Chapter 25BOONE
BOONE
My stomach hits the floor, and just like that, the air around me changes—thick and heavy, like something’s splintered beneath the surface.
Dawn?
I stare at the name on the page like it doesn’t belong there, like maybe it’s a mistake or a different Dawn Rutherford entirely. But it’s not. It’s her. I know it in my gut, and still, my brain refuses to catch up.
Dawn’s not some stranger on a bank statement.
She’s Dawn. She’s been part of our lives as long as I can remember—part of the Bluebell, part of us.
She wasn’t just an employee. She was the woman who taught me and Ridge how to flip pancakes without splattering them on the ceiling—though I damn near took out a light fixture once.
She was the first to teach us how to play poker, sitting in the back booth during slow afternoons, dealing cards like a Vegas lifer and letting us win just enough to feel cocky before wiping us clean the next round.
When we were kids, she’d sneak us extra milkshakes in the kitchen, all while she cackled and told stories about her misspent youth.
She’d shoot straw wrappers at the cooks when they were slow, would “accidentally” short the coffee when a regular pissed her off, and let Ridge convince her once to deep-fry a Snickers bar just to see if we could.
We couldn’t, but she laughed harder than anyone when it exploded .
At night, when we stayed late, helping mop floors or count tips, she’d blast old rock music from the jukebox and dance around like she didn’t have a care in the world. That’s the Dawn I know—the woman who made the Bluebell feel more like a second home than a diner.
And now her name’s here, linked to wire transfers that reek of Tate’s bullshit. Numbers that don’t make sense for someone pulling shifts slinging pie and coffee. Numbers that look a whole lot like complicity .
I can’t wrap my head around it. How could she be involved in this? With him?
I shake my head, slow and hard. “No. This…this isn’t right.”
Miller doesn’t flinch. Her voice is quiet, but certain. “It isn’t. I’m sorry, Boone.”
I stare at the folder, still open in my hands, still showing me something I don’t want to see. “What do you think this means?”
“I did some digging on her, after I found the first transfer. She’s got kids—grown. A couple of them live in L.A., and it looks like there are grandkids too. Not much of a trail connecting her to them lately, but it’s there.”
I keep my eyes on the paper. Her voice drifts in and out like I’m underwater.
“If I had to guess,” she says, “Tate saw an opportunity. She’s been at the Bluebell forever.
She knows the place like the back of her hand—what systems are outdated, which corners might not hold up under scrutiny.
He probably went to her, waved some money in her face, and told her she’d never have to work another breakfast rush again.
She helps him shut it down, collects the payout, disappears to California to be with her family. She starts over.”
My hand drags down my face. I remember her talking about her kids—usually in passing, usually with that half-smile that never quite reached her eyes.
One was an actress or trying to be, I think.
Another worked in tech. I never paid it much attention, because Dawn never acted like she was trying to get out.
She belonged to this place—boots rooted behind the counter, hands always busy, voice loud, always laughing at something .
But maybe I missed it. Maybe the whole time she was folding napkins and wiping down tables, she was dreaming of being somewhere else.
I don’t know what to do with that. I’ve spent my whole life looking at her a certain way—mouthy, dependable, sharp as hell but solid as bedrock underneath. The person you trusted, because she never pretended to be anything she wasn’t.
Now, that foundation shifts under me. My view of her tilts, warps. Not completely—she’s still the woman who taught me how to shoot darts, who slipped me free pie—but she’s also someone who, maybe, let Tate ruin Lark’s livelihood just to buy herself a new one.
I glance at my watch—4:45 PM. Lark should be back at the main house by now.
Turning to Miller, I say, “We need to tell Lark.”
She nods, her expression unreadable.
“Guys,” I call out to the crew, “keep at it. I’ll be back soon.”
Ridge, leaning against a post, raises an eyebrow.
“Ridge, keep an eye on Hudson, yeah?”
Hudson, sitting on the porch steps, mutters, “I’m twelve, not a toddler.”
I suppress a grin. “Noted.”
Turning to Duke, I ask, “Mind tossing me the keys to one of the ATVs? I’ll bring it back in one piece.”
Duke fishes the keys from his pocket and tosses them over. “Take the Gator. It’s fueled up.”
“Thanks.” I nod toward Miller. “Hop in, let’s go.”
She follows me to where the John Deere Gator is parked. I climb in, slotting the key into the ignition.
Miller stands beside the ATV, arms crossed, eyeing it like it’s a wild animal. “In this thing?”
“Yes, in this thing.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Why can’t I just drive my car up there?”
“The main house is across the property,” I explain, trying to suppress a grin. It’s fun seeing Miller squirm sometimes. Sue me. “The ATV’s faster. Now, get in. ”
Miller hesitates. Then, with obvious reluctance and a dramatic sigh, climbs into the passenger seat. She fumbles with the seatbelt before securing it, her movements stiff and awkward.
“Comfortable?” I ask, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
She shoots me a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “Just drive.”
I start the engine with a laugh and the Gator rumbles to life beneath us.
I barely give the engine a chance to warm before slamming my foot on the gas. The Gator jerks forward with a growl, tires spitting gravel as we shoot down the dirt path.
Out of the corner of my eye, Miller lurches back into the seat, one hand clutching the side rail, the other flying to her skirt to keep it from riding up. Her blazer flaps behind her like it’s trying to abandon ship.
She turns to me, eyes wide, wind whipping her hair across her mouth. “Fucking hell, Boone! Are you trying to kill me or impress me? Because both attempts are sloppy.”
I bark out a laugh, louder than I mean to, the sound bouncing off the trees as we race past them. “Relax. I’ve done this a million times.”
“Fantastic,” she snaps, yanking at the hem of her skirt again. “Just what I’ve always dreamed of—dying in a glorified lawnmower while flashing half the county.”
I glance at her, grinning. She’s half-panicked, half-furious, and still somehow managing to keep her dignity intact while sitting sideways in an ATV built for hauling hay, not high heels.
“You’re doing great, Millie,” I say, just to get under her skin.
Her head snaps toward me. “Call me that again and I will throw you out of this thing.”
I press the gas a little harder. “Bold move for someone who couldn’t drive this thing in those shoes.”
She mutters something that sounds like a threat involving stilettos and my throat, and I keep laughing all the way up the hill.
I know I probably shouldn’t be laughing—there’s too much hanging in the balance for that.
Dawn. Tate. The Bluebell. Lark. But the thing is, I haven’t felt even a little bit light in weeks, and right now, with Miller white-knuckling the side rail and threatening bodily harm over a gust of wind and a bumpy road, I feel it. Just for a second.
Relief.
Not because it’s funny watching her freak out, though. Okay, partially it is. But mostly because we’re not stuck anymore. We’re moving forward. Finally. Getting a grip on this thing that’s been gnawing at us since the day they slapped that closure sign on the diner.
When we reach the top of the hill and the main house comes into view, I ease off the gas and we slow to a stop in front of the porch.
Lark’s car is parked where I figured it would be, angled slightly, like she was rushing to get inside.
She always does that—pulls in too fast, forgets to straighten it out.
I used to tease her for it in high school.
Miller swings open the passenger door, cursing under her breath as she steps out and brushes invisible dirt off her blazer. She gives the Gator a final look, one of pure contempt.
“Get it all out?” I ask, sliding out behind her.
She doesn’t even look at me. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw up on your precious cowboy boots. Although, it’d probably be an improvement.”
I let the door slam shut and follow her up the steps, a smirk tugging at my mouth.
I’ve been pissing Miller off since I was fifteen years old, and something about it still feels like sport.
She always acts like she hates it, but I’ve never believed that entirely.
It’s the only language we ever spoke that felt natural—annoyance with an undertow of loyalty.
Miller slows as we step into the entryway, her gaze drifting up toward the familiar details—the crooked photo frames, the same old boot rack by the door, that ancient coat hook that’s always been slightly loose.
She blinks once, then lets out a breath through her nose. “Some things really don’t change, huh?”
She hasn’t stepped foot in this house since we were teenagers, back when everything felt like it was about staking a claim—time, attention, space.
Me and Lark were wrapped up in each other, always finding new ways to be tangled and inseparable, and Miller…
well, Miller was part of the package. She came with Lark.
So we all had to figure out how to share the time .
Sometimes that meant compromise. Sometimes, it meant spending time here, at this house.
Miller would show up with her arms crossed, a look on her face like she was doing us a favor by gracing us with her presence. She never stepped foot near the barn—claimed the smell would ruin her week. She stayed far away from anything resembling dirt. We’d order pizza and fight over toppings.