Page 78 of Ride Me Reckless
I took a few steps away, my boots crunching over scorched gravel and bits of broken siding. The place was unrecognizable, and yet… I saw everything.
The outline of the living room was still visible in the concrete slab, the space where Mom’s old armchair used to sit. The front window had collapsed inward during the fire, but the frame still stood, charred black. I could almost picture her there on a Sunday morning, sipping coffee, her hair twisted up in a messy bun, the sunlight pouring in.
My chest tightened as I stepped through what used to be the front door.
The stairs had been there, just to the left. Now all that remained was a shadow in the soot where the wood had collapsed. At the top had been my room—the walls had been covered in magazine clippings and old ribbons from barrel races when I was just a kid.
I walked deeper into the skeleton of the house.
Here, the alcove where Mom kept her teacups—each one picked up from a flea market or garage sale, all mismatched and chipped, but displayed like fine china.
And there—the old window seat. I used to curl up there with a book and a blanket, pretending I lived somewhere more exciting.
Back then, I couldn’t wait to leave.
Now, all I wanted was to bring a piece of it back.
“You alright?” Colt’s voice broke through gently behind me.
I nodded without turning. “I just needed to see it.”
The adjuster called out that he was finished, and we walked back together to the truck.
He flipped through a thin stack of papers clipped to a metal clipboard. “Ms. Walker, I’ve submitted the final report to the office, but I wanted to go over the numbers with you in person.”
I braced myself.
“Your mother’s policy was significantly outdated. The coverage will fall short based on the square footage, current material costs, and location. I’d estimate you’ll receive a payout that’s maybe—maybe—half of what you’d need to rebuild something comparable.”
I swallowed hard. “What about the land?”
He shook his head. “It’s remote. No city utilities. No existing structures now. It holds some value, sure, but not a lot. You could try to sell it, but I doubt you’d get more than a few thousand.”
Colt asked a couple of practical questions—about additional paperwork, timeline for payments, things I couldn’t make my brain hold onto.
When the adjuster finally closed his folder and said he’d be in touch, I thanked him politely, nodding like a woman who hadn’t just been gut-punched.
He drove off in a puff of dust, and I stood there staring at the empty space where a home used to be.
“I thought it’d be more,” I said quietly.
Colt slipped his hand into mine. “You weren’t wrong to hope.”
I nodded, blinking hard. “But it doesn’t change anything, does it?”
He squeezed my hand. “No.”
I looked out across the land, flat and scrubby, with a few tired cottonwoods leaning against the sky. It wasn’t much. It never had been. But it was hers.
“It’s not about the house,” I whispered. “It’s about what she remembers. And what she’s already forgotten.”
Colt turned toward me then, his voice steady but quiet. “Tess… I know it’s not what you want to hear, but we could sell it. Put the money toward something she could use now. A place with care staff. Somewhere close. Comfortable.”
I shook my head slowly, not angry—just… not ready. “Not yet.”
He nodded, like he expected that answer. Then added, “If she does want to rebuild... I’ll cover the rest. Whatever the insurance doesn’t pay—I’ve got it.”
I blinked up at him, stunned for a moment. “Colt…”
