Page 174 of Josephine and Clay

Writing’s not my thing. Never has been. Words work better when you can throw them out fast, dress them up with a grin, make them sound less true than they are. On paper, they just sit there. No escape with charm. No way to pretend they don’t mean what they mean.

I try anyway.

I found the bank documents. The account Dad left in my name.

I stop.

My chest tightens.

Outside, the yard is washed in moonlight. The barn stands black against the sky, familiar and solid. The kind of thing that stays even when people don’t.

I look back down.

I know what it means.

The pen stills against the paper.

For a second, doubt creeps in hard enough to make my chest tighten.

Maybe I don’t know anything about it. Maybe I’ve spent weeks turning silence into proof because it hurt less than asking.

Still, I keep writing, because it’s easier than reevaluating.

He knew I’d be the one who needed help. Boone had the ranch in his bones. Dallas had the head for keeping things running. Nash always could make something out of nothing. But me? I was always the one breaking things. Running off. Making more trouble than I was worth.

My grip tightens until the pen digs into my fingers.

The words blur a little.

I blink hard.

I appreciate what he tried to do. I guess. But I don’t want it.

That line comes easier.

I don’t want money set aside because he thought I’d fail. I don’t want to be a problem everybody planned around before I even knew I was one.

I’m giving it back to you. Use it for the ranch. Put it toward repairs, feed, the dude ranch, the kids, whatever makes sense. Anything but me.

I stare at that. That about covers it.

My phone sits beside the paper, screen dark. I haven’t looked at Josie’s messages in days. There aren’t any new ones. I know because I’ve checked, and checking an absence is a pathetic kind of habit.

She let me go.

That’s what I told myself.

She stood outside that clinic with her careful face and said she hoped the circuit gave me what I was looking for.

A blessing, a goodbye, but she’d already decided not to ask for anything from me.

Smart woman.

I rub a hand over my chest.

There’s an ache there that has nothing to do with my leg and everything to do with the fact that I wanted her to stop me, which is selfish as hell.

If she had asked me to stay, I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done.