Page 152 of Role Play
“Guilty?” I prompt, as I sprinkle the sugar in, more and more, until Boone nods in approval that it’s enough.
“For not being here.” Boone stirs the chili, his movements methodical, almost meditative. A lock of silver hair falls across his forehead, and he brushes it back with the back of his wrist, leaving a smudge of chili powder that I don’t have the heart to point out. “Always was too hard on himself.”
I watch the chili change colors before my eyes. Bright red from the tomato sauce, turning into a rich amber as the spices marinate. “He mentioned the ranch has been struggling.”
“Has its challenges,” Boone admits, a shadow crossing his face. He looks down at the pot, avoiding my eyes for a moment. I suspect he’s not accustomed to discussing the ranch’s financial realities with strangers, but after a moment, he continues. “But it’s not his cross to bear. I always wanted more for Forrest.”
“Columbia Law?”
Boone nods, a flicker of pride lighting his eyes and straightening his posture. “Supported him going to that fancy-pants law school.” His mouth quirks up in an almost-smile. “Couldn’t have been prouder when he got in. I couldn’t do much in the way of paying for it, but my boy figured it out.” He pauses, watching his son through the window as Forrest kneels to examine a section of fence, his shoulders squared against the November chill. “Still am proud of him. Not because he’s some hotshot city guy, but because of what a good dad he is. Better than me.”
The sincerity in his voice touches something deep in my chest, and I find myself blinking back unexpected tears. This man, with his coarse hands and sparse words, loves his son with a quiet fierceness.
“He is amazing with Dakota,” I say softly.
“Puts her first, always.” Boone tastes the chili with a small spoon, considers, then adds another whisper of cinnamon. “That’s what matters.” He taps the spoon against the pot’s rim twice, a gesture I’ve noticed he repeats often, like a small ritual. “Nothing more important in this world than being there for your kids.”
I think about Forrest’s devotion to his daughter, the way he restructured his entire life to accommodate her needs. The way he lights up when she enters a room. The way he quit his job the moment he realized it might jeopardize his chance at building something real with me—with us.
Dakota appears at the window, face pressed against the glass, her breath creating a small foggy circle. She waves enthusiastically, then disappears again in a blur of pink jacket and bouncing blond curls. Boone watches her go, his expression soft with a joy that transforms his usually stern features.
“I’m a little nervous, to be honest,” I admit, surprising myself with the confession. The words tumble out, encouraged perhaps by the calm presence of this man who listens more than he speaks.
“About what?” Boone asks, reaching for the salt and adding a pinch more to the pot.
“About my role in Dakota’s life,” I say, focusing on stirring the chili to avoid his gaze. “Being with Forrest means being with Dakota, and while I’m completely on board with that, I sometimes feel…ill-equipped.”
“How so?” Boone pivots to face me fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His stance is relaxed, but his eyes are attentive, missing nothing.
“I don’t have much experience with kids.” I set the spoon down, fidgeting with a dish towel instead. “I’m an only child. My best friend is childless. I’m doing my best, but what Forrest has with Dakota is instinctual. Maybe something that only happens if it’s your own kid, you know? What if I’m not the mom to her he expects me to be?”
The last part comes out in a rush, giving voice to fears I hadn’t fully acknowledged even to myself. In my novels, I can revise any scene, delete any misspoken word. Real life offers no such safety net. If there’s one thing that would make Forrest walk away, it’s me screwing up with Dakota.
Boone considers this for a moment, then gestures for me to sit at the kitchen table. His face is thoughtful, the lines around his mouth deepening as he presses his lips together, formulating his response. After lowering the heat under the chili, he joins me, the wooden chair creaking slightly beneath his weight.
“Let me tell you about Forrest’s mom,” he begins, folding his hands on the aged wooden surface. His knuckles are enlarged from years of hard work, and a faded scar runs across the back of his left hand. His wedding ring is still there, a plain gold band worn thin by time.
I lean forward, hungry for these pieces of Forrest’s history that he rarely shares. It feels like a treasure, Boone entrusting me with his past, with the story that shaped his son.
“Marnie was a firecracker. Beautiful, wild, full of big dreams.” His eyes take on a faraway look, and for a moment, I can see the young man he once was, captivated by a woman who burned too bright to stay. “I fell for her hard and fast.”
The kitchen seems to recede as he speaks, his deep voice painting pictures of a younger Boone and the woman who captured his heart—dark-haired Marnie with her restless spirit and city dreams that couldn’t be contained by the vast Wyoming horizon.
“Problem was, she got cabin fever something fierce.” He runs a thumb over the scuffed edge of the table, tracing a pattern only he can see. “Life on a ranch wasn’t enough for her. She wanted to travel, explore, live more…extravagantly than I could provide.” His eyes meet mine briefly, then drift back to the window, where the landscape stretches endlessly beyond. “So she left. When Forrest was just nine.”
“That’s awful,” I say softly, imagining a small Forrest watching his mother walk away.
“Would’ve been easier if she’d stayed gone,” Boone continues, a muscle working in his jaw. He takes off his hat, setting it on the table, and runs a hand through his silver hair—another gesture so reminiscent of Forrest that my heart twists. “But she’d keep popping back in when things fell apart for her elsewhere. She’d play house for a few months, get Forrest’s hopes up, then disappear again when something more exciting came along.”
My chest aches thinking of a young Forrest, repeatedly abandoned by the person who should have been his constant. I want to reach across time and hold that boy, tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he deserved better.
“This went on until he was about sixteen,” Boone says, his voice roughening with the memory. He clears his throat, blinking rapidly, and I pretend not to notice the sheen in hiseyes. “As a boy, I told him that was his mama, like it or not, and he’d respect her while he was under my roof. But when he was sixteen, that’s when he finally told her he didn’t care to see her anymore. He made that choice as a man, and I respected it.”
He picks up his hat, turning it in his hands, examining the frayed edge of the brim as if it holds the answers to questions he’s spent decades asking himself. The gold of his ring catches the glint of the sunlight through the window.
“You’re divorced but you still wear your ring?” I ask, then immediately choke on my words. “I’m so sorry, Boone. That’s overstepping, and not my business. Please excuse me.”
He smiles at me. “You’re full of manners, aren’t you, city girl?”
