Page 13 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

Liv brushed her hand against Mo's scruff, and something in her chest loosened. "I forgot what this felt like."

"What?"

"Normal.”

Heather tilted her head. "Well, that’s us. Just normal people. And I want you to know, Liv. We’re here for you if and when you need us. Because I have a feeling you really do need us."

Liv blinked fast, her throat tight with emotion she hadn't expected. Was her fear really that obvious? "Thank you. I don't mean to be mysterious. I've just got a lot to process."

"Well, this is a good place to do that."

Late afternoon brought the hush of golden light and a faint breeze rustling through the porch screens as Liv worked in the kitchen alone. The day's breakfast rush had long passed, and lunch dishes had been washed and stacked. The only sounds came from the ticking clock and the soft hum of the walk-in fridge behind her.

Mike returned from leading a trail-ride picnic and dropped his hat on the hook near the back door, dust and sun clinging to his skin.

"You always this quiet?" he asked after a moment.

She shrugged, not sure how to answer. Olivia wasn't always so quiet. But Liv was. "I guess I'm still trying to find my feet."

"Seriously? It's been a few days. The crew likes you. Heather likes you. Arletta guards your scones like family secrets. Even Kenny hasn't glared at you today. That's basically our love language."

Liv set down her measuring cup. "I usually try to keep my life parts separated from my personal ones. Makes it easier."

Mike leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Sometimes that works. Sometimes it just makes you lonely."

Liv looked away, changed the subject. "What about you? I was told if there were any injuries in the kitchen or on the ranch that you were the guy to go to since you're a trained medic. Why aren't you a doctor?"

His expression shifted. He didn't bristle. He just... slowed.

"I thought I would be," he said after a beat. "Spent years as a combat medic. Thought that meant I'd go civilian doc after. But…" He trailed off, then shrugged. "Turns out I like patching up wounds that have ingredients. Pastry bruises. Burnt offerings. Feeding people's souls instead of just stopping the bleeding."

"That's poetic," she said softly.

Mike was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer. Careful.

"My dad used to say healers don't always wear white coats." He traced the edge of the counter with his thumb. "Sometimes they wear aprons."

Liv waited.

"He was a pastor. Preached in town every Sunday. Fished on Mondays. God was simple to him. Love harder, forgive faster, and always bring an extra plate to the table." Mike's jaw worked. "They were heading home from a youth retreat. Him, my mom, and a couple of close friends..."

He stopped. Cleared his throat.

Liv's chest ached just watching him.

"Drunk driver," he said finally. Flat. Like if he said it any other way, it might crack him open. "They didn't make it."

Liv set down the spoon she'd been holding. Her hands were shaking.

"Mike, I—" Her voice broke. She tried again. "I'm so sorry."

He nodded. Didn't look at her.

"Charlotte’s parents died, too. Jeff and Sherry. Same crash. They'd made a vow with Lyle to be godparents to each other's kids. Lyle didn't have kids, but he took his promise seriously. So now he's raising Charlotte as his own. Heather stepped in when they got married. They're a family unit now, but we like to think that Charlotte belongs to all of us."

Liv wanted to say something, anything, but nothing in her vocabulary worked for grief like that.

Mike rubbed the back of his neck. Stared at the floor.