Chapter 4BOONE #4
His name is Hudson. And he looks just like me. Like—exactly. It was like looking in a mirror, only instead of seeing some worn-out, busted-up version of myself, I saw him. A kid who has no idea who I am. A kid I should’ve known.
I don’t even know how to feel. There’s anger, somewhere beneath the surface, but it’s tangled up in too many other things to make sense of.
I should be mad at Lark. She didn’t tell me, didn’t give me the chance to be there for him.
For her. But the truth is, I can’t bring myself to hate her.
It’s Lark. You know how it was with her. How it’s always been.
But I hate that I wasn’t there. I hate that I didn’t see his first steps, didn’t hear his first words, didn’t get to teach him how to throw a baseball.
I hate that I’m a stranger to him, that he probably doesn’t even wonder about me.
And maybe that’s what guts me the most—that I wasn’t even a missing piece in his life. Just…absent .
I keep thinking about my dad. About how he raised us, how he showed us love the only way he knew how—through tough lessons and long days and high expectations. I never doubted that he loved me, but I never really knew him, not the way I wanted to. And I don’t want that for Hudson.
I want to be the kind of dad who listens.
Who doesn’t just tell him what to do but asks him what he thinks.
Who teaches him the important stuff—how to fix a fence, how to ride, how to work, how to be a man—but also shows up for the little things.
School projects. Late-night worries. The everyday moments that add up to something real.
But what if he doesn’t want to know me? What if he thinks his life is fine the way it is? What if I don’t deserve to be in it?
I don’t know, man. I feel like I just stepped into a life that was already built without me, and I have no clue where I fit in.
You’d know what to say. You always did.
I miss you.
—B
I sit there for a while after I finish, pen still in my hand, jaw locked tight.
Then I close the journal, push it aside, and lean back in the chair.
Tomorrow, I face Lark.
Then I figure out how the hell to be a dad.
**********
The Bluebell’s slammed.
Lunch crowd’s in full swing—plates clanging, chairs scraping, voices stacking on top of each other. Smells like fried onions, coffee, and fresh pie. Same as it always has.
Dawn’s in her usual spot behind the counter, running the show like she’s got eyes on the back of her head. Lipstick slightly smudged, pen tapping against her order pad, voice sharp as she snaps at a busboy and hands off a slice of pie without missing a beat.
She spots me and lifts a brow but doesn’t say anything.
I move through the tables, nod at a few familiar faces.
Hank Tiller’s holed up in his usual booth, nursing his coffee like it’s keeping him alive.
Mary Jo Henson and Becky Cane are posted at the counter, mid-gossip, and judging by the way they go quiet when I pass, I’m what they’re whispering about now.
I slap a hand against the counter. “Lark in the office?”
Dawn glances over her glasses. “She is.”
I nod and start to turn, but her hand catches my elbow. Grip’s firm.
“Play nice, Boone,” she says. “Keep your head on straight.”
My jaw tightens, but I nod.
I head through the kitchen—past the fryers, the ovens, the sharp scent of bacon and whatever’s baking in the back.
They’ve cleaned it up some, but it still feels the same.
Still the place we used to sneak into when Alice wasn’t looking, stealing sugar cubes like idiots and hiding behind the dry goods.
I stop at the office door. Knock once.
Pause.
“Come in.”
I do and it’s cramped as hell in here.
There’s barely enough space for the two of us in here, and with the way she’s seated at the desk, legs crossed, posture stiff, it doesn’t exactly feel like the most welcoming environment. Not that I expected it to be.
She’s not in uniform. Probably has weekends off. Her hair’s still long, pulled to one side. Her eyes—blue today—meet mine when I step in, and for half a second, it hits me square in the chest.
Mom was right.
She’s even prettier now.
Lark was the girl everyone talked about in high school. The one who turned heads without trying. I remember how fast I saw red when I heard Clayton Faulkner—one of our pitchers—running his mouth in the dugout about what he’d do if he ever got the chance with her, as if he ever had a shot in hell.
I broke his nose for that. Got benched for two games.
Didn’t regret it for a second .
Now she’s sitting here, still beautiful, but there’s something different. Worn, maybe. A kind of quiet fatigue in her face she probably doesn’t even notice. It does something to me, seeing it. Knowing she’s been shouldering everything alone for twelve years.
She nods toward the kid-sized chair in the corner. “You want to sit?”
I glance at it and raise a brow. It’s barely wide enough for one of my thighs. I drop into it anyway, knees damn near to my chest. The thing creaks like it’s about to give out.
She tries not to smile.
“Laugh it up,” I mutter.
She lets out a small chuckle. “Sorry. That was Hudson’s chair. Had it in here for him when he was little.”
Something about that settles in my chest. The thought of Hudson in this office, sitting in the chair, waiting for his mom to finish up work.
I shift slightly, trying to get comfortable. “Well, he better have been a small kid.”
Lark laughs again—quiet and real—and for a second, I’m not sitting in a too-small chair across from the woman I used to love. I’m sixteen again, watching her tear through the pasture barefoot, chasing after me. Always a step behind, always catching up.
“He’s too tall now,” she says, shaking her head. “Growing out of his clothes faster than I can keep up. I buy him new jeans, and a month later, they’re hitting him above the ankles.” Her voice drops a little. “Guess he got that from you.”
I part my lips to say something, but she lifts a hand before I get the chance.
“Let me talk,” she says, her voice even. Measured. “Just…let me get it out.”
I give her a nod. Nothing more.
Her palms press flat to the desk like she’s steadying herself. “I meant what I said. I tried to reach you. I wrote letters. So many, I lost count. I called, begged the base to pass on a message. Told them it was urgent.”
She blows out a breath. Shakes her head. “But I guess it never got to you.”
Her shoulders drop, voice lower now. “At some point, I had to stop waiting. Had to accept you weren’t coming back. That it was gonna be me and Hudson. Just us.”
My chest tightens. I shake my head. “You should’ve told someone. My mom would’ve helped. My sisters. You wouldn’t have been on your own, Lark.”
She lifts her chin, steady as hell. “I didn’t want to be an obligation, Boone.”
My frown deepens, but she doesn’t stop.
“I didn’t want to be the girl your family had to take care of.
I didn’t want your mom looking at me like I was some box she had to check.
Or your sisters trying to make it better when it wasn’t their mess to fix.
” Her voice dips—cracks just a little on the last part.
“And I…I didn’t want Hudson growing up thinking he was a burden. ”
I sit back, jaw clenched.
She’s not wrong. Even if they had taken her in, even if they’d made every offer to help, she would’ve felt like a project. And Lark’s never been someone who needs saving. She’d walk through fire barefoot before letting someone carry her across.
Still burns to hear it out loud.
I let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the desk between us. “Wasn’t easy to reach me,” I say, voice low. “That’s on me. I didn’t want distractions. Didn’t want anything tying me down.”
I pause. Breathe deep.
“It was safer that way. If I didn’t know where you were—if you didn’t know where I was—there was nothing for anyone to use against us.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just watches me. Waiting.
“There were places I had to be. Shit I had to do.” My jaw tightens. “And sometimes, not knowing—that was the safest move I had. For me. For the people I gave a damn about.”
What I don’t tell her is the rest of it.
The nights I didn’t sleep. The missions that got messy. The bodies. The silence. The way it feels when you can’t remember if your hands are shaking from cold or adrenaline.
Her voice is soft when it finally breaks through. “Where were you, Boone?”
I don’t answer right away. Can’t. I just sit there, feeling the weight of the question settle between us.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk. I do. God knows I do. But wanting something and knowing how to reach for it—how to say it out loud—that’s a whole different thing.
Because somewhere between leaving this ranch and coming back, I forgot how to let people in.
The military will do that to a man. You learn to keep things locked up tight.
Emotions, thoughts, fears. You compartmentalize or you don’t survive.
You start treating everything like a mission—complete the task, follow the orders, keep moving forward.
There’s no room for softness in a firefight.
No space for vulnerability when you’re trying to keep your brothers alive.
And then you come home. Back to a world that runs slower, asks different things of you. Wants you to feel everything you’ve been shoving down for years and smile while you do it.
I want to tell her how I’m still trying to rewire my brain. How I scan every exit without meaning to, how loud noises still make me flinch, how I haven’t slept a full night in weeks because my body still thinks it’s waiting for something to explode.
I want to tell her all of that. But the words stay stuck in my throat. Thick. Heavy.
Then she leans in a little. “If we’re going to figure this out for Hudson…it starts here. With the truth.”