Page 8 of Run to Me
“You mean I didn’t obey,” I want to say, but I swallow the words. Defiance is like fuel to him, makes him go on longer, louder. Instead, I keep his gaze, showing him I’m not as easily dismissed as he thinks. I breathe through the slow burn of anger, drawing it into a tight coil inside me. He’s said these things so many times that they’re like a broken-in saddle—worn but still painful. I sit upright, holding steady, holding his gaze, letting him know I’m still here, still fighting.
“It’s not too late. Give it up before you dig yourself a hole too deep to climb out of.”
Let him think he’s won. Let him think I’ll break. My father’s never understood the strength it takes to stay, to keep trying, to hold onto something that matters.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his hands clasped as if in prayer. “Why can’t you see reason?”
I’ve heard this song before. He talks, I listen, and the room fills with everything he wishes I were instead. But what he doesn’t know, what he’ll never understand, is how much his underestimation fuels me.
“Whatever, son. Don’t expect sympathy when it falls apart.”
He stands, the scrape of his chair against the polished floor louder than any goodbye. He straightens his perfectly pressed suit, gives me one last look, a look that says he doesn’t expect to see me at this table again.
“Think about what I’ve said,” he orders, already halfway out the door.
I’m alone now. My hands unclench, leaving crescent moons in my palms. I breathe deeply, letting resolve take the place of anger. He wants me to give up. He wants me to fail. But that’s the thing about wanting. It’s got nothing on doing.
I need to get the fuck out of this suffocating house. He might think he has a hold on me, but he has another thing coming. I go over to check on Mabel. She used to work for my father until she started her own business, but ever since her husband passed away, I go over there three nights a week. Her kids don’t live close and I hate for her to get lonely.
“Looks like you are baking up a storm in here?” I take a seat at the kitchen island covered in flour just as the oven beeps.
“You’re just in time for the first batch. Gotta let them cool for a minute though.” She takes them out of the oven and sets them on a cooling rack.
Mabel moves around the kitchen with the grace of someone who knows every corner and crevice by heart. Her hands work, rolling dough, movements as gentle and steady as her voice. “Coffee, too?”
I watch as steam rises from the cup, mingling with the scent of spiced apples and cinnamon. Nothing is better than her pies. Mabel sets a plate in front of me.
“How’re things holding up?” Her back is turned as she busies herself with the next batch. There’s no rush in her voice, no demand for answers.
“Complicated.”
She turns to face me, lines of concern etched at the corners of her eyes. “Henry’s been at it again, hasn’t he?”
I nod. She knows what it’s like to deal with men like him, all control and no warmth. “He thinks I’m wasting my time. Keeps talking about my future is taking over Montgomery Ranch, but we both know that’ll never happen.”
Mabel wipes her hands and leans against the counter, the sunlight catching in her curls. “You don’t strike me as the giving-up kind, Ace. Never have been. And your father has always been one that can’t relinquish control. Not to anyone.”
There’s no judgment in her voice, only certainty. It’s the kind of certainty I wish I felt more of myself. I sip the coffee, letting it warm me from the inside, as her words do the same.
“He doesn’t think I can pull it off,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend. “He never has. Which is hilarious since he keeps bringing up our family ranch. He doesn’t think I can handle running my own but he wants me to take over for him one day. Do you see how screwed up that statement is?”
She nods. “You remember how things were after Sam passed? Folks said I’d never manage, a woman alone.” Her smile is small, filled with the memory of doubt overcome. “They said the same when I started my business. Well, I showed them, didn’t I?”
I can’t help but smile back, a little of her unshakable spirit catching on. “You sure did.”
“The way I see it, folks like Henry—they see things their own way, and they expect everyone else to do the same.”
I take a bite of pie, letting the sweetness cut through the bitterness of Henry’s words. Mabel returns to her work, rolling out another crust. The quiet stretches between us, and it’s the kind of quiet that lets me think, lets me feel.
I think about Henry, his cold certainty and his refusal to see beyond it. But mostly, I think about the ranch, and what it means to me. How it’s more than just business. How it’s legacy, and belonging, and everything I’ve worked for. Something I can build without my father’s name attached.
I finish the first slice and start on the second, the warmth filling more than just my stomach. “It’s hard,” I say, my voice steadier now. “When the person who’s supposed to believe in you never does.”
Her face softens, a flicker of sadness passing through her eyes. “It is. But sometimes the best way to prove someone wrong is to prove yourself right.” She nods toward the coffee. “A little grit, a little stubbornness. Sound familiar?”
We both laugh. “You’re right. I’ve got enough of both. Thanks, Mabel. I needed this.”
She reaches over, squeezes my hand with a touch that says more than words could. “Anytime, Ace. You know you’re always welcome here. Your father, on the other hand, I’d lock my door and pretend I’m not here. Can’t stand that man.”
