Page 116 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Ruby folds herself into the back seat and sits there, staring at her hands in her lap. I lean down to the window before it closes.

“Get some help,” I say. “I mean it. Not for me. For you.”

She doesn't answer, but I pray she listens. The window slides up, and the car pulls away. I stand there, watching the taillights disappear until there's nothing left but the empty lot.

I walk back through the front doors of The Lone Coyote, standing at the threshold to scan around. The night has carried on without us. The music is still loud, the crowd still rowdy, the whole bar carrying on with their evening.

I find Maeve near the bar.

Her arms are folded tight across herself, perched on a barstool, eyes moving over the crowd but never settling. She keeps rubbing at her wrist, skin gone red from it, working at it like she can rub the night away if she's persistent enough. She’strying to hold herself together. I can see it.

“Maeve.”

She spins around, sliding off the stool. I close the distance without thinking, reaching for her in that way I’ve been able to for these past six months. I just want to comfort her. Tell her this isn’t on her. Because I know Maeve, and I know exactly where her mind is right now.

Maeve steps out of my reach. Her head shakes slightly as those blue eyes I’ve come to memorise start to glaze over.

I drop my hands. The space between us feels enormous, despite it being only a few steps.

“It ain’t your fault, angel,” I say quietly. “None of it. It’s mine. I started this mess, and I should’ve handled it a long time ago.”

Maeve looks like she doesn’t know how to approach me, and her voice comes out so careful it hurts to hear. “Are you okay?”

Damn this woman.

After everything tonight. After being dragged through every ugly piece of my drama, she’s still standing here asking if I’m alright.

“No,” I admit. No point dressing it up, not with her at least. “No, I’m not.”

She holds my gaze for a moment before dropping her eyes to the floor. “I should go…”

She turns, but I reach for her before I can stop myself, catching her hand long enough to make her pause. I can see the blame she’s putting on herself, the way she’s holding her breath, waiting for my next move.

“Please, Maeve. Talk to me.”

Iris appears at Maeve's shoulder, her purse hanging from one hand. She gives me a look that's part sympathy, part warning. “Maybe not tonight, Wade,” she says softly.

My eyes have not left Maeve’s; I’m waiting for something, anything that tells me this isn’t as bad as it feels. But when she finally looks away, the ache in my chest sharpens. For a second, I think she might turn back, but Iris guides her away from the bar, disappearing through the door moments later.

I drag a hand down my face. If I stay here another minute, I'm going to come apart where everyone can see.

The ranch is a ghost town by the time I get home.

I turned down the lift back with the others and chose to walk instead. I needed it. Needed the cold air in my lungs and the quiet around me so I could be alone with my thoughts.

My phone has been in my hand for most of the walk. Maeve’s messages are open. I keep scrolling back through them slowly, dragging all the memories back up, trying to dull this burning dread that’s been sitting in my chest since the parking lot situation.

I hold onto all the small moments together. The ones that were just ours. When we could pretend the world didn’t exist. It’s only been a week, and I already miss all of it. The teasing. The check-ins. The way she’d know I was having a bad daybefore I ever said a word.

I can't remember exactly when it stopped feeling temporary. Just know that somewhere along the way, she stopped feeling like someone passing through and started feeling like someone who belonged. Not just in the house, not just on the ranch. In my life.

And now it’s over.

I swipe off the screen, and Colt’s name sits underneath hers, making my chest pull tighter for the hundredth time tonight. Tonight has probably taken whatever chance I still had and absolutely disintegrated it. Still, I’ve got to keep trying. Because he’s my son—blood or not—and he is going to need to be reminded that now more than ever.

I type. Delete it. Type again several times before finally forcing myself to hit send.

Wade: I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, and I understand that. I’m sorry. For all of it. I’ll give you space if that’s what you need, but I’m here when you’re ready. Love you, son.