Page 19 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

His thumb starts tracing the rim of his beer bottle. “I just don’t talk about her much. At least, not outside of paid sessions.”

A dry laugh escapes him. I recognise it immediately. Humour as armour. It’s what I do a lot too.

The silence stretches between us before Colt finally exhales.

“She left when I was nine.”

“Why?” My curiosity is in full swing. Classic Maeve.

He shrugs, eyes fixed on the flames. “No one ever really told me, to be honest. I’ve just pieced together what I can.”

I stay quiet, letting him fill the space at his own pace.

“Things were good before she left. She was an artist. A really good one, Maeve.” He emphasised.

Ruby Carter.

“The paintings in the hallway,” I say. “They’re hers?”

Colt nods, and for the first time since we've started talking about her, something softens in his expression. His voice is full of admiration as he continues, “Yeah. She'd paint for hours, and I'd just sit there watching her. She'd get completely lost in it. Like nothing else existed.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That's when she was happiest.”

The smile doesn't last.

“She started going away on weekends. Told me she was going to galleries to sell her work. Trying to chase her dream. I think she got tired of being Wade’s Wife,” he makes air quotes with his beer-free hand. “Gramps ended up looking after me more and more.”

The flames reflect in his wide glassy eyes. Breathing in through his nose and swallowing hard. He’s struggling, but I know from experience that letting it out, despite how hard it is in the moment, can feel like a weight has been lifted. I just listen.

“I didn't mind much. When she came back, she was always buzzing. Full of energy. Like she'd remembered who she was for a minute.” His grip tightens around the bottle. “But it never lasted. Day or two later she'd go quiet again. Almost zombie-like.”

He swallows again.

“Still, she always made time for me. Always let me sit with her while she painted. Sometimes she'd even let me help.”

The firelight dances across his face. Whatever softness had been there moments ago is gone, replaced by a tension that pulls tight at his jaw.

“Then Wade came back. He’d been gone for months, on tour, yet again.”

The bitterness catches me off guard, though maybe it shouldn't. I've noticed the strange distance between them. They talk to each other like colleagues forced to share an office. Not like father and son.

“They fought. Loud enough that even as a kid, I knew it was bad. Not loud enough that I could hear what they were saying. I just remember sitting on my windowsill watching them in the rain. She was crying. Yelling. And Wade...” He shakes his head. “He just stood there. Stone-faced. Like none of it was getting through.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, no humour in it. “I mean, you’ve probably noticed. Emotions aren’t exactly Wade’s strong suit.” His gaze drops to the bottle in his hands. “Anyway, the next morning she was gone. No goodbye. No explanation. Gramps told me it wasn’t my fault, but…”

He trails off. “She used to say I was her muse. Her little boy. Things felt ok before Wade came back. So, yeah. That’s whose fault it is.”

I blink, caught off guard by Colt’s conclusion. Wade might not be warm and fuzzy, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man to throw a woman out—especially not the mother of his child. There’s more to this story. There has to be.

But now’s not the time to dig.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

He finally pulls his gaze from the fire and meets my eyes. “I still miss her,” he murmurs. “Even after all this time. How pathetic is that?”

My chest tightens. It’s been doing that a lot since I got here, but this time I know why. I know the pain laced in Colt’s voice.

“It’s not pathetic,” I say softly. “It’s human. No matter how much someone hurt us, we still miss the pieces of them that made us feel loved. We miss the memories.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Speaking from experience?”