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This time, he doesn’t look back.
I spent months terrified that this moment would come. I imagined him leaving me so many times that eventually I convinced myself the only way to survive it was to make certain he never could.
I was wrong.
Watching him walk away hurts more than I imagined it would, but I remain where I am. If Boone ever comes back to me, I want the man who argued with me, laughed in my greenhouse, and planted a cherry pit because he believed something could grow from it. I want him angry and stubborn and impossible, not quiet because I finally taught him there was no point in fighting.
Wanting Boone is no longer enough when keeping him this way slowly depletes everything that makes him who he is.
I turn my horse toward the village and ride away.
30
Boone
It smells the same.
That’s the first thing I notice when I step through the door and stand just inside the house I’ve spent months imagining. Woodsmoke lingers in the air despite the warmth outside, dried herbs hang from the beam near the kitchen, and under everything is that familiar earthy scent that has always clung to our home no matter how often my father and I scrubbed the floors.
For months, I was terrified I’d forget it.
The second thing I notice is that everything looks better than I expected. Fresh wood is stacked neatly beside the stove instead of the handful of pieces we usually kept there. Through the window I can see an even larger pile against the side of the house. There’s a loaf of bread sitting on the table beside a crock of butter, and a basket holds several potatoes and onions that would have once been carefully rationed.
My gaze moves slowly over everything, eventually stopping on the rocking chair beside the window.
It moves gently back and forth.
“Dad?” I say quietly.
The rocking stops, and my heart seems to stop with it. Nothing happens for several seconds. Then my father grips the wooden arms of the chair and pushes himself carefully to his feet. He’s facing the window at first, but then he turns toward me.
“Boone?”
My name breaks in the middle, and he takes a single step.
I close the distance between us.
My arms wrap around him so hard that he stumbles backward, and for one terrible second, I’m afraid I’ve hurt him. Then his arms close around me just as tightly, one hand grabbing a fistful of my shirt while the other presses against the back of my head and holds me against his shoulder.
“Dad.”
“Oh, Boone.”
Whatever I’ve been holding back since I came through the door is suddenly impossible to contain. A sob tears out of me, and I cling to him. I feel each uneven breath where his chest meets mine.
When something warm touches my neck, I realize he’s crying too.
“My boy,” he whispers, moving his hand over the back of my head again and again. “My beautiful boy.”
“I missed you.”
“I thought you were dead.”
His voice disappears on the final word, and my arms tighten around him until there’s no space left between us.
“I thought about you every day,” I manage. “Every single day.”
He pulls back, but only far enough to see me, and his hands immediately move to my face. His palms cup my cheeks. His eyes travel over every inch of me. He pushes my hair away from my forehead, touches my jaw, then runs his hands over my shoulders, needing more than the sight of me to believe I’m actually standing here.
