I shake my head. “Not me. My family.”

“Isn’t that the same?” she gives me a confused look.

“Nope. Some people like me because I hate my brothers . . .” I wave a hand. “That’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

I give her a look. “No. You have an appointment.”

She glares. “You’re bossy, and I don’t like it.”

“It’s not about you liking it,” I argue. “I just need you to get with the program, sweetheart.”

Her arms tighten around her waist. “I can’t just leave⁠—”

“Oh, you can leave.”

Blythe turns at the sound of the voice.

Delilah leans against the doorway, arms crossed, amusement clear in her eyes. Apparently, she’s been watching us for quite some time, and I didn’t even notice. “We’re covered. Mom should be here soon.”

Blythe’s mouth opens, then closes.

I take her silence for what it is—defeat.

“Let’s go,” I say, tossing her apron onto the counter. “My truck is on the other side of the street.”

She mutters something under her breath but follows me out the door. The drive to the Birchwood Springs Medical Clinic is quiet—I’m thankful that she doesn’t ask about my brothers or our dynamic. It’s too complicated.

She’s curled against the passenger door, hood pulled up, gaze fixed on the window like she’s committing every turn to memory. Like she’s planning an exit before she even knows the layout of the room. Hopefully, one day, she won’t feel the need to map out her escape routes every second of the day.

I keep my grip loose on the wheel, attention split between the road and my mirrors. No tails. No cars out of place.

Good.

I don’t expect anyone to track her this easily. She hasn’t been here long, and this town is as remote as it gets. You forget about this place unless you’re in desperate need of maple syrup. I’m counting on that to buy us time. Enough to set up the safeguards she needs, to keep an eye on anyone who comes sniffing around where they shouldn’t.

The clinic comes into view, an old building tucked between the post office and a hardware store. I park, kill the engine. Blythe doesn’t move.

She stares at the dashboard, her jaw tight, her fingers curled into the cuffs of her sleeves.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. A warning. “Maybe we should come another day.”

“I promise it is fine, Blythe.” I shift in my seat to face her. “You need to start prenatal care. And maybe . . . we need to confirm that you’re pregnant. What if you’re sick? What if it’s something else?”