Page 232 of Lost Then Found
I glance at her, grinning. She’s half-panicked, half-furious, and still somehow managing to keep her dignity intact while sitting sideways in an ATV built for hauling hay, not high heels.
“You’re doing great, Millie,” I say, just to get under her skin.
Her head snaps toward me. “Call me that again and I will throw you out of this thing.”
I press the gas a little harder. “Bold move for someone who couldn’t drive this thing in those shoes.”
She mutters something that sounds like a threat involving stilettos and my throat, and I keep laughing all the way up the hill.
I know I probablyshouldn’tbe laughing—there’s too much hanging in the balance for that. Dawn. Tate. The Bluebell. Lark. But the thing is, I haven’t felt even a little bit light in weeks, and right now, with Millerwhite-knuckling the side rail and threatening bodily harm over a gust of wind and a bumpy road, I feel it. Just for a second.
Relief.
Not because it’s funny watching her freak out, though. Okay, partially it is. But mostly because we’re not stuck anymore. We’re moving forward. Finally. Getting a grip on this thing that’s been gnawing at us since the day they slapped that closure sign on the diner.
When we reach the top of the hill and the main house comes into view, I ease off the gas and we slow to a stop in front of the porch. Lark’s car is parked where I figured it would be, angled slightly, like she was rushing to get inside. She always does that—pulls in too fast, forgets to straighten it out. I used to tease her for it in high school.
Miller swings open the passenger door, cursing under her breath as she steps out and brushes invisible dirt off her blazer. She gives the Gator a final look, one of pure contempt.
“Get it all out?” I ask, sliding out behind her.
She doesn’t even look at me. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw up on your precious cowboy boots. Although, it’d probably be an improvement.”
I let the door slam shut and follow her up the steps, a smirk tugging at my mouth. I’ve been pissing Miller off since I was fifteen years old, and something about it still feels like sport. She always acts like she hates it, but I’ve never believed that entirely. It’s the only language we ever spoke that felt natural—annoyance with an undertow of loyalty.
Miller slows as we step into the entryway, her gaze drifting up toward the familiar details—the crooked photo frames, the same old boot rack by the door, that ancient coat hook that’s always been slightly loose.
She blinks once, then lets out a breath through her nose. “Some things really don’t change, huh?”
She hasn’t stepped foot in this house since we were teenagers, back when everything felt like it was about staking a claim—time, attention, space. Me and Lark were wrapped up in each other, always finding new ways to be tangled and inseparable, and Miller…well, Miller was part of the package. She came with Lark. So we all had to figure out how to share the time.
Sometimes that meant compromise. Sometimes, it meant spending time here, at this house.
Miller would show up with her arms crossed, a look on her face like she was doing us a favor by gracing us with her presence. She never stepped foot near the barn—claimed the smell would ruin her week. She stayed far away from anything resembling dirt. We’d order pizza and fight over toppings.
I glance over, watching her take it all in. “Nope,” I say, pulling the front door closed behind us.
She sniffs once, nose wrinkling. “Still smells like horse shit.”
“Ridge slept on that couch last night. So technically, it might just be him.”
She huffs out a sound—maybe a laugh, maybe not—but she’s still staring at the living room like part of her is stuck somewhere in our youth. The edges of her posture soften. Not by much, but enough to notice.
Lark rounds the corner barefoot, towel slung over one shoulder, still drying the ends of her damp hair with a laziness that tells me she just stepped out of the shower a few minutes ago.
She’s in these black leggings that hug her legs in a way that short-circuits my brain for a second, and an old Wilding Ranch crewneck I haven’t worn in years—thin at the sleeves, faded along the neckline, collar loose and stretched from wear. She used to steal it from my closet back in high school, and now, after everything, she’s wearing it again. That alone is enough to make my chest ache in the best way.
“Oh my god,” she says, blinking at us. “Miller?”
Miller just stares at her like she’s assessing a crime scene. I swear her eyes narrow the second they land on the crewneck.
“I thought I heard your voice,” Lark goes on, glancing between the two of us. “But I figured I was hallucinating from lack of sleep.”
Miller crosses her arms. “I wish you were.”
Her gaze drops back to Lark’s outfit. “And what’s happening here? Laundry day? Or is this some kind of new ranch wife aesthetic that you forgot to warn me about?”
Lark snorts, but there’s a grin threatening the edge of her mouth. “Please. You’ve seen me in worse.”
