Page 57 of Saddle and Scent
"He's not wrong, you know."
Dad.
Of course Dad's here.
The man has an uncanny ability to show up at exactly the moments when I least want to deal with his particular brand of paternal wisdom. He fills the doorway with his presence, all six-foot-three of weathered cowboy and knowing smirks, hat pushed back on his graying head in that way that means he's settling in for a conversation I definitely don't want to have.
"Beckett does stress-bake when he misses a certain woman in his life," Dad continues, stepping into the kitchen with the casual ease of someone who's had this conversation before. "Though I'll admit, the situation's gotten a bit more complicated lately."
I groan, letting my head fall back in defeat.
"Dad, why are you even here? Don't you have cattle to tend or fences to fix or literally anything else that doesn't involve commenting on my baking habits?"
He chuckles again, that low, warm sound that used to comfort me as a kid and now just signals incoming lectures about responsibility and feelings.
"Ray, why don't you head out front? Handle the morning customers. I need to have a word with my son."
Ray's eyes light up with the kind of mischief that spells trouble.
"Oh, I see how it is. Y'all are probably gonna exchange lottery numbers so you can get out of this shithole of a town and leave me out of it. I see how this family operates—keep the hired help in the dark while you make your escape plans."
Dad's smile widens, and there's something almost fond in his expression as he looks at Ray.
"If I win the lottery, I'll make sure to give you a tip. I actually bring everyone with me when I'm climbing the ladder of life, even when they're being douches."
"I don't want to hear that from you of all people," Ray mutters, but there's no real heat in it. He huffs dramatically, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Fine, I'll be up front, dealing with the morning rush and pretending I don't know you're back here having some kind of father-son bonding moment over stress pastries."
The bell above the front door chimes as Ray makes his exit, leaving Dad and me alone in the flour-dusted chaos of my emotional breakdown.
Dad surveys the kitchen with the practiced eye of someone who's seen me work through feelings with baking before.
"Son, you might want to pause whatever you're doing and check those pies in the oven. They're about fifteen seconds away from being charcoal instead of fruit."
"Shit!" I drop the piping bag and rush to the ovens, yanking open the door to reveal two apple pies that are indeed teetering on the edge of disaster. The crusts are golden-brown perfection,flaky and gorgeous, but another minute would have pushed them into burned territory.
I slide them out with practiced movements, setting them on cooling racks with the kind of relief usually reserved for successful surgery.
"Perfect timing," I mutter, wiping sweat from my face with a kitchen towel.
"Always is with baking," Dad observes, settling onto one of the work stools like he's planning to stay awhile. "So, what's the matter, son? Though with how small this town is, I probably already know."
I lean against the work table, suddenly exhausted.
The adrenaline of saving the pies has worn off, leaving behind the bone-deep tiredness that comes from fighting a war against your own heart.
"If you already know, then why are you asking?"
Dad whistles low, the sound somehow conveying both sympathy and amusement.
"Your lost girl's finally back home, huh?"
Lost girl.
The nickname hits harder than it should, carrying with it years of careful distance and unspoken regret. Dad's always had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, seeing past all the bullshit and evasion to the truth underneath.
I give him a look—the same look I've been perfecting since I was sixteen and he started giving me relationship advice I didn't want to hear.
He just raises an eyebrow, waiting.
