Page 83 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
From me.
The afternoon crawls by. Buck's unusually quiet, methodically prepping food in the kitchen without his typical running commentary. Ford buries himself in paperwork at a corner table. None of us are really here though.
The door swings open around two, and Vanna strides in with Loverboy at her heels. Her eyes scan the room, taking in Buck's rigid back, Ford's distant gaze, my own forced neutrality. Her steps slow, wariness replacing her usual confidence.
"Who died?" she asks, only half-joking as she sets her bag on the bar.
I exchange a glance with Ford, who nods slightly. There's no point hiding it—she'll find out soon enough.
"Skye's gone," I say, the words still feeling strange on my tongue. "Left this morning. Jed fixed her car."
Vanna's expression shifts, something unreadable flashing across her face. "She just... left? Without saying anything?"
Ford pulls the letter from his pocket where he's been keeping it. "She left this."
Vanna takes it, her lips moving slightly as she reads. When she finishes, she exhales sharply through her nose.
"Well, shit," she says, handing it back to Ford. "I didn't think she'd just bolt."
"Seems like your little chat about Miranda might have helped push her out the door," Buck says from the kitchen doorway, his voice carrying an edge I rarely hear.
Vanna's shoulders stiffen. "I told her the truth. She deserved to know what she was getting into with you three."
"She wasn't 'getting into' anything," Buck counters. "She was already in it. All you did was scare her off."
"Buck," I say, a warning in my voice. This isn't Vanna's fault, and lashing out won't change anything.
"What did you say to her?" Ford asks, his tone carefully neutral.
Vanna crosses her arms. "I just told her about Miranda. The pregnancy. How devastated you all were when she left." She meets each of our gazes in turn. "I was looking out for you. Didn't want to see you go through that again."
"So instead we get to go through this," Buck mutters, gesturing at the letter.
"That's not fair," Vanna says, her voice softening. "Look, I'm sorry she left like this. But she was always going to leave eventually. Her car was getting fixed. She has a life somewhere else."
She's right, of course. And yet I can't help wondering if things might have played out differently if Vanna hadn't told Skye about Miranda. If Daniel hadn't shown up and seen us all together. If I'd somehow made it clearer that she had a place here if she wanted it.
"Did she say anything to you yesterday?" Ford asks Vanna. "Give any indication she was planning to leave today?"
Vanna shakes her head. "Not directly. She was upset about Daniel seeing you all together, worried about him posting about it online." She pauses. "But I didn't think she'd just... vanish."
I shake my head. "You're right though—she was always going to leave. This just... accelerated the timeline."
Buck makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, turning back toward the kitchen. I can't blame him for being angry. It's easier than being hurt.
"I'm sorry," Vanna says, and I believe her. For all her tough exterior, she cares about us. About this place. She was trying to protect us, in her way.
"It's not your fault," I tell her. "You told her the truth. What she did with it was her choice."
But as the day wears on, as customers start trickling in for the dinner, I can't help wondering what might have been if circumstances had been different. If we'd had more time. If Skye had felt safe enough to stay.
The Friday night crowd is in full swing by eight. The jukebox blares, conversations overlap into a wall of sound, and the smell of burgers and fries permeates the whole place. I'm pouring drinks, my smile fixed in place, small talk running on its own track separate from my thoughts.
The door opens, letting in a gust of cool evening air. I glance up, and my heart nearly stops.
Blonde hair, falling in loose waves. Slim build, confident posture. For one wild, irrational moment, I think it's Skye—that she's changed her mind, turned around and come back to us.
Then she turns, and reality crashes back. It's not Skye. The resemblance is there, but this woman's face is narrower, her eyes darker, her smile completely different than Skye’s. The surge of hope collapses in me.
