Page 58 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

"I don't want to let her down."

"You won't." He kissed her forehead. "You couldn't if you tried."

The kitchen door banged open and Arletta swept in like a hurricane in sensible shoes, her two teenage sons trailing behind with boxes of supplies.

"All right, people," Arletta announced. "We've got a full house this weekend and I'll be damned if we're gonna let some fool in new boots ruin our hospitality." She caught sight of Liv and Mike standing close, took in Liv's red-rimmed eyes and Mike's protective stance, and her expression softened. "You okay, honey girl?"

"Getting there," Liv managed.

"Good. Then wash your hands and help me with these biscuits. Nothing puts the world right like butter and flour."

And just like that, the kitchen filled with comfortable chaos—Arletta humming old hymns while she worked, her boys arguing good-naturedly about football, Mike stealing bites of dough and getting his knuckles swatted for his trouble.

Normal. Grounding. Real.

Arletta worked alongside Liv for a while, their hands moving in the comfortable rhythm of people who understood the language of baking.

"You know," Arletta said conversationally, kneading biscuit dough with practiced efficiency, "my husband tried to fry a turkey once. Thanksgiving, about ten years back. Saw it on the TV and decided he was gonna be the hero of the family dinner."

Despite everything, Liv found herself smiling. "How'd that go?"

"Well, he got the turkey crispy, I'll give him that. Also got the carport, half the driveway, and his own eyebrows." Arletta chuckled, shaking her head. "Fire department came. Neighbors brought lawn chairs and popcorn. Made the local news."

"Oh my God."

"Mm-hmm. And you know what that fool said when the smoke cleared?" Arletta looked at Liv, eyes twinkling. "He said, 'At least now we know what not to do next time.' Next time. Like I was gonna let him anywhere near a deep fryer again."

Liv laughed and some of the tension in her chest loosened.

"Point being," Arletta continued, voice gentling, "trouble's like bread dough. The more you fuss with it, the tougher it gets. Sometimes you just gotta let it rest and trust it'll rise right."

"What if it doesn't rise?" Liv asked quietly.

"Then you punch it down and start over." Arletta's hand covered Liv's, warm and flour-dusted and steady. "But honey, with all these Watkins boys standing guard? I'd say your dough's got a pretty good chance."

That night, Liv couldn't sleep.

She tried. Lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting breaths, reciting recipes in her head. But her mind kept circling back to Harris. To Damian Russo. To the dark truck circling the property and the figure she'd seen at the treeline.

At midnight, she gave up.

The duffel bag she'd arrived with was in the closet. She pulled it out where she could see it. If push came to shove, would she even have time to pack? God, she hated this indecision, the fear and uncertainties. At this rate, she was probably more likely to die from elevated cortisol levels than at the hands of a mafia thug.

She sat on the edge of the bed, thoroughly disgusted with herself, then jumped like a startled rabbit when someone knocked on the door.

"Liv? You awake?"

Mike.

She stood there for a long moment, then opened the door.

Mike stood in the hallway in sweatpants and an old Marine Corps t-shirt, hair mussed, eyes worried. He took in her appearance, still dressed in t-shirt and jeans at midnight, shoulders rigid with tension, and his gaze moved past her to the closet.

To grey suitcase sitting next to it.

He took a breath. “Going somewhere?”

She shook her head, noted the accusation on his face. “It’s empty.”