Chapter 4BOONE #5
I drag a hand down my face, slow and rough, like it might scrub the memories loose. “Afghanistan. Iraq. Syria. Other places I can’t name. Places I still see when I close my eyes.”
My voice stays calm. Even. But it feels like there’s a vice wrapped around my ribs .
“I was deployed more times than I can count. Did the job. Some of it I can talk about. Some of it’s classified. Not because I’m hiding it—because I legally can’t say the words out loud.”
She nods. Doesn’t push. And I’m grateful for that.
Then she asks the one thing I knew was coming.
“Why did you leave?”
I look at her. Really look at her. She’s holding herself together by a thread, but she’s not backing down.
“I thought we had a plan,” she says. “Graduate, build something together. I thought we were going to stay.”
Her eyes drop for a second, then find mine again. “Was it me? Was I the reason you left?”
“Jesus, no.” The words come out rough, sharp. Instinctual. I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “It was never you.”
She waits.
So I give her the rest.
I bring my palm across the back of my neck, the skin hot, tension crawling up my spine like it’s got nowhere else to go.
“I left because I had to. Because if I stayed in this town, if I stayed on this ranch, I would’ve spent my whole life living the way I thought I was supposed to, instead of figuring out who I actually was.
” I glance down, shaking my head. “I needed something different. I needed to prove to myself that I was capable of more than what was expected of me.”
I hesitate, then add, “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I ever made you think you were the reason. You weren’t. Not even for a second.”
Lark nods once, but doesn’t say anything. Just watches me for a long second before she shifts her focus back to the desk.
And I don’t know what that means. If she gets it. If it made a difference or if she’s just done with this conversation already.
Finally, she nods again, more to herself than to me. “It was twelve years ago,” she says flatly. “We’re not the same people anymore, right? Different lives. It’s easier to leave the past where it is.”
It lands wrong. Like she’s drawing a hard line in the dirt, pretending we’re strangers just because we’ve changed. Like none of it ever mattered.
I hate how final it sounds.
But before I can say a word, she’s already moving on. Clearing her throat, looking up at me again. “What do you want to do about Hudson?”
I swallow around the lump in my throat, forcing my thoughts to catch up. “I want to spend time with him. Get to know him. Bring him out to the ranch.” I look at her. “Figure out a schedule that makes sense.”
She studies me, nods once. “Monday through Friday, he stays with me. It’s easier. His school’s close, he’s got practice, and I’m five minutes away if something comes up.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Makes sense.”
She hesitates, tapping a finger once against the desk. “But…if Hudson’s okay with it, we can ease into weekends. He should get to decide that.”
I keep my expression steady, but my chest goes tight.
“Thanks,” I say. “I know that’s not easy.”
Lark crosses her legs, arms folding across her chest. “There have to be rules, Boone.”
“Name them.”
“He calls or FaceTimes me when he’s with you. Just a couple minutes, but I need to hear his voice.”
“Done.”
“No late nights. If he stays over, you don’t let him stay up until three watching highlight reels.”
I huff. “Twelve years old and he’s already pulling that?”
She gives me a look. “Every chance he gets.”
“Noted.”
“No junk food,” she adds, eyes narrowing. “He eats real food at my place. Try not to undo that.”
I nod. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t starve on kale and quinoa.”
Her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t bite. She’s quiet for a second, then says it softly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
That one cuts.
“I won’t. ”
She watches me, still guarded, still waiting for me to prove I deserve to be here.
“Anything else you want to know?” she asks.
I shift in the chair, thinking. “Favorite baseball team?”
“Dodgers.”
Smart kid.
“Favorite player?”
“Depends on the week. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“Birthday?”
“December second.”
I nod, making a mental note of it. Then pause. “Full name?”
Something in her expression shifts. “Hudson James Westwood.”
Damn. Not Wilding.
I swallow that down. “Right.”
“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” she says, quieter now. “I didn’t want to give him a name I’d have to explain later.”
I nod once. Can’t say I blame her. But it still hits harder than I want it to.
Lark turns back to the desk, grabs a pen, and scribbles something down. She rips the paper clean and holds it out to me.
“That’s our address,” she says, voice even. “Come by at five. I’ll talk to Hudson before then—prep him a little so it’s not a total ambush.”
I take the slip from her, nod once. “That’s smart.”
She gives a slight shrug but doesn’t say anything else.
I stand, the legs of the chair scraping loud against the floor, and head for the door. My hand’s already on the knob when I stop.
Turn back.
“Thanks, Lark.”
She exhales like she’s been holding something in this whole time. “He deserves to know his dad.”
I nod again slowly. “I’ll see you at five.”
I step out, the hallway cooler than I remembered. My boots hit the floor with a heavier sound now, like the weight of what just happened is starting to settle in .
By the time I push through the kitchen and into the dining room, Dawn’s already clocked me. She gives me a once-over like she’s checking for damage.
“Well, you’ve still got both your ears and all your limbs,” she says dryly, arms crossed. “Couldn’t have gone that bad.”
I let out a breath, almost a laugh. “It went.”
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t press.
“Glad to see you two aren’t trying to kill each other,” she adds.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
Outside, Main Street’s alive. Cars rolling by, tourists meandering like they’ve got nowhere to be, locals doing what they always do. It all looks the same.
But it isn’t. Not for me.
I’ve got an address now. A dinner to show up for. A son I’ve never met—one who probably doesn’t know what to think of me.
I look down at the paper in my hand. Lark’s handwriting, quick and no-nonsense. I fold it once and tuck it into my jacket.
That’s it.
This is the door opening. It could be my only shot, and I sure as hell don’t plan on fucking it all up.