bare wood. It’s lopsided, crooked as hell, but still standing.
Always has been.
Mom and Dad talked about tearing it down more times than I can count. But they never did. Maybe it was the history. Maybe it was too far down the to-do list. Or maybe they just didn’t have the heart to rip down something that refused to fall apart on its own.
Out here, the air feels different. Still.
No hum of the main house, no tractors in the fields.
Just a quiet that sinks into your skin. You can hear the creek if you listen for it—steady and soft, running clear even in late April.
The silence here isn’t heavy—it’s clean.
Peaceful. Close enough to feel like part of the ranch, far enough to feel like a world of its own.
I swing down and tie Springsteen to a post that’s barely upright. Run a hand down his neck, and he flicks an ear, calm as ever. Doesn’t even blink. I swear this horse knows when I’ve got too much on my mind.
My boots creak on the first porch step. It groans under my weight, loud enough to make me pause. For a second, I think it might give—but it holds. Just barely.
I nudge the front door open with my boot. Hinge squeals like something out of a bad movie .
Inside, it’s a mess.
Dust thick enough to write your name in. Floorboards bowed and cracked, ceiling slouched in the corners, wallpaper stripped and curling. But even through the wreckage, you can see it—this place was built to last.
Big living room, fireplace still holding steady in the far wall.
Kitchen’s huge—more counter space than we’ve got in the main house, deep farmhouse sink that’s rusted to hell but still there.
Bedrooms off to the side, one tucked in the back that might’ve been for a kid.
Two bathrooms, though I’m guessing neither has running water.
The windows are caked in grime, but light filters through enough to tell me—if you cleaned them up, this whole damn place would shine.
I step into the center of it all. Plant my hands on my hips. Just stand there.
Yeah, it’s beat to shit. The roof’s got gaps, the wiring’s probably a death trap, and the whole thing needs to be gutted down to the studs.
But the bones? They’re solid.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel something settle in my chest instead of twist.
I roll my shoulders back, take another look around.
Maybe it’s worth fixing.
Not for me.
For Hudson.
If I ever get time with Hudson here, I don’t want him crashing on a couch or squeezing into a spare room with hand-me-downs. Kid deserves better than that.
He deserves a place that’s his. Something quiet. Separate. Something that doesn’t have the noise of the main house, or a dozen people coming and going, or Mom fussing over every little thing. Somewhere we can just breathe.
Somewhere that’s ours.
He could have his own room—one he gets to make into whatever the hell he wants. Posters on the walls. Baseball cards taped to the door. A shelf full of trophies, or books, or whatever it is that keeps him up at night. A TV for movies he probably knows line-for-line. A place to just be a kid.
Truth is, I don’t even know what he’s into. What team he roots for. What books he reads. If he still watches the same movies me and Lark were obsessed with.
We damn near wore out that Jurassic Park VHS one summer. Knew every line. Lark named her horse Ellie after the scientist in it—said she was tough as hell and smart to match. I remember thinking she was exactly like Lark.
She never changed the name. Ellie’s still out in the pasture, slow and spoiled. Makes me wonder if Lark ever rides her anymore. Or if she even has time to.
I drag a hand down my face.
Fixing this place up won’t be easy. I’ve already got more on my plate than I know what to do with, but I can carve out the time. Early mornings. Late nights. Hell, I’ll make the time.
Witt’s got the wiring and plumbing covered—grew up with a dad who taught him all of it. He’ll make sure this place doesn’t go up in flames or flood the second we flush a toilet.
Duke can help reinforce the structure. He’s been building things longer than I’ve been alive. Quiet, steady, knows how to keep things level.
I’ll do the rest myself. Drywall, cabinets, sanding old floors. Shit takes time, but I’ve got the hands for it.
And if I’m going to be in Hudson’s life, I want to do it right. I want him to have a space that feels like his. That tells him he belongs here.
I look around again. It’s still a mess, but I see it different now.
I can do this.
I’m going to do this.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, loud against the quiet. I’m shocked I even get service out here. Hudson’s probably not gonna love that—no Wi-Fi. Another thing to figure out. I pull my phone out and take a quick glance at it.
Come to the Bluebell during the lunch hour tomorrow at 1. Hudson will be at practice. Go to the back office. We can talk there.
—L
Short. Direct. No room for anything but what’s necessary.
I stare at it for a beat, then send back a thumbs-up emoji. That’s all I’ve got in me.
I tuck the phone away, walk back to Springsteen, and tighten the cinch. Climb into the saddle and turn him toward the house.
I don’t rush the ride. Just let the quiet stretch, let the rhythm settle into my chest.
By the time the house comes into view, the sky’s turning gold at the edges, and the smell of something buttery and rich rolls through the kitchen window.
Mom’s at the stove when I walk in, stirring something in the biggest damn pot she owns. She’s got a dozen of them, and even though it’s just the four of us now, she still cooks like the whole town might show up hungry.
Always has.
Back when we were kids, there was always someone extra at the table—some neighbor, some classmate who needed a place to be. Between her and Loretta, no one ever left this ranch without a full plate and a second helping.
She glances over her shoulder when she hears me, eyes dragging across my face like she’s trying to figure out what kind of day I’ve had.
“You down for dinner?”
“I will be,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket. “Don’t wait on me. Got something to take care of first.”
She gives a small nod, turns back to the stove without asking for more. That’s one of the things I’ve always respected about her—she never pushes. Just waits until you’re ready to talk.
I head upstairs, two steps at a time, toward the guest room I’ve been crashing in since I got back.
My old room’s long gone—Mom turned it into an office after I enlisted. Makes sense. Place doesn’t stay frozen in time just because you left it behind .
The guest room’s fine. Clean. Warm. Bed’s decent, sheets soft, water pressure strong enough to knock the knots loose from my shoulders. Nothing fancy, but it works.
I grab the journal from under the pillow. Leather’s worn smooth at the edges. I flip it open, thumbing through pages filled with words that’ll never leave this room. Letters I’ve never sent. Stuff I don’t say out loud.
Therapist said it might help—getting the thoughts out. Said PTSD has a way of making everything sharper than it needs to be, harder to sort through. Told me writing it down might untangle the mess.
I’m not sure I buy into that. Some things are just heavy.
But I do it anyway.
I click the pen. Let it hover for a second. Then press it to the page.
And start writing to the one person I wish like hell I could still talk to.
Jack,
I don’t know where to start, so I guess I’ll just say it.
I have a son.
I know. I’m freaking the fuck out and you’re probably laughing your ass off wherever you are, calling me ‘Daddy Boone’ in that stupid ass voice you always used when you were trying to get under my skin. But Jesus, Jack. He’s real. He’s twelve. And I missed it. All of it.