Firefly Nights

CHAPTER 14.66

Her voice—warm, worn in, like flannel after a long winter. And for a moment, I wanted to cry just hearing it. I didn't.

"Yeah. Hey," I managed, though it didn't sound right coming out of my mouth. My eyes found Colt across the pen—his broad frame moving slow, sure, no wasted energy as he guided the mare with that unshakable calm he wore like a second skin. She jerked and resisted, every muscle coiled like a drawn bow, and he didn't flinch. Didn't fight her. Just gave her enough space to burn through her fear without losing his grip.

"I got a delivery from White Wood," I said, the words landing harder than I meant, too sharp around the edges. "A horse. They said it's been arranged for weeks?"

The line went quiet for a second, just the soft rustle of wind on her end. Then a sigh came through—gentle, steady, the way only Laney could be when she knew I was already unraveling myself before she had the chance to do it for me.

"Yeah, Lem. I mentioned it. Last month. You were knee-deep in bills and exhaustion, remember?" Her voice stayed calm, unblaming, but firm. "I lined up a few sales before Christmas. That mare—Spice—was part of the deal. They paid well. And you said you'd take her."

I pressed my fingers against the side of my temple, tried to conjure the memory she spoke of. I could see it, almost—me at the kitchen table, phone pressed between my shoulder and ear, a cup of coffee gone cold beside a stack of unopened envelopes. Her voice had drifted through the line like background noise, and I'd nodded and agreed and said I'd handle it, because what else was I going to say?

"I remember now," I murmured, shame burning in the hollow beneath my ribs. "You told me."

Across the yard, Colt moved with that quiet authority that never needed announcing. He had the mare circling now—close enough to trust, far enough to breathe. His shoulders moved with the rhythm of her steps, patient as sunrise. He didn't look at me, but I felt him just the same. Like gravity. Like a truth I hadn't earned.

"I just forgot," I said, the words tasting like metal.

"Things have been hectic," Laney said gently, the way she always did when she sensed I'd already flayed myself open. Her voice held that soft edge I remembered from childhood—when a scraped knee was still the worst thing that could happen. "It's fine, Lem. But listen... if this is too much right now, we don't have to come for Christmas. I know things have been... complicated."

Complicated.

God, if she only knew the half of it.

But the second she said it—that maybe they wouldn't come—it landed like a stone at the base of my ribs, heavy and immediate. The idea of this place without their voices, without Piper's bare feet skimming the porch or Ty's laugh echoing off the barn walls, felt like someone was slowly wringing the life out of me.

"No," I said too quickly, the word tumbling out sharp, defensive. I reeled it in, tried again, softer this time, like smoothing a frayed edge. "I want you to come."

There was truth in it. Even if everything else felt like it was shifting beneath my feet, that much was solid.

"I haven't seen Piper or Ty in a while," I added, picturing the way Piper always tilted her head when she asked questions too big for her age, or the way Ty's face lit up at the sight of a horse, like the whole world made sense for a second. "It'll be good to have you here."

Laney exhaled, the sound soft but sure, like the sigh of a screen door swinging closed behind her. "Alright," she said, her voice a thread pulling me back from the edge. "But promise me you'll take it easy. Don't overdo it, okay? You've got enough on your plate."