Page 46 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike
“Bossy,” she said again, but she was already nodding, already reaching for the pistol, already feeling that new, fierce thing uncurling inside her like a banner in the wind.
That afternoon, Heather and Liv rolled up their sleeves for what Heather called "cinnamon roll therapy."
The kitchen smelled like butter and sugar and home. Flour dusted the counter. The oven hummed warm in the background.
Heather worked dough with easy, practiced hands.
“You’re good at this,” Liv said. “I thought you were more comfortable outdoors than in the kitchen."
“I learned baking from my mom," she said, voice soft. "She believed every problem in life could be handled with yeast, butter, and prayer."
“My mom wasn’t really the cozy homemaker type. But my Nana was. I learned baking from her. My parents were upper-crust society people who expected me to marry Wall Street or become corporate royalty. They weren’t exactly thrilled when I earned a scholarship to a culinary institute.” She kneaded the dough with hands that were slightly fatigued from target practice.
“Well good for you for following your dream instead of falling in line.”
“Sometimes that felt like an uphill battle. I was tossed into a world of competition and food and a whole social media world determined to judge me. And not always very nicely. I had to learn to be tough. Take care of myself because there wasn’t anyone to fall back on that wouldn’t immediately say, ‘I told you so’.”
Heather nodded, not judging. Just accepting. "I used to think surviving meant being the toughest person in the room." She paused, hands stilling. "Then I married a man who broke more than just promises. After a couple trips to the ER, I finally gathered up my courage and pride and came home. Lyle was here and showed me what healing really looked like."
Liv went quiet, hands sticky with dough.
"Sometimes you save yourself," Heather said. "Sometimes family saves you. Maybe I could have handled Brett, my ex, on my own when he came looking for me. But having Lyle and his brothers to help me fight that battle actually gave me strength."
Liv knew she was subtly telling her it was okay to lean on Mike and his family.
They worked in silence for a while, the rhythm soothing.
Then Heather said, "I need to know if you’re planning to stay.”
Liv's hands stilled in the dough.
Heather didn't look up. Just kept rolling. "Because if you’re not, I need to prepare Charlotte. She's already attached to you. And that kid's been through enough loss."
Liv's throat went tight. "I don't want to leave. It’s hard to think past the moment. I told Mike I feel absolutely irrational at times. I know it, but I can’t shake it. I really am trying. And the last thing I want to do is to hurt Charlotte."
"But you're thinking about it."
"Every day." Liv's voice cracked. "Every time someone walks in the door. Every time I hear a car on the road. I'm thinking, is this it? Is this when it all falls apart?"
Heather finally looked up. Her eyes were kind but steady. "Then let us help you stop thinking that way."
"I think you already have. The shooting practice did a lot for my self-esteem. Can’t say the same for the bruise forming on my shoulder, though.”
Heather laughed. “I’ll have Lyle bring over some horse liniment that’ll fix you right up.
At supper that evening, Lyle told a story about a cow that had kicked him into a water trough, and the kitchen filled with laughter.
Despite the ever-present threat lurking, Liv sat at the table, surrounded by noise and warmth and family, and felt something shift in her chest.
This. This was what she'd been running toward without knowing it. This was what she’d never had.
After the dishes were cleared and the others drifted off to evening chores or the living room, Mike grabbed two mugs of coffee—one black, one with vanilla creamer—and carried them out to the porch.
Liv sat on the swing, legs tucked up beneath her, sweater pulled around her shoulders against the evening chill.
Mike handed her the mug and settled beside her.
Close. Close enough that their thighs touched.
