Page 43 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Twenty-Four

Ford

T he sky over Whittier was a flat gray, no drama, just a dull, wet threat that never got around to raining. I let the heater blast until my eyes watered. Every time I passed another mailbox, the old dread rolled higher up my spine.

My parents’ house waited at the end of a long gravel drive.

My father never fixed the ruts, just let the winter chew them deeper until you had to pick a wheel rut and pray you didn’t bottom out.

The porch light was on, even though it was two in the afternoon.

The siding was the same faded blue, but the porch swing hung twisted, one chain snapped so it lurched like a broken limb.

I parked behind my father’s old pickup, and headed up the steps. No introspection this time. I had something to do.

The screen door squealed when I pushed it open. The main door was unlocked, just like always.

From the entryway, I heard the low hum of the oxygen machine, a mechanical wheeze, in and out, like the world’s laziest vacuum. It was so loud in the quiet that it took me a second to hear the shuffling of my mother’s slippers as she moved around.

She was in her chair by the window, an ancient recliner with patches sewn into the arms, a quilt spread over her lap. The oxygen tank had a long green hose snaking up to her nose. It was nice to see her out of the hospital bed, but I wasn’t too sure it was a good idea by the look of her.

She looked smaller than last time, if that was possible.

Thinner, skin loose over her bones and colorless, like someone had swapped her out for a faded photocopy and hoped I wouldn’t notice.

Her hair was pulled back in a hasty braid, more gray than not.

The moment she saw me, her face went soft, and I felt something in my chest cave in a little.

“Ford,” she said, her voice two sizes too small.

I stood at the threshold, hands jammed in my pockets, boots rooted to the tile. I hated this feeling—like I was a stranger in the only place I’d ever felt at home.

“Hi, Mom,” I managed. “You look . . . tired. You getting enough rest?”

She smiled, which made her look worse, honestly. More skull than woman.

“‘fraid that’s all I do these days, honey.”

I stepped into the living room and sat on the couch, directly across from her. The TV was on, muted, rolling a loop of local news headlines that nobody cared about.

She tugged at the oxygen line, then gestured at me. “How’s Chickadee comin’ along?”

“Real nice.”

She nodded, like that was all the information she needed. “Heard your name was on the radio. That podcast. They were saying terrible things about you.”

I looked away, focusing on the ruined swing outside. “It’s not all lies. Not all truth, either.”

She adjusted the quilt on her lap, eyes flicking to the TV and back.

“You want coffee?” she asked suddenly. “I made a fresh pot.”

“I’m good,” I said. “Thanks.”

She looked at me, then at the floor. “You got taller than you were the other week?”

“I was always tall.”

She smiled at her own lap, the quilt bunched tight in her fist. “Not like this. You look strong now.”

There were a thousand things I wanted to say, and none of them made it past my teeth.

“Mom, why didn’t you ever leave?” I blurted.

Her face went blank, like I’d hit her with a bucket of ice water.

She stared at her hands. The silence stretched.

“Who would have taken care of him?” she said, barely a whisper. “You know how he is.”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I pressed my palms into my knees so hard it hurt. “He didn’t deserve it.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t do it for him. I did it for you.”

I laughed, but it sounded like choking. “You did it for me?”

Her eyes snapped up, clear and furious for just a second.

“If I left, he’d have blamed you. I tried once, when you were little.

He found us at my sister’s place before I even got you out of the car seat.

Broke my arm and made me crawl back. You don’t know what he’s like when he really wants something. ”

I swallowed, bile burning my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She reached out, her hand shaking, and I hesitated before I took it. Her skin was like paper, blue veins showing through. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “You got out. That’s what matters.”

“I could take you with me now,” I said. “I could set you up anywhere. With me at Chickadee. Or somewhere nice, with real doctors.”

She squeezed my hand, but there was no hope in her eyes. “You know I can’t leave. This is all I’ve got. It’s my home.”

I wanted to argue, to plead, but the truth hung between us. Some people are born stuck. I thought of Lily, in such a similar position, and how she clawed her way out for the sake of her son. I couldn’t reconcile the difference.

The TV screen flickered, drawing her attention. She stared at it for a minute, then said, “They’re still talking about that boy. The one who died in the creek.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“They’re saying it was your fault.”

I nodded. “I know.”

She looked back at me, her eyes dark and bottomless. “Was it?”

The oxygen machine wheezed, ticking over the seconds.

I sat there, holding her hand, watching the clouds crawl across the sky outside.

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. Not for her.

Not for myself. Maybe for the kid I used to be, who thought everything could be fixed with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers.

We sat like that until the front door slammed, hard enough to rattle the glass in the windows. My mother flinched, her hand going rigid in mine. The old feeling of dread returned, thick and cold and alive.

He was home.

I stood up, every muscle in my body ready for a fight.

My mother pulled her hand away, settling it back on the quilt. Her face closed up, every line hardened by years of practice.

She didn’t say another word, and neither did I.

The next round was about to begin.

He came in like a storm front—boots thudding, keys dropped so hard on the counter they left a dent, the wet stink of cigarettes and last night’s whiskey rolling off him in waves.

My father was a big man, always had been, but years of drinking and ranch labor had settled him into a swollen, heavy shape, muscles gone to seed.

His hair was cut with kitchen shears, skin cracked and gray where the sun never touched it.

He wore the same work coat he’d had since before I left, stained and shiny at the elbows.

He took in the room in a single glance. The way he looked at me was the same way he’d look at a busted fence or a rabid dog—nothing but contempt and a little bit of boredom.

He ignored my mother, made straight for the whiskey on the little bar cart, spinning the top open with a practiced thumb. He downed three gulps of it before he even shrugged off his coat.

“Didn’t know we were expecting company,” he said, not bothering to look at me.

I stood, blocking the gap between him and my mom.

He grunted and pushed past me, using his shoulder, like I was just another piece of furniture.

I turned, refusing to let him get away with it. “I came to talk to you.”

He lowered himself into the recliner, which groaned in protest. He set the beer on the side table and turned on the TV, immediately flipping to the news. He kept the volume low, but loud enough to be a constant presence, his own soundtrack of chaos.

He didn’t look at my mother. Didn’t ask about how she was feeling or the trembling in her hands as she picked at the quilt. He just stared at the screen, waiting for me to make the first move.

So I did.

“What happened that night? With Ty?”

That got his attention. He turned to me, slow, a smile creeping over his face.

“Listen to yourself,” he said, grinning. “Playing detective, Ford? You always were a nosy little shit.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What is it this time? You mad I drank your inheritance away? Or are you just here to show off that you can finally grow a beard?”

I didn’t flinch. “You were at Sucker Creek the night Ty Higgins died. You were the first one there.”

He laughed, a short barking sound. “I lived three miles from there, dumbass. The whole town was ‘first on scene’ when someone drove into the damn creek.”

I stepped closer. “Your name was in the witness statements. Some of them were written before the night was even over.”

He waved me off, reaching for his beer. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid. People love gossip but no one cares ‘bout Higgins anymore.”

He was lying. I could see it in the way he wouldn’t look at me. The way his thumb kept worrying the label off the bottle.

“Why were you at the creek that night?”

He shook his head, that fake sadness plastered on his face. “It’s not a crime to help the law go a little smoother. I did what any decent citizen would.”

He glared at me, and for a second, I saw the old violence there. The same look that used to precede a belt across the mouth or a fist to the solar plexus.

“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I said, my voice raw.

He snorted. “You always were a bad liar.”

He stood, towering over me, and for a second, I felt that old animal terror. But I didn’t move. I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

He stepped closer, beer in hand, breath sour. “You got a lot of nerve, coming into my house, disrespecting your mother like this.”

My mother’s voice, small and desperate, cut through the tension. “Don’t, Waylon. Please. Just—don’t.”

He didn’t even turn. “Stay out of it.”

I took another step, now close enough to see the broken capillaries in his cheeks, the lines on his knuckles where the skin never quite healed. “You covered for him, Mom. For years. Why?”

She started to cry, the sound barely more than a whisper.

My father smirked. “She’s got sense, that’s why. Knows what happens when you go blabbing to people who don’t need to know.”

I felt something snap inside me. “That’s what you told Ty, right? That he should mind his own business?”

The smile vanished. He set the beer down, slow and deliberate.