Page 70 of Not This Place

"Hard," Rachel said, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Lonely. You learn to rely on yourself. To not get in anyone's way."

Her words fell with a starkness, each one chiseled from the granite of her past. Ethan absorbed them, understanding the landscape she described without embellishment or evasion.

The bartender set down fresh drinks, the sound jarring in the cocoon of their exchange. Rachel picked up the new glass, the cool liquid a contrast to the heat that seemed to radiate from within her as she dredged up old memories. She took a slow, measured sip, the alcohol a momentary balm to the sting of the past.

Rachel's eyelids fluttered shut, a brief barrier against the world. Her breath hitched. "Lonely," she whispered, her voice a thread of sound in the dimness of the bar. "Sad." The words were doors opening to rooms long closed. "I missed my mother." Admitting it felt like breaking a seal on an old wound.

Her fingers traced the condensation on her glass, drawing invisible patterns. She exhaled a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. They shimmered with unshed tears, reflecting the scant light from above.

"Mom had warmth like Texas sun," Rachel said, her voice barely above the background murmur. "Dad, he was the laughter. Their absence... it left silence. Cold." She paused, her throat tightening.

"Christmas," she started again, the memory surfacing clear and stark. "We'd string lights, bake cookies. They'd sing carols off-key. Made it feel alright that we had little else." Her gaze drifted into the middle distance, lost in the past.

"Then one year, no lights. No cookies. No songs." A single tear breached her defenses, trailing down her cheek. "Just quiet. So much quiet." Her hand shook as she lifted the drink, the ice clinking like a chime in the stillness.

Ethan leaned forward, the wood of the bar creaking under his weight. His hand found its way across the rough surface, stopping just short of Rachel's own trembling fingers. The gesture was silent, a wordless offer of solidarity in the face of her pain.

"Rachel," he said, his voice low and steady. Each syllable was a brick, building a shelter for her grief.

She blinked, the motion pushing another tear down her cheek. She didn't brush it away. It felt like a betrayal to wipe the evidence of her heartache as if it were nothing but an annoyance.

Ethan nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. Concern etched lines into his forehead, a map of his own unease with seeing her so vulnerable.

"Anything you need," Ethan said. His hand inched closer, bridging the last gap until his fingers brushed hers. Heat from his skin seeped into her cold fingertips.

Rachel allowed the contact, the warmth a small anchor in the tumult of her emotions. She took a deep breath, the air filling her lungs like ballast, steadying her.

Her lips parted, then closed. Words were there, teetering on the brink, but silence held. Instead, she squeezed his hand, an acknowledgment of his support.

She leaned over, and this time, with a genuine sigh, she said, "I'd love to meet your family, Ethan."

The silence lingered again. Thoughts lifted like mist in the silence. She considered these words, her eyes narrowing. And for a brief instance, her mind drifted away to another space.

There was another person she wanted to meet.

The man who’d taken a shot at her aunt. At her. Joseph White Cloud was in prison, now.

And it was high time she go speak with him.

But for the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to separate from Ethan’s side.

She let out a slow exhale, reclining her head against his shoulder.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The steel door clanged shut behind Rachel Blackwood, the echo bouncing off the stark concrete walls of the prison corridor. A guard, face as impassive as the grey slabs surrounding them, motioned her forward. Each step was deliberate, her boots thudding against the dull sheen of the floor, a rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. She knew these visits were never easy, never without risk.

Rachel entered the interview area, a room barren but for the table and chairs bolted to the ground. Cold fluorescent light washed over everything, casting hard shadows that seemed to slice the space into sharp segments. The air was stale, heavy with the burden of countless desperate conversations that had previously hung in this very room.

Across from her, Joseph White Cloud sat cuffed to the table. Anger etched deep lines around his mouth, his eyes narrow slits that fixed on Rachel with unbridled fury. His jaw was clenched so tight, it looked as if it might snap.

"Ranger Blackwood," he spat out her title like venom. His voice, a low growl, filled the room with its menace.

"Joseph," Rachel acknowledged, her tone even. She took measured steps toward the opposite chair, the sound of her movements sharp in the charged silence.

She pulled out the cold metal chair, the screech it made against the floor a harsh interruption to the tense quiet. Sitting down, Rachel placed her hands flat on the table, her posture straight, eyes locked onto his.

Joseph's breath came in short, controlled bursts, his nostrils flaring slightly with each inhalation. Despite the handcuffs, he radiated danger, a palpable force that seemed to press against the walls of the room, seeking escape.

---