Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
WAY TO YANK THE RUG FROM UNDER ME.
LOUISIANA
He didn’t show last night.
Not that I was looking…that hard for him.
But still, the man has shown up every night I’ve worked. Sometimes he wouldn’t say a damn word to me, sure he’d visit with the other customers, but I could feel his lingering gaze on me all fucking night. The way he’d undress me with his eyes slowly, that hazel gaze of his making me weak.
Looks-wise? He doesn’t just tick boxes—he demolishes them.
Built like he is carved out of something solid, all thick muscle and broad shoulders.
That kind of tall that makes you want to climb him just to see what the view’s like.
Messy, sun-kissed hair, a jawline sharp enough to draw blood, and a mustache that has me begging to take for a few rides, but it isn’t just his body that sticks with me.
It is the way he carries himself—steady, quiet, but with this coiled power just under the surface.
Like he is holding back on purpose. Like if he ever lets loose, you’ll never walk straight again
And yet, he didn’t show last night. Not even a glance. It doesn’t sit right, and I hate that it bothers me, but I don’t have long to lay here and stew about it because my phone chimes with a text message from Maggie.
Family meeting. Wild Whisk in twenty minutes.
Family meeting?
Family meeting? That phrase hits like a fist. We aren’t the ‘sit down and talk’ type. Our family runs on fire and yelling, sudden calls that set your blood racing. So the knot in my stomach clenches hard, squeezing all the breath out of me.
I throw on clothes like a woman possessed, every motion sharp and frantic, driven by that twisting pit of dread curling in my gut. The unknown spreads like poison through my veins—the kind of weight that drags you under, makes your limbs heavy and your mind spin wild with questions.
Is everyone okay? Is it the baby?
I push myself harder, heart hammering, thoughts spinning too fast to catch.
When I pull into The Wild Whisk, my breath is ragged, tires screaming as I slam the brakes.
My hands shake so bad I have to grip the wheel tight to keep from losing it.
Not wasting a second, I yank the door open and step inside, the air thick with a sharp, restless energy I can’t shake.
I need answers. Fast.
“Damn, mama. What’d you say to her?” Maddox’s deep voice cut through the chaos, grounding me like an anchor. His towering frame fills the doorway, blocking out everything else.
His brow is tight, eyes sharp, flicking over me like he is trying to read the storm raging beneath my skin.
“She texted me ‘family meeting,’” I say, voice low, clipped, rattled beneath the surface. Fighting to keep the panic from bleeding through. “We don’t fucking do family meetings, Maddy.”
His expression softens as he catches the subtle tremble I am fighting to hide.
“Everyone’s okay, Little Lou. I promise,” Maddox says, voice softer than usual, like he’s doing everything he can to steady me. His hand lands firm and warm on my shoulder, giving me a nod that somehow grounds the spinning inside me.
Maggie slips up beside me, fingers gentle as she tucks my hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry, baby. Everyone’s fine. Henry called and asked me to gather everyone as quickly as I could.”
She presses a soft kiss to my forehead, then guides me inside. The diner hits me like a wave—noise and laughter and the kind of chaos only family can make.
Mercy, Vic, and Lucien are draped across the booth by the window, sprawled like they own the place—smirks and sideways glances exchanged like inside jokes. Sophie and Aunt Joe stand behind the breakfast bar, clutching their coffee mugs like lifelines, eyes flicking between the door and their cups.
At the table near the bookshelf, Evie, Charlie, Bash, and Waylon lean in close, heads huddled like they’re sharing secrets meant for no one else. Allie and Mags perch on stools at the bar, mid-gossip, their whispered words sharp and quick.
“Mama, what’d you say to her? I need that for when she’s being a super bi—”
I don’t wait for Mercy to finish. I storm over and thump him hard on the ear.
“Ouch! Mama!” he yelps, clutching his head like I just took a chunk of it.
Serves the little fucker right.
I keep walking, sliding up beside my sister and snatching the coffee right out of her hands.
“What’s going on?” I ask, voice tight.
Sophie shrugs like she’s trying to stay casual. “I’m not sure. Henry called Mags, said get everyone over here. So, here we are.”
“Yeah, you are,” Mercy drawls, swaggering over like he owns the place, elbow hitting the counter with a confident smack.
Sophie stiffens the second he’s close—like his presence sets her on edge—but that just seems to egg him on.
“And let me just say,” he grins, that smirk dangerous enough to curdle milk, “nothing makes a man believe in God like waking up and seeing you first thing, Angel.”
Sophie doesn’t even glance his way. “Then He must’ve hated you if that’s what you got blessed with.”
Mercy whistles low. “Ouch. You kiss your saints with that mouth?”
Finally, Sophie locks eyes with him, razor sharp and fearless. “Never met one, but when you find him, send him over. I’ll kiss him…with both sets of lips.”
Half the room bursts into laughter, while the other half shudders like they just got slapped. Vic’s laugh cuts through it all, loud and proud from the booth, rattling the windows. “Boy, she won that one!”
I’m caught somewhere between “What the hell just happened?” and “Please, God I don’t want to hear this ever again” when Henry stumbles in—looking like he fought a war and lost. His face is marked with scratches, raw red streaks cutting across his cheek.
Scratches? My heart lurches before my brain can stop me. I’m across the room in a heartbeat, frustration and fear knotted tight in my chest. My hand shoots up, grabbing his jaw hard, turning his face this way and that as I trace the angry lines.
“Who the fuck did this?” My voice slices through the noise, cold and sharp.
His fingers curl around mine, rough but steady, grounding me. Time slows—everything else blurs out except his eyes, flickering with something I can’t place: pain, exhaustion, something raw and unreadable. He sucks in a breath like it’s been too long since he’s had one that deep.
Then, slow and deliberate, he lifts my hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across my knuckles—the kind of touch that feels like a lifeline. The world hushes around us, everything shrinks.
A throat clears behind us, brutal and loud.
Reality slams into me like a punch. Heat burns my cheeks, scorching. I had just marched over, grabbed his face like he was mine to guard, demanded answers like I owned the damn place.
I don’t even need to glance around. Every eye in the diner is drilling into us—silent witnesses to this moment of rawness. I try to pull away, but he won’t let go. Holds my hand like he’s scared if he does, I’ll disappear. No, he knows I will.
“Louisiana,” he says, and there’s something in his voice—something frayed and raw that makes my chest ache. “There isn’t a place, a time, or a God damn version of this universe where you don’t have the right to ask. To care.”
His thumb brushes across my knuckles, slow and reverent. “I’ve been a lot of things in this life—lost, angry, broken—but I’ve only ever belonged to one place. And that’s you, wildflower.”
Those hazel eyes peel me back layer by layer—steady, unrelenting. Green ringed with the richest brown I’ve ever seen. Brown like the caramel that melts down the side of a sundae on a summer afternoon, warm and slow, sweet in a way that sneaks up on you.
Eyes that don’t just look at me—but through me. Like they’ve always known every version of me I’ve tried to hide.
“Yeah, so much so he tattooed it right on his chest all poetic and shit.”
And just like that, Mercy shatters the fragile moment. Henry releases my hand, tossing me a wink before he turns to address everyone. I slide between Evie and my sister at the breakfast bar, my face heating up as I refuse to look anyone in the eye.
He runs a tired hand through his thick hair making it stand on end. “I gathered you all here, because I’ve stumbled across…something that I’m going to need all of you for.”
Henry stands there, looking like he’s struggling to find the words.
It’s almost like something invisible is pulling him towards his mama, and he finally takes a spot beside her, leaning into the quiet support she’s always been so good at offering.
Maggie gives him a warm, reassuring smile, the kind only a mother can give, and encourages him to keep going.
He clears his throat, his voice tired as he begins. “As you can probably tell just by looking at me, I’ve had a long night. Yesterday, Cece got a call that someone stumbled across a makeshift campsite out at Bunky’s.”
The room goes still. You can almost hear everyone inhale at the same time, the tension thickening as we all remember the last time that place came up.
Then, as if she’s shining some light into the room, Evie, as always, plays the role of the God damn sun.
She sits there, unbothered, and says, “Oh, come on, you guys, it’s just a place. Right, Allie?”
Allie, ever the calm one, gives her a slight nod and a wink. “That’s right.”
Henry clears his throat, the weight behind it like a warning. “Anyways, I went out there to meet the guy who made the call, and we stumbled on…”
“On what?” Vic cuts in, asking what we’re all thinking.
Henry plants his hands on his hips, shoulders squared like he's bracing for impact. He drags in a breath, slow and jagged, like it scrapes on the way down.
“Not a what,” he says, voice hoarse. “A who.”
The room stills. Time seems to thin.
“It was a child.” His voice cracks just enough to make my stomach drop. “A little boy,” he adds, quieter now. “Living out there. Alone. In the fucking woods. Like a God damn stray.”
The words hit like a slap. No one breathes. My ears start to ring. I can feel the blood drain from my face, my fingers going numb around the edge of the counter.
Henry glances toward Charlie and Bash—and that’s when it lands. Really lands.
The room goes dead silent for a split second, the shock violent. Then all hell breaks loose.
Everyone’s shouting, overlapping, trying to process what they just heard, asking questions with no answers. The chaos is deafening, and I’m caught somewhere in the middle of it all, my heart thumping hard in my chest. But Henry doesn’t flinch—he just stands there, eyes narrowed, jaw set.
I can feel the anger crackling in the air, a storm waiting to burst. My hands ball into fists, and I’m just about to say something when Bash cuts in, his small voice silencing everyone. “Why would someone leave him out there daddy?”
It’s small. Soft. But it hits like a wrecking ball.
The room collapses into silence again, a different kind this time—heavier. Grief-laced. Shaken.
My sister finds my hand and squeezes it, and we all turn to watch Maddox push his glasses up, his face taut. He crouches down until he’s eye-level with his son.
“I don’t know, Sebastian,” he says, quiet and steady. “But how about we all take a breath and let Uncle Henry tell us a little more, alright?”
He scoops Bash up into his arms, settles beside Evie, and without a word, Charlie climbs into his lap too—curling in close like the weight of what’s just been said is too big for little shoulders to carry alone.
Then, gently but firmly, Maggie speaks. “What have you found out about him?”
“His name is Dallas Murphy. He’s nine years old. He’s run from four group homes in the last two years.”
The second Henry says it, something inside me stops.
Dallas Murphy.
Two words.
That name doesn’t just land—it detonates.
My ears ring. My heart stumbles. The room around me blurs at the edges, like I’ve stepped off solid ground and into a memory I wasn’t ready to relive.
Murphy.
My daddy’s name.
The man who smelled like cedarwood and motor oil.
Who made pancakes every Sunday and told the worst damn jokes just to hear me laugh.
He was my first safe place. My only safe place, and now that name—his name—is tied to a little boy who’s been passed around and left behind.
A boy found alone in the woods like something no one wanted.
It makes my stomach turn. Makes my chest burn.
It’s not just a coincidence. It feels like the universe reached into my ribcage and twisted as hard as it possibly could.
Dallas Murphy.
My daddy would’ve never let a kid go through that. He would’ve raised hell first. He would’ve carved a place in the world for him and guarded it with his life.
Now, I can’t unhear it. I can’t unsee the name. It keeps echoing through my skull like a cruel trick.
Dallas Murphy.
A child carrying the name of the man I loved more than anything, and the world failed him anyway.
Henry’s still talking, but it’s muffled, meaningless—until Mercy speaks up, quiet and brittle.
“So now what? He’s going right back into one of the same places he ran from?”
And then—Henry looks at me.
Dead-on.
Like he’s known from the start what this would do to me. Like he’s already made peace with the war he’s about to start.
“Not exactly,” he says, voice like iron. “He’s coming home with me.”
That one sentence cracks something open in me. Wide and deep.
Because I know exactly what that means, and I’m not ready for any of it.