Page 4 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

But I could still see the look on Ford’s face, the way his smile didn’t reach his eyes, the way he’d taken that punch and then laughed it off like he deserved it.

I reached my building, paused under the flickering porch light, and let my breath out in one long fog. The cold finally found me, needling up through my boots, but it felt honest at least. Something you could trust.

I let myself inside and shut out the night, but the questions followed me up the stairs.

The banister leading up to my apartment was chipped and uneven, painted over too many times by too many landlords. The pharmacy on the ground floor had a new sign, but nothing else about the building had been renovated since the eighties, I guessed.

When I unlocked my door, the first thing I heard was the soft, static-y hum of the baby monitor. Noah’s babysitter sat on my old futon, her knees drawn up under her chin, attention locked to her phone. She looked up when I came in, eyes big and guilty, like she’d been caught shoplifting.

“He was good today,” she said, as if it was a surprise. “Didn’t even fuss when I put him in pajamas.”

I peeled off my jacket and tossed it on the hook. “Thanks, Haley. Has be been out long?”

She shrugged. “Fell asleep after one book. I made mac and cheese but he only ate the cheese part and left the noodles. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, he’s picky. Thanks for trying.” I smiled, and she relaxed a little, pushing her hair out of her face. “Let me get your money,” I said, heading to my purse.

She got up and stood awkwardly by the door while I counted out the bills. “You have to work tomorrow too?” she asked.

“Just the morning,” I said, thankful it wasn’t another double shift. “He’ll go to daycare and I’ll get him after. Thanks again, Haley. See you next week?”

She nodded, already halfway down the the stairs. “Night, Miss Michaels.”

I locked up, then tiptoed down the short hallway to Noah’s room.

The nightlight washed the walls in soft blue, painting everything with a kind of peace I never managed to feel during the day.

My son lay splayed in his bed, arms up, a superhero in pajamas.

His hair curled at the temples, damp with sleep.

He made little snuffling noises with each breath, lips parted, cheeks round and flushed.

I leaned over and brushed a speck of dried cheese from his chin. He stirred, eyelids fluttering, and for a second I thought he might wake up and need me to rock him again. But he only sighed and rolled onto his side, burrowing deeper into the tangle of blanket and stuffed animals.

“Goodnight, Bug,” I whispered. I smoothed the blanket over his legs, careful not to wake him.

For a minute, I just stood there, letting myself feel all the things I tried to ignore during the day.

The smallness of the room. The echo of my own voice in the quiet.

The way my chest ached every time I realized how fast he was growing, and how much of his life I missed while I was trying to earn enough to keep us afloat.

Tuesdays were always like this—tired, and empty, and heavy. Every time I pulled a double shift I promised myself I’d make up for it on the weekend. But every weekend, the bills stacked higher, and the promises turned into more work. It never seemed to get any easier.

I sat down in the rocking chair, the one that had come with us from the old place.

I let myself sink into the worn cushions, then set the chair in motion with a gentle push from my toe.

For a while, I just listened to the hush of the room, the creak of the wood, and the slow, even breaths from Noah’s bed.

My mind drifted, as it always did, to all the things I tried to keep out. The memory of my ex-husband’s voice, low and mean. The scars on my body, white and shiny now, but still there, badges from a life I didn’t talk about.

And today, something new. The blue-eyed man with a broken face, walking Main Street like he didn’t care who saw him bleed.

I knew better than to get involved. I’d spent two and a half years building a life that was small and predictable and safe.

A life with no surprises. No risks. Just me and Noah, and the narrow path between work and home.

But my brain kept tripping over the way Ford Brooks had looked at me.

The way he smiled when I touched his arm.

The rumors that swirled around him like barn dust, thick and persistent.

I thought about what those men outside the saloon had said.

Ty Higgins. The gorge. The night that changed everything, even for people who weren’t there.

Ford’s history was none of my business, and neither was his future, for that matter.

But I hadn’t so much as looked another man in the eyes in years, let alone touched one—even as innocently as I had today.

Maybe Sutton was right. It was fine to have a little crush. The man was attractive, after all. I could just enjoy the sight of him from afar and that would be that.

But something told me even an innocent crush would be my undoing.

So I forced myself to let go of it. I hummed a lullaby, the same one I sang when Noah was just a colicky newborn, and let the sound fill the room.

I would keep my distance. I would protect myself and my boy.

I wouldn’t let the past catch up, not this time.

The nightlight flickered, casting shadows across the floor. I got up, leaned over the bed, and pressed my lips to Noah’s forehead. He mumbled, “Mama,” without waking, his breath warm and sweet on my cheek.

“We’re safe here,” I whispered.

But as I turned off the light and crept out into the hallway, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that it was a lie.