Sarah reaches across the table and squeezes my hand one more time. "We're going to get through this, Kinsley. All of it. Together."
I want to believe her. I carry my coffee cup to the sink before I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the frame. "Sarah? Thank you. For not letting me quit."
She looks up, and her smile carries a warmth that makes my chest ache. "That's what family does, honey. We don't let each other give up."
The word—family—haunts me out the door. Sarah may feel that way about me, but my heart is too flat to accept it.
Forty-Six
THAT BOY'S HURTING SOMETHING FIERCE.
KINSLEY
Papers scatter across the pine table—press releases I've rewritten a dozen times, contact lists with names that blur together, and half-formed strategies.
Martinez's office released a statement this morning presenting him as the proud future grandfather, while subtly suggesting his environmental stance might "evolve in light of family developments." The man nauseates me—using an unborn child as leverage while portraying himself as the benevolent patriarch bringing two families together. Meanwhile, the ranching community buzzes with speculation about the timing, wondering if Wyatt's relationship with the senator's daughter was strategic all along.
My phone buzzes again. Another reporter wanting comment or another political contact feigning concern whilefishing for details. I should answer. I should be doing damage control. Instead, I stare at the screen until it goes dark and then toss it aside.
Jessica's been sleeping here since the party, her presence both comforting and suffocating. Brook keeps bringing casseroles I can't stomach, and Hailey's scrubbed my skin so many times I feel as raw on the outside as I do on the inside.
Even Kit stopped by to tell me that her brother was a world class jerk and an idiot who wouldn’t know a good thing if it smacked him in the face. Then she told me I should try that and see if it knocked some sense into him. I think she was trying to get a laugh out of me. Or maybe she was serious—I’m not sure.
I told Sarah I would see this through. I promised I wouldn't quit. I just don’t have any more gas in the tank.
Janet Morrison's name lights up the screen. I almost let it go to voicemail but I’m curious about how Jake is doing. Technically, he’s Wyatt’s friend so Wyatt gets him in the breakup. But I liked Jake, and I want to know how his recovery is going.
I reach for the phone.
"Janet, hi." I clear my throat, trying to sound like the competent professional she met in Jackson Hole instead of the heartbroken woman currently wearing yesterday's clothes and questioning every decision that brought me to this moment.
"Kinsley, honey, I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time." Janet's voice carries the warm efficiency of a woman who runs county commission meetings and probably half the volunteer organizations in her town. "I wanted to call and thank you for those water rights resources youpromised. The information you sent was exactly what we needed."
Something tight in my chest loosens slightly. "You've already started reviewing them?"
"Started? Girl, I’m knee-deep in the application process. My assistant and I spent last week going through the materials you sent over." Janet's enthusiasm burns through my self-doubt, bright as sunlight breaking through the clouds. "We should have our preliminary application submitted by next Friday."
The part of me that remembers being good at this work sighs with relief.
"That's wonderful news, Janet. Really." I find myself sitting up straighter. "The timing should work well with the federal budget cycle. How’s Jake healing up?”
Janet sighs. “All he talks about is how good he’s going to do in Vegas. You’d think he’d learn that he’s not invincible.”
I gulp at the mention of the National Finals Rodeo. I was supposed to be there with Wyatt. “It’s good to hear that he’s still Jake.”
She chuckles. "Kinsley, I hope you don't mind me saying this,” her voice shifts, taking on the careful tone of someone approaching delicate territory, “but it's a shame things didn't work out between you and Wyatt."
News travels fast in the western world—I know this. But this fast?
"How did you…?” The words stumble out before I can stop them.
"Oh, honey," Janet says gently, "Wyatt talked to Jake. That boy's hurting something fierce."
My grip tightens on the phone. Everyprofessional instinct screams at me to redirect the conversation, to protect what's left of my privacy. But the desperate, heartbroken woman living in my heart is starving for any scrap of information about him.
How is he handling all this? Is he eating? Does he hate me for not fighting for him?
The questions claw at my throat, begging to be asked, but I swallow them down like bitter medicine. I can't ask. I have no right to ask. There wasn’t a choice to make.