BOONE #2
I glance over, watching her take it all in. “Nope,” I say, pulling the front door closed behind us.
She sniffs once, nose wrinkling. “Still smells like horse shit.”
“Ridge slept on that couch last night. So technically, it might just be him.”
She huffs out a sound—maybe a laugh, maybe not—but she’s still staring at the living room like part of her is stuck somewhere in our youth. The edges of her posture soften. Not by much, but enough to notice.
Lark rounds the corner barefoot, towel slung over one shoulder, still drying the ends of her damp hair with a laziness that tells me she just stepped out of the shower a few minutes ago.
She’s in these black leggings that hug her legs in a way that short-circuits my brain for a second, and an old Wilding Ranch crewneck I haven’t worn in years—thin at the sleeves, faded along the neckline, collar loose and stretched from wear.
She used to steal it from my closet back in high school, and now, after everything, she’s wearing it again.
That alone is enough to make my chest ache in the best way.
“Oh my god,” she says, blinking at us. “Miller?”
Miller just stares at her like she’s assessing a crime scene. I swear her eyes narrow the second they land on the crewneck.
“I thought I heard your voice,” Lark goes on, glancing between the two of us. “But I figured I was hallucinating from lack of sleep.”
Miller crosses her arms. “I wish you were.”
Her gaze drops back to Lark’s outfit. “And what’s happening here? Laundry day? Or is this some kind of new ranch wife aesthetic that you forgot to warn me about? ”
Lark snorts, but there’s a grin threatening the edge of her mouth. “Please. You’ve seen me in worse.”
Miller nods once. “Unfortunately.”
Then, in true Miller fashion, she steps forward and pulls Lark into the briefest hug known to man—tight, brisk, like she’s allergic to any form of prolonged affection.
It still makes Lark smile. She’s one of maybe two people Miller will tolerate physical contact from, and even then it’s only under specific terms.
Lark leans back, looking between us again. “Okay, seriously, what’s going on? You’re hugging me and you two showing up together feels…coordinated. Which is terrifying.”
“I wish I was here with something good,” Miller says, her tone sobering as she tucks her hair behind her ear, the sarcasm thinning.
I glance at Lark, catching the way her brow knits. “We should probably sit.”
Lark stares at us for a second longer, the shift in energy not lost on her. She crosses her arms. “Why do you both look like you’re about to tell me someone died?”
We sit, but Lark doesn’t move. She stays where she is, arms still crossed tight over her chest like she’s bracing for impact. Her eyes bounce between the two of us—reading, registering, already worried.
I open my mouth to speak, but Miller lifts a hand, subtle but firm. “I’ve got it.”
She crosses one leg over the other, her spine going impossibly straight, every trace of sarcasm drained from her expression. The transformation is almost unsettling. Miller doesn’t do soft when things matter—she’s precise.
She’s not Lark’s best friend in this moment.
Not the girl who used to take shots in this same kitchen when we were teenagers and tell me off for breathing too loud.
She’s the lawyer now. Clean. Sharp. Controlled.
The version of herself that knows how to compartmentalize, how to set emotion aside and deliver the hard thing anyway.
And she has to be. It’s how she protects herself. How she protects Lark .
She tucks her short hair behind her ears and pulls the folder from her bag, sliding it across the table with the same care someone might use handing over a scalpel.
“There’ve been some financial discrepancies tied to Tate’s business accounts,” she says, her tone clipped and professional. “Most of the records are protected behind layers of legal insulation, but I’ve been able to access a few things. Internal wire transfers. Dates, amounts, and recipients.”
Lark’s arms drop just enough for her to reach out and grab the folder. Her fingers hover on the flap for a second before she opens it. The paper shifts softly as she flips through the pages, eyes scanning line by line. Her brow furrows deeper with every second.
Lark doesn’t look up. Her eyes stay fixed to the page, moving fast, trying to make sense of what she’s seeing.
“What do you mean, financial discrepancies? What am I looking at?”
Miller shifts slightly, her hands still folded neatly in front of her.
“All of that money—it’s being wired out of Tate’s personal account.
Repeated transactions. Consistent amounts.
It’s not payroll. It’s not overhead. It’s hush money.
My guess? It’s how he’s been keeping someone quiet. Someone doing his dirty work.”
Lark blinks at her, and I can tell her mind is already running ahead of the conversation. “Who?”
Miller’s eyes flick across Lark’s face, the hard edge in her expression softening just a fraction. She nods once toward the folder. “Flip to the last page, look at the bottom.”
Lark’s fingers hesitate for a second, then slide the papers aside until she reaches it. Her eyes fall to the bottom of the sheet—and I watch the exact second it lands, a jolt shooting straight through her.
She goes still. Her hand rises, quick, covering her mouth. Her shoulders tighten and then tremble. She starts shaking her head, once, then again. “No.”
I stand slowly, already moving toward her.
She looks at Miller, then to me, like maybe we’re going to laugh and say it’s all just some terrible misunderstanding. “No. This isn’t right. This is a mistake.”
Her voice breaks on the last word. She looks back at the paper again, as if it might change if she reads it harder. Her breath starts coming quicker, shallower.
Miller doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She just shakes her head, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry, babe.”
The tear falls before I reach her. Just one, slipping down her cheek so quietly, I don’t even think she knows it’s there.
But I see it. I always see it. I know how she cries—quiet, guarded, like maybe if she’s small enough, no one will notice.
But her eyes give her away. Always have.
That blue in her irises turns stormy when she’s crying.
Her fingers stay clenched around the edge of the paper, but her gaze is far off now—like she’s not even seeing the page anymore. Just the memories behind it.
Her voice cracks again when she speaks. “How?”
I reach her just as she says it, just as the heartbreak really starts to settle in. I wrap my arms around her and pull her in close. She doesn’t resist. Her head presses against my chest, her breathing short and uneven.
“Dawn’s been like a mother to me,” she whispers, anger starting to push up through the grief. “She’s been part of my life since I was a kid. I worked alongside her for years. She’s helped raise half this town. There’s no way she’d try to take the Bluebell from me. No way.”
“It’s not really about the Bluebell, sweetheart,” I tell her, my hand rubbing slow circles into her back. “We think…she wants out. Back to California. She’s got kids there, grandkids. Maybe this was her way to get to them. An early retirement. Just with a…darker route than any of us saw coming.”
Lark leans back, her eyes searching mine, like she’s trying to glue the pieces of it together in real time.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, stunned. “She mentioned her daughters. It was only a few weeks ago—she said something about her grandkids, too. She was in my house, Boone. Laughing with me. Asking about Hudson.” Her voice catches, hard.
“She was doing all this while pretending she was my friend?”
She turns and sets the folder down on the counter—only it’s less of a set and more of a slap. Paper shifts inside. Her hand flies up, swiping another tear from her cheek, and I catch the next one before it can fall.
She looks to Miller now, the disbelief hardening into something colder.
“What do we do? She can’t keep working there, obviously.
But if I just fire her without telling people why, it’s gonna blow back on me.
The town loves her. They’ll ask why they never see her around anymore. We need to expose her somehow.”
Miller, still seated but laser-focused, straightens and speaks clearly.
“We need to be smart about it. No public accusations until we have it airtight. I say we pull her employment records, get a paper trail. If you know when most of these issues started, we’ll compare that to the money trail—dates, patterns. We find the overlap.”
Lark nods slowly, listening now, trying to tuck the emotion away long enough to process. “So we document first.”
“Exactly,” Miller replies. “We get everything in order. Then, when we’re ready, you don’t just fire her—you present the truth. Calm. Measured. The story will tell itself.”
Lark doesn’t answer. Her eyes stay fixed on the edge of the counter, blinking like she’s trying to absorb everything at once without letting it take her down.
I pull her even closer. She’s warm, but tense—shoulders drawn up so tight it looks like she’s holding her breath.
“She played the long game,” I say, quietly, for her and no one else. “That doesn’t mean you have to play nice.”
Lark exhales, long and shaky. “I’m just…so fucking tired, Boone . I’m tired of people trying to take shit from me.”
“I know.” I brush a piece of damp hair away from her face. “But you’ve got people in your corner.”
Her eyes meet mine. They’re still glassy, still an ethereal shade of blue lit with that wounded fire. I’d do anything to get rid of it, but I can’t. So I settle for holding her gaze and letting her see that I’m not going anywhere .
From the table, Miller clears her throat. “And luckily for you, one of them happens to look great in a pantsuit and has zero moral hesitation about ruining someone’s life.”
Lark’s head tips slightly, and then, like a crack in heavy ice, she laughs—short, sudden, but real. It slips out before she can stop it. It’s not loud, but it’s full-bodied, like her chest needed the release.
I swear I could hug Miller for that. For knowing the exact second the silence was getting too heavy, for giving Lark that moment to come up for air.
Most people wouldn’t dare crack a joke with the weight of all this in the room.
I’ve never been more thankful for Miller’s brutal, unflinching timing in my life.
I kiss Lark’s temple and keep her tucked in close, her body softening just a little.
Miller stands. “We’ll reconvene this weekend,” she says. “In the meantime, just act normal. You don’t know a thing when you’re around Dawn. You’re just the usual cheerful, overworked diner owner. Nothing more.”
Lark nods. Her fingers drift toward the edge of the folder again, then fall back to her sides.
Miller steps in and pulls her into another hug—this one a little longer, a little tighter. “You’ve got this,” she murmurs. “Don’t let her steal another inch of your peace.”
Then she pulls back, already reaching for her phone. “Client meeting in twenty,” she says, glancing at the screen with a sigh. She turns to me, expression deadpan. “I need a ride back to my car in that horrid contraption that brought me up here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean the Gator?”
She visibly shudders. “Yes. That heinous thing.”
Lark laughs again, softer this time, and I press a kiss to her forehead. “You gonna be okay for a few minutes?”
She nods, eyes a little clearer now. “Yeah. Go. Just don’t let her sue you for emotional distress on the way back.”
Miller smirks. “I’m already billing him for it.”
Lark shakes her head and squeezes her arm gently. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
Miller lifts a brow. “I know. Get some rest, okay? Sleep it off or something.”
Lark snorts, the corner of her mouth lifting just enough to make me breathe easier. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers a little shaky but her voice stronger when she says, “Yeah, I’ll try.”
Miller spins on her heel, already moving for the door. “Let’s go, cowboy.”
I fall into step behind her, but she pauses at the threshold and glances back at Lark one last time. “If you don’t hear from me by tonight, check that creek down the hill. He probably threw my body in there.”
A short laugh bubbles out of Lark—tired but real. I raise my brows. “Please. If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn’t use the damn creek. I’m not an idiot.”
“Well, if my Louboutin’s go missing, I’m haunting the fuck out of this place,” Miller says, pulling the door open. She steps through it, then glances over her shoulder and adds, “Just so we’re clear.”
Lark’s half-smile sticks as she leans against the counter, arms loosely crossed. Her eyes find mine just before I step out, and something passes between us. Quiet. Grounding.
I follow Miller out into the sun, the heat thick and steady on my skin, but my thoughts stay inside with Lark.
Everything in me wants to walk right back in, cook her something warm and simple, set it in front of her without needing her to talk.
Or she could talk my damn ear off if that’s what made her feel better.
Then I could take her upstairs when the house quiets down, slide into bed beside her, her body pressed into mine, legs tangled, her breath slow and steady against my chest. I want to give her that—no questions, no noise. Just stillness. Just us.
But she’s not breakable. She never has been. She’s one of the most resilient people I’ve ever known.
She’s just bruised—and bruises heal.
I’ll make damn sure of it.