Chapter Thirty
The scent of bacon hit her first.
Then came the sound—clank of skillet on stove, the scrape of a wooden spoon, and the unmistakable tinny hum of gospel music playing low from the kitchen radio.
Amara jolted upright in bed, the morning light barely pushing through the curtains.
She threw on her hoodie, tugged it over her messy braid and sleep shorts, and padded down the stairs barefoot, the old wood groaning beneath her.
Her heart was hammering with dread—had she dreamt everything? Had her mama wandered off again? Was the kitchen on fire?
But then—
“Morning, sugar.”
Her mama stood at the stove in her housecoat, apron tied crooked around her waist, spatula in hand. Her hair was pinned up with three too many clips, and her lipstick was the soft peachy one Amara always liked. The whole room smelled like butter, coffee, and something warm baking in the oven.
But it was her mama’s smile that stopped her in her tracks.
A real smile.
Not the foggy, lopsided grin of someone halfway under. Not the vacant stare of someone doped up on the wrong pills. Just her mama. Bright-eyed. Present.
“Wh—Mama,” Amara breathed. “You’re up.”
“I sure am.” Her mama chuckled, turning the bacon. “And feeling like a whole new woman.”
Amara stepped forward slowly, wary, like if she moved too fast the moment would shatter.
Her mama noticed. “Oh, honey. Brock helped me something fierce last night. Got me to the ER. Pretty lady doc looked me over. Told me I was takin’ the wrong pills—hell, takin’ pills not even prescribed to me.”
Amara blinked. “What?”
Her mama nodded, pouring coffee into a chipped mug and handing it over. “Mm-hmm. They said it’s been makin’ me all confused. Sick in the head and sick in the belly. Said I gotta stop goin’ to that old doctor.”
“What doctor?” Amara asked sharply.
Her mama scrunched her nose, brow furrowed. “Can’t remember his name. Same one your daddy used to see, way back. Some office down in downtown Calhoun. Little brick place, I think.”
Something cold coiled in Amara’s gut. “Downtown Calhoun…” she murmured, voice tight. But she let it lie.
Not now. Not with her mama smiling and frying bacon like she used to. Amara swallowed the suspicion and took a sip of the coffee, letting the bitter warmth settle her nerves. Her mama sat across from her, sliding over a plate stacked with eggs, grits, and thick-sliced toast.
“I’m gonna be better, baby,” her mama said softly. “I can feel it.”
Amara looked at her. Really looked.
And for the first time in a long time—she believed her.
They ate in relative quiet, save for the hum of the radio and the occasional chuckle when Mama made some offhand comment about Brock being good with his hands. Amara grinned, despite everything, and let herself feel the comfort of normal—for five minutes, anyway.
But then her mama stood, brushing crumbs from her apron, and clapped her hands together.
“All right, we’re burnin’ daylight,” she said, like the woman she used to be. “Go get ready.”
Within ten minutes, Amara was following her mama out of the screen door, boots thudding against the porch planks. It was time for the other side of farm life.
Time to winter the fences, insulate the stalls, stack hay and fix troughs, mend harnesses and prep feed barrels.
Life didn’t pause for heartbreak. Or gunshots. Or the burning down of everything you thought you were building.
And Amara James had work to do, whether Ethan Kane would ever show up again or not.
Back inside, upstairs, she changed fast—no time to linger.
Slid on her worn jeans, pulled a thermal over her tank, and tied her braid back tight.
The hoodie came with her, slung over one arm as she stepped into her boots, their cracked leather still dusted from two days ago.
The day her whole goddamn world caught fire.
The minute she launched her way back out and the screen door creaked shut behind her, the cold hit her. Real autumn cold this time. Whatever warmth summer had left behind had blown off in the night.
She crossed the yard and spotted the boys out by the feed pens. Sadler was already checking gate hinges while Cord hauled sacks from the shed. Both of them looked up like they’d seen a ghost.
“Hey, boss,” Sadler called, squinting. “You—uh…you all right?”
Cord didn’t speak. Just gave her a nod like he didn’t quite believe she was standing there.
“I’m fine,” Amara said, stepping into their circle. She wasn’t, not really. But this wasn’t about feelings. It was about function. “We’ve got work to do.”
“’Course,” Sadler said quickly. “It’s just—you been gone. Two days. And…well…we heard—”
She stiffened. “About the house.”
They exchanged looks. Cord scuffed his boot in the dirt.
“Yeah.”
Amara glanced over her shoulder at the porch, where a shape moved past the kitchen window. Her mama.
She turned back, voice dropping. “Y’all don’t mention any of that around Mama. Not a word.”
“But—” Sadler started.
“She’s finally coming out the other side of something,” Amara snapped, low and firm. “I don’t want her backsliding because y’all can’t keep your mouths shut.”
Both boys straightened. Sadler raised a hand. “Understood.”
Cord gave a small nod. “We get it.”
She let the silence sit for a moment. The wind picked up, carrying the sharp scent of pine and smoke—the good kind this time, from the hearth.
“There’s a lot goin’ on,” she said, leveling them both with her stare. “More than I can say right now. But listen to me close—I don’t trust many people in this town. I’ve got reason not to.”
They stood still. Waiting.
“But my daddy trusted you,” she said, voice quiet now. “So I will too.”
That hit. Cord’s jaw flexed. Sadler looked down, nodded once.
“I need more than work from you boys. I need eyes. Ears. Anything feels wrong out here—someone asking questions, strays too close to the south line, something goes missin’ or out of place—I want to know. Call me, you hear?”
“Yessum,” Sadler said.
Cord grunted. “You got it.”
“But until then, heads down. Get it done. Harvest’s nearly run out and winter won’t wait on our mess.”
They turned to go, boots crunching on gravel, heading back toward the sheds and pasture. She watched them for a long minute, the weight of responsibility pressing into her spine like the butt of a rifle.
Such is the life of a farmer, she thought as she turned to the barn, phone in hand, thumb jabbing the screen with more force than necessary.
No new messages.
No calls.
No delivered checkmarks.
Nothing from Ethan.
She hit call anyway.
Straight to voicemail.
Tried again.
Voicemail.
“Fuck you, Ethan,” she said under her breath—but it came out louder than she meant. Loud enough to make the horses in the barn flick their ears.
She stopped at the gate, squeezed her eyes shut. The silence in her phone felt heavier than usual today. It didn’t feel like danger—it felt like avoidance. And that cut deeper. Ethan wasn’t the type to be taken. If he was off-grid, it was because he chose to be.
And maybe that’s what hurt most.
She stepped inside the barn, the scent of hay and dust and horse balm hitting her all at once. That familiar comfort, steady under her skin. The stallion nickered softly from his stall.
Before she reached him, a figure rounded the corner carrying a feed bucket in one hand and a rope coiled over her shoulder.
Corrie.
“Oh.” Amara blinked. “Didn’t know you were coming today.”
Corrie smiled with an expression that made her seem even younger than she already looked. “Yeah, I figured you could use the extra hands. I don’t live far, and Brock mentioned things were…a lot.”
Amara tucked her phone in her back pocket, heart still hammering. “Right. Well, I appreciate it.”
Corrie brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’m friends with his little sister, Isabel. That’s how Brock got my number. I’ve helped out before. He knew I was between gigs.”
There was something so…nice about her. Earnest. Gentle. No pretense. That sort of goodness was rare in Calhoun.
And yet.
As the morning sun crept through the barn’s dusty high windows, it caught Corrie’s face just right.
Lit up her green-gold eyes like a meadow catching fire.
Not just familiar—specific. That same rare shade that had looked down at her in the creek, bloodied and terrified.
That same sharp glint she’d seen burning through Tennessee dusk while Ethan held her, kissed her, promised her safety.
“Your eyes,” Amara said without thinking.
Corrie looked startled. “What about ’em?”
“They’re…beautiful,” Amara recovered. “Unusual.”
“Oh,” Corrie smiled, bashful again. “Thanks. My mom says they’re my best feature. Not that she’s my real mom or anything.”
Amara’s stomach dropped. “You’re adopted?”
“Yeah,” Corrie said, setting down the feed bucket. “Bio mom gave me up right after I was born. Apparently it was a one-night-stand situation. No one ever talked about the dad. I was in the system until I was about six, then Mam adopted me.”
“Mam?” Amara echoed.
Corrie nodded. “She’s my mother. Technically. Raised me out in Pine Hollow. She’s a bit…stern. Raised me to work, mostly. Not much of a hugger.” She laughed, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Still, it’s a home.”
Amara didn’t say anything. Her brain was spinning.
Adopted. One-night stand. No known father.
Corrie had to be, what—twenty something? Ethan was forty-one. That math worked. And those eyes.
No.
No.
Amara crossed her arms tight over her chest.
Corrie didn’t notice the shift. “The stallion’s doing better, by the way. Vet said he’s healing faster than expected. I’ve been brushing him out, keeping him fed and walked. I think he likes me.”
“Yeah,” Amara said quietly. “He knows who’s kind.”
She tried to focus on the sound of the horses shifting in their stalls. On the familiar clink of metal, the smell of cedar shavings. But her mind was elsewhere—on Ethan’s silence, his sudden departures, and the long trail of things she didn’t know about him.
Maybe Ethan wasn’t gone.
Maybe he was hiding.
And maybe, just maybe, what he was hiding was standing right in front of her.
Corrie picked up the rope again and smiled. “Want me to saddle him? I know the vet said he could walk today, light and slow.”
Amara hesitated. “No. That’s okay. I’ll walk him.”
“Sure thing,” Corrie said, cheery again. “I’ll go prep the next stall.”
She disappeared around the corner, and Amara was left standing in the aisle, one hand on the stall door, the other back on her phone.
Still no messages.
Still no Ethan.
Her gut was a mess of fear, jealousy, and suspicion.
She closed her eyes.
If she found out Ethan had lied to her—about something this big…
She wasn’t sure who she’d be more furious with.
Him. Or herself.