Page 74 of Edge of Unbroken

I nod once. “Honestly, do what makes you happy.”

It’s truly how I feel. I want nothing more than for the people around me to be happy. I know how much everyone has had to adjust because of me, how much everyone has had to deal with, and especially the people who are closest to me. My mother was right—I’m not good enough.

***

I shut my laptop a little too forcefully after my conversation with my dad and Doctor Seivert, feeling more on edge today than I have these past couple of weeks.

When I finally trudge down the stairs, ready to resume my ranch duties, my grandfather takes one look at my face and suggests I take the truck to town for a few errands.

I don’t have to think twice, gladly taking him up on the offer to escape the house, the ranch, and my own head for a little while.

In town, I stop at John’s tack supply store to pick up some feed, as well as the small grocery store to stock up on some essentials for my grandmother. Then I pop into the hardware store for some materials Thomas asked for to begin the repairs on the barn roof after the blizzard two days ago dumped feet of snow. The heavy white blanket caused part of the roof to cave in, making three of the stalls unusable. Luckily no animals were hurt.

“Holy shit, Ronan!” a woman’s voice calls out as I make my way across the large dirt parking lot in front of the hardware store and to my truck. I turn to see Reagan—the thirty-five-year-old daughter of Sterling—leaning against the side of the building. She pushes off the wall and drops her gleaming cigarette in a puddle of dirty-looking snowy sludge where it extinguishes with a quick sizzle before she walks toward me.

“How’s it going?” I ask her as she meets up with me at my truck. I dump the materials I just acquired on the large bed.

“Better now that I ran into you.”

I raise my brows at her.

“You’re freaking heaven-sent right now,” she says in a huff.

“Why, what’s up?” I ask suspiciously. I haven’t seen Reagan in years, though by her lack of surprise at seeing me, she was obviously aware I was back in Montana. She probably heard it from her dad or whoever else is talking about my return for some odd reason.

“Follow me.” She motions for me to follow and starts marching toward Sterling’s. I hesitate, confused, then shrug internally and begin walking behind her. Once she opens the front door and I step into the dim bar, it’s immediately obvious why Reagan was so happy to see me.

Miranda is sitting at the counter, her short legs dangling off the tall bar stool as she props up her head on her elbows, her hands under her chin. One look at her and I can tell she’s in no condition to drive herself home. In fact, I’m not even sure she could walk out of here right now.

Most everyone in the small town an hour away from my grandparents’ ranch knows that Miranda and I were close growing up. I got lectured repeatedly about my friendship with Miranda whenever word of yet another instance of Miranda running away or getting herself in trouble made its way to my grandmother or mom.

“Oh no,” I mutter.

Reagan nods, making a face. “Yep. She’s been like this all afternoon. She got here as soon as we opened and, to be honest, I’m pretty sure she had been drinking even before she got here, because she hasn’t had that much here,” Reagan says. “And I don’t know Randi to be a lightweight. Anyway, I tried getting ahold of her dad, but he’s not answering his phone. And she won’t let me take her home. Absolutely refuses.” Reagan shrugs and walks back around the bar.

“I was just going to let her sober up here,” Sterling says from behind the counter, his voice a lazy drawl. “But it’s obviously not ideal. She looks like she needs to sleep this off. No way she can drive today.”

I take a few steps toward Miranda and tap her on her shoulder. “Hey Randi,” I say cautiously.

She blinks her blue eyes at me. “Rony,” she exclaims joyfully, and tries to climb off her bar stool but ends up free-falling into me.

My hands snap out to steady her. “Jesus, what the hell, Randi.” She’s completely fucked up. “How much did you have to drink?”

“I don’t know, like two beers,” she lulls. It’s pretty obvious she hadwaymore than two beers.

“Right, seems plausible.” I pull her closer to prevent her knees from giving out. Her eyes are almost completely shut, and she feels like a wet bag of sand in my arms. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

She resists me. “I don’t have a home,” she says, or at least it’s what I think she says; her speech is so slurred I have a hard time understanding her.

“What?”

“My dad kicked me out.” Her head bobs forward on her shoulders as if she has lost all muscle strength.

“When?” I try to move her arm over my shoulder and around my neck so I have a better hold on her, but she’s too damn tiny.

“Two nights ago,” she says, making no effort to stand unassisted. If I let go of her, she’d fall straight to the ground.

I frown at her statement and at how difficult it is to keep her small frame upright. She has the same stature as Cat—delicate, petite—except that Cat is quite a bit taller and reaches my shoulders easily. I’d have no issue slinging Cat’s arm over my shoulder to provide her with adequate support.

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