Rhett scoffs. “It’s fucking broken fingers. I think he’ll make it through.”

I laugh because this sucks and Rhett is certifiable. “Thanks, guys.”

Then we’re off, silently walking back to the barn where I parked. When I meet Willa’s eyes, they’re wide and concerned, so I whisper, “Don’t worry, baby. I’m going to be fine.”

She sniffles and rolls her shoulders back. “I know,” she replies, always putting on that tough facade.

“Were you worried?” I ask as I settle into the passenger seat of my parked truck.

“Of course,” she replies, voice even as she hops into the driver’s seat. “I don’t know how well you’ll be able to finger bang me with your left hand.”

I chuckle and smile the rest of the way to the hospital because there is only one person in the world who could make me laugh in a moment like this.

It hits me hard as we drive in a companionable silence that Willa is that person.

My person.

* * *

The hospital in Chestnut Springs is small. Staffing is a constant issue. Wait times are brutal.

I guess having to wait several hours shouldn’t surprise me. First, in the general waiting area. Second, X-rays. Last, back to a private room where we wait some more.

Willa holds my good hand the entire time, thumb stroking at the top, and somehow that numbs the pain of my fingers.

Willa’s eyes bug out when a doctor walks into our waiting room with her face turned down to the clipboard in her hands. “Winter?”

The doctor’s head snaps up, icy eyes widening only momentarily.

“Like Summer’s sister, Winter?” I blurt because I’ve heard stories about this woman. Summer’s estranged sister. Like major family drama levels of estranged. Rhett told me about the blow up one day over a few beers, and it sounds like it’s out of a daytime soap opera to me.

Fucking rich city people, man.

“Yes.” Her lips thin, and her heels click against the floor as she shuts the door. “The one and only. I’m sure you’ve heard only good things,” she says dryly before adding, “but I promise your fingers are in excellent hands, Mr. Eaton.”

Hoo boy. Another woman who could use someone to tell her some good things about herself. I watch her tense movements, the way her lips purse when she glances at Willa. She looks like Summer, but also not at all.

Winter and Summer . . . whoever did that to them deserves a kick to the balls.

“Winter, how are you? What are you doing here?” Willa asks, her voice soft and wary as the petite woman pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

Winter ignores her questions. It’s like they don’t even register on her face.