68 "home"

I woke up with my head pounding and my mouth tasting like regret.

Sunlight leaked through the thin curtains of the trailer, too bright, too honest. My body felt heavy, like gravity had doubled overnight. For a few seconds I didn't remember why my chest hurt so bad—then it all came crashing back.

The yelling.The hitting.Patsy's face in the doorway.

I bolted upright.

"Patsy?" My voice was rough, barely there.

She was curled up beside me, still asleep, her small hand fisted in the hem of my shirt. Relief flooded me so hard I had to press my palm to my mouth to keep from crying again. I brushed her curls back gently, careful not to wake her.

"I'm so sorry, baby," I whispered, even though she couldn't hear me.

My head throbbed worse when I stood. Every step felt like punishment. I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sink—puffy eyes, dried tear tracks, a woman I barely recognized. I looked like someone who'd lost a war.

Coffee. I needed coffee. Or water. Or forgiveness. Something.

As I poured a glass of water, I noticed the quiet. No boots outside. No chair on the porch. No Jimmy.

That shouldn't have hurt—but it did.

Patsy woke up not long after, groggy but calm. Kids are resilient like that, and somehow that made it worse.

"Morning, Mama," she said softly.

"Morning, angel." I knelt to her level. "You okay?"

She nodded, studying my face like she was trying to read something. "You sad?"

The question nearly broke me.

"I was," I admitted. "But I'm okay now."

She considered that, then hugged me around the neck. "I don't like when people yell."

"I don't either," I said, holding her tight. "I'm gonna do better. I promise."

She accepted that the way children do—with quiet trust that adults don't always deserve.

Later, when I stepped outside, the porch was empty. Jimmy's chair was gone. No beer can. No sign he'd been there at all, like the night had erased him on purpose.

Part of me was relieved.

Part of me felt hollow.

At work, people spoke softly around me. Emily didn't look at me. Didn't come near me. That was fine—I wouldn't have known what to say anyway. There was nothing left that wouldn't hurt.

I went through the motions. Fed horses. Cleaned stalls. Did my job the way I always had—steady, quiet, pretending I wasn't unraveling inside.

Jimmy wasn't there.

I didn't ask why.

By the end of the day, my hangover faded but the ache stayed. The kind that doesn't come from alcohol, but from loving the wrong people in the wrong order.

That night, after Patsy was asleep, I sat alone on the steps of the trailer and stared out at the dark.

I'd ended things. Loudly. Cruelly. Drunk.

And even though I knew I'd done it because I was hurt—because I'd been blindsided—I also knew I couldn't take it back.Some doors close no matter how badly you want to knock. And all I could do was sit there, sober now, and live with the sound of it shutting.

I was sitting on the steps when Travis pulled up. I hadn't heard his truck at first—just felt it, the way you feel weather changing. Gravel crunched, engine idled, then shut off. I didn't look up right away. I didn't have it in me to read another face."Well," he said carefully, like he was approaching a skittish horse. "You look like hell mouse!" That got a breathy laugh out of me. "Feels about right."He leaned against the railing, arms crossed, quieter than I'd ever known him to be. No jokes. No swagger. Just Travis, stripped down to something real.

"I didn't come to bust your chops," he said. "I came because you deserve to know some things." I finally looked at him. "Okay."He nodded once, like he was bracing himself. "Your dad was elected."My stomach dropped. "Elected...?"

"Governor," he said. "Landslide. Inauguration's in a few days."

Governor?The word echoed in my head, bouncing off old memories and old wounds. My father. Power. A crowd watching him swear something he'd never once sworn to me—protection."I didn't know," I said quietly."I figured." He shifted his weight. "Jamie running was one thing. But John? He didn't do that without meaning it."I swallowed hard, eyes burning. "Thank you for telling me."There was a pause. Then his voice softened even more. "About last night."

My shoulders tensed.

"Word travels," he said carefully. "People heard yelling. Saw things. I'm not naming names, but... some of the hands are upset. Not at you. Just—upset."I stared out at the dirt road, Patsy's toy truck abandoned near the steps. "She saw it."Travis winced. "Yeah. That's what I was afraid of." Silence settled between us, heavy and honest."Willie," he said finally, "I've watched you for three years. You've done right by that kid every single day. You built something here...but that don't mean it's where you're meant to stay."I shook my head. "This is all she knows.""And Montana's your home," he replied gently. "Whether you want to admit it or not."I laughed without humor. "Home hasn't exactly been kind to me.""No," he agreed. "But it's still yours. And Patsy's got a grandfather there whether you like him or not. Family. Roots."I wiped at my eyes before the tears could fall. "My truck wouldn't even make it halfway."

"That's what I came to say." He straightened. "I'm heading to the Duttons anyway. Celebration, speeches, all that nonsense. I'll haul your trailer. You and Patsy ride with me or drive separate. your call."I stared at him, stunned. "Travis... that's too much."He shook his head. "It's not enough. But it's what I can do."The tears came then, quiet and unstoppable. I pressed my lips together, breathing through it, refusing to break all the way."Thank you," I whispered. "For the job. For looking out for us. For... not giving up on me."He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with gratitude. "Hell, mouse. You're family whether you like it or not."I nodded, heart aching, hope and fear twisting together in my chest."Okay," I said finally. "We'll go."He smiled then—not cocky, not loud. Just proud. "Good. We leave tomorrow."After he drove off, I stayed on the steps a long time, watching the sun climb higher.Montana was calling again.And this time, I wasn't running from it.