Page 6 of Peaches & Pistols

“No, baby. I’m sorry.”

Cue the tears.

Everly’s a mild-mannered child, but when she has a tantrum, I have no doubt folks a mile away know about it.

“Shh, shh, shh, baby, let’s go to the park! Mama’s done on the computer.” I wasn’t, but I am now.

“Is everything alright?” the librarian asks gently, patient empathy in every wrinkle on her face.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. She’s just a bit upset. Everything’s fine,” I try to assure the woman.

I hoist a thrashing Everly up my hip but quickly have to switch to the mom-patented football-carry. I hook the backpacks around my free wrist and rush toward the exit.

My search history is plain as day on the computer screen, but I have to get Everly outdoors and find the freaking park, stat.

Outside, the summer sun has intensified, and the later morning hour has Main Street bustling with people. Everly thrashes and accidentally knees me in my bruised hip. That does it. The last straw breaks me.

We slump to the lawn in front of the library in a tangled heap, both hysterically crying. Everly because she can’t check out a book, because I’ve taken her from her home. Me because I’ve destroyed our lives.

How is this my life? What did I do to deserve year after year of increasing suffering? Was this a mistake?

If I go back to Carter, there’ll be catastrophic consequences, and I’ll surely be housebound. But at least Everly would have her home, and her things, and normalcy. Maybe I should⁠—

“Hi.” A sweet voice cuts through our racking sobs.

The morning sun creates an iridescent halo around Izzy through my tear-blurred vision.

She sits on the grass beside us and softly rubs my back. I’m distantly grateful she’s not touching Everly.

“It’s going to be okay,” she soothes.

“How?” I sob.

“I don’t know.” Izzy chuckles. “But we’re going to figure it out together.”

“What’s your name?” she asks.

I open my mouth to say Amelia, but the only people who’ve called me that were cruel and spared no love for me. Carter. His family. My parents.

So instead, I say, “Mia.” What my sister always called me.

Her smile fills me with a feeling I’ve grown unfamiliar with.

Hope.

3

“Thanks so much, Cecelia. One of these days I’ll get my shit together and not have to lean on y’all so heavily.”

“Nonsense, that’s what family’s for.” Mrs. Andersen (or Cecelia as she insists I call her, having long given up on getting me to call her mom) graciously agreed to watch my daughter for the day. Again.

I love my daughter more than even I can comprehend, but never did I think I’d knock up a casual fling and then have the woman leave me with the child.

Now that I know Harper’s taken care of for the day, I better go check on Reid to see if he needs help with the morning chores.

Cecelia won’t let me pay her for her time, but lightening the load at the ranch is the least I can do. It’s a short trek from the main house over to the main stables, where I’m sure to find the boss man.

“About time you showed up, you lazy piece of shit,” Reid jokes, waving a filled pitchfork at me, mucking stalls first thing this morning.