Casual Wanderer © 2025 All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and specific other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
"Driving Miss Daisy"
The morning light cut through the thin curtains in Jackson's room, striping the floorboards with gold.
Jackson lay on his bed, one arm thrown across his eyes, trying to grab a few more seconds of sleep. But the mattress dipped suddenly under a new weight, and a warm, familiar voice cut through the haze.
"Well, would ya look at this sorry sight," Cash drawled, every syllable dripping with that Willow Creek country twang, "sleepin' like a damn baby after causin' the biggest commotion I done seen since Mabel's cow ran off with the preacher's garden gnome."
Jackson groaned, rolling to bury his face in the pillow, voice muffled. "Lord, don't you ever knock?"
Cash just laughed, deep and warm, the sound always a balm even when it rankled. "I been knockin' on your window since we was knee-high. Ain't fixin' to change that now."
Jackson sighed, pushing himself upright, hair all wild, cheeks pink from the heat of sleep, or maybe memory. His chest ached with it, Blake's touch still fresh on his skin, still burned into his bones.
Cash sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, arms folded, eyes sharp as a hawk's. He watched Jackson quietly for a spell, like he was seeing all the cracks no one else dared look for.
Jackson met his gaze, trying to play it off, but his friend's stare pinned him in place. "What?" he finally barked, a little too defensively.
Cash raised a brow, slowly. "You wanna lie to me, you go right on ahead, but it's gon' land about as pretty as a cow in a wedding dress."
Jackson winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ain’t lyin’, Cash…”
Cash snorted, "You ain't spillin' either."
Silence hung thick between them. Jackson picked at a loose thread on the bedsheet, mouth dry. "You...you saw me leave."
Cash nodded, steady. "Nah...I saw you runnin' like the Devil was on your heels, after you damn near broke my van door runnin' off. And then you come back here smellin' like a grown man's cologne and lookin' like somebody done wrung you out like a dish rag."
Jackson's cheeks flared crimson, his shoulders hunching up. "It...it ain't what you think."
Cash tilted his head, his voice softening, even as the words stayed sharp. "Ain't it?"
Jackson sighed, heavy and worn. He met Cash's eyes, steady now, honest in the way only Cash could drag out of him. "I was with Blake."
Cash let that settle between them, jaw ticking just a bit. "Yeah," he breathed, looking like he'd hoped to be wrong. "That's what I figured."
Jackson swallowed, a rawness in his voice. "It felt… good. Better'n good. It felt amazin'."
Cash's eyes softened then. "Ain't sayin' it didn't. You done had a shine for that man since near as long as he came bustin' into town. But you're playin' with fire."
Jackson blinked, heart clenching. "Why?"
Cash sighed, shifting on the mattress, his big shoulders slumping a little. "He's eyein' your Mama, or he was. And folks in Willow Creek? They don't forget easy. You get caught in that tangle, they'll skin you alive with their mouths."
Jackson looked away, throat burning. "I know," he whispered.
Cash leaned forward, voice droppin' gentle, "I ain't judgin' you. You hear me? Ain't never gon' judge you for who you love. But I'm gon' stand here and tell you true: this is gonna hurt. Might tear you up from the inside out."
Jackson let out a shaky breath, a tear he didn't want Cash to see sliding down his cheek anyway.
Cash's jaw tightened, his eyes shimmering with the same protectiveness he'd carried since they were boys. "You know I ain't gonna stand by while you get broke to pieces."
Jackson gave a half-laugh, watery and sad. "Look at you," he teased, trying to break the tension, "sounding like somebody's wise grandpa."
Cash snorted, smacking Jackson's leg playfully. "Hell, I'm older than you by twenty minutes, remember? That makes me the damn sage around here."
Jackson smiled, tears sticking to his lashes. "Yeah, you the sage."
Cash grinned, leaning forward to bump their foreheads together, like he'd done since they were kids hiding under the bleachers. "You the only person in this damn town I'd run through a burnin' house for."
Jackson nodded, voice small. "I know."
Cash leaned back, eyes still serious. "I ain't sayin' don't follow your heart. I'm sayin' don't let it kill you, neither."
Jackson swallowed, heart twisting, but a calm settled over him like a summer breeze. "Yeah," he whispered. "Cash," he said. "I lied to Mama."
Cash nodded slowly, as if he had been expecting it. "Yeah," he drawled, "I figured you might've."
Jackson winced, voice breaking worse. "She asked me where I'd been...I told her I was at your place. She even went by. Carla told her I wasn't there. And I just...lied again. Right to her face."
Cash blew a heavy breath, jaw ticking between protectiveness and frustration. "Jackson," he said, low and steady, "I get why you done it. But that woman loves you more than breath itself. You know she's been smitten with Buckley, same as you. She's tryin' her best to dream somethin' for herself, and you gone get caught right in the middle if you keep lyin'."
Jackson's face crumpled, tears stinging his eyes as he tried to hold them back. "I know," he whispered. "God, I know. But I couldn't tell her. It's like I couldn't make the words come out. She looked at me like she already suspected."
Cash scooted closer, shoulder bumping against Jackson's, eyes warm but firm. "That woman sees right through you. Always has."
Jackson nodded, his fingers twisting in the blanket like he was wringing the truth out of it. "You think she'd hate me?"
Cash scoffed, almost offended. "Boy, you serious? That woman'd fight God himself to keep you safe. But you gotta give her somethin' to hold on to. You leave her out in the cold, thinkin' you slippin' around like some no-good drifter, it'll eat her up."
Jackson stared down at the floor.
Cash reached out, squeezed the back of his neck the way he always did when Jackson was about to cry as a kid. "You just gotta decide what story you wanna tell, Jackson. The one that feels right, or the one that feels easy."
Jackson let out a hollow laugh, eyes glistening. "Ain't neither one easy."
Cash nodded, smiling that sad, wise grin of his. "Yeah," he sighed, "that's the God's truth. But you still gotta choose." Cash mussed Jackson's hair with a fondness that reached back to their first day on the playground together. "Now," he went on, lighter, trying to ease the tension, "you best wash that guilt off before she sees you. She's sharper than a rattler, and I swear she'll smell a lie on you from halfway to Tupelo."
Jackson let out a wet laugh, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I reckon you're right," he agreed.
Cash grinned, clapping his shoulder. "Damn straight I'm right. Now c'mon. Get your scrawny butt up. Mama Daisy's makin' grits, and if I know her, she's halfway convinced you starved to death last night."
*
(Several Minutes Later)
Jackson came down the stairs. The air felt different after the shower, somehow clearer, though the knot in his gut hadn't gone.
He stepped into the kitchen to find Cash perched at the old table, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth like a man just pulled off a cattle drive. Crumbs dotted his plate, a biscuit half demolished in his other hand.
Cash looked up, grin wide and shameless, cheeks puffed out. "Well, lookie here," he garbled through a mouthful, "the prodigal rooster arrives!"
Jackson rolled his eyes, pushing damp hair back off his forehead. "You're a pig," he shot back, but his voice had a little more life in it.
Cash smacked his lips, talking around a bite of bacon. "Shoot, if bein' a pig means gettin' fed like this, I'll grunt all day."
Jackson glanced across the room, and there stood Daisy. Hands on her hips, hair pinned neat, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, looking like a queen presiding over her little kitchen kingdom. Her eyes, though, those soft eyes, found him and held him so gently he nearly came undone again.
"Morning, Mama," Jackson tried, voice quiet.
Daisy walked over calmly, her slippers scuffing across the linoleum. She didn't say a word at first, just laid her hand on his shoulder as she passed, leaned down, and pressed a warm, mother's kiss right to the top of his head.
Jackson's throat closed up. That small gesture nearly undid him more than any shouting ever could.
Daisy straightened up, breathing deeply, then flashed him a sly grin. "You best watch yourself, Jackson Bell," she drawled, accent sweet as iced tea but twice as sharp, "runnin' off into the night like some no-good ramblin' hobo. Folks'll think I done raised you with no sense."
Jackson ducked his head, cheeks pink, relief flooding him that she was still half-joking.
Jackson swallowed, heart pounding. "I know, Mama," he murmured.
Cash, never one to leave well enough alone, chimed in. "Mama Daisy, I swear, I tried keepin' him on the straight and narrow. But you know this fool's got more itch in them boots than a flea-bit coonhound."
Daisy shot him a look sharp enough to cut tin. "Cash Dalton, you hush that mouth 'fore I wash it out with lye. You're just as bad, stirrin' him up since y'all were runnin' barefoot after crawdads."
Cash smirked, unfazed. "Can't help it. I'm the fun one."
Daisy shook her head, rolling her eyes, but Jackson saw the ghost of a grin on her lips. She turned back to her son, eyes going soft again. "I know you think you're grown, Jackson," she said, gently, "but you don't get to lie to me. You don't get to sneak. You hear me? That's a fool's road. And I didn't spend eighteen years holdin' you together just for you to go tearin' yourself apart."
Jackson swallowed hard, voice catching. "Yes, ma'am," he whispered.
She leaned in close, voice low, almost conspiratorial. "And I don't care who you run with, Jackson Bell. As long as they got a good heart. But you best be sure they do, 'fore you hand 'em yours."
Jackson nodded, eyes stinging, ashamed all over again at how easy the lies had come to his tongue.
Cash cleared his throat, pointing his fork like a scepter. "I'll keep an eye on him, promise. Jackson here couldn't throw a punch to save a sack of flour, so he needs me."
Daisy cracked a laugh then, the sound warm as the morning sun. "You do that. And next time y'all decide to raise half of Willow Creek, you better have the decency to come home with your tail between your legs and tell me first."
Jackson ducked his head again, cheeks pink. "Yes, ma'am."
Daisy gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, then went back to the stove like nothing had changed at all, though Jackson could see her hands trembling just a bit.
Cash leaned across the table, voice lower, more private. "You gon' tell her?"
Jackson sighed, picking at the biscuit on his plate. "I just...I can't. Not yet."
Slowly but surely, the kitchen settled into its familiar morning whirr, the clink of forks against plates, and the warm, sweet hush of a house that had seen more laughter than tears, though plenty of both. Daisy moved around the room like she owned every board and nail, fussing with the coffee pot, her slippers scuffing on the faded linoleum.
Jackson nursed his mug, still feeling raw around the edges.
Cash was working on his second plate, sopping up yolk with a biscuit like he hadn't eaten since Tuesday.
Daisy paused by the sink, staring out the window where sunlight cut through the magnolia leaves. "I been thinkin'. Maybe it's time we had a proper get-together."
Cash paused mid-chew. "A what now?"
Daisy turned, smiling widely, hands on her hips. "A barbecue. Here at the house. Nothin' fancy, just family and friends. Some music, a little dancin' if folks feel brave. This place could use a night of laughin'."
Jackson felt his stomach twist, thinking of how many eyes might end up on him and Blake, if Blake showed up. But he forced a small smile. "That sounds...nice, Mama."
Cash grinned, pointing his fork. "Long as there's ribs, I'm in."
Daisy laughed, a real one, warm and genuine. "Lord, Cash Dalton, you'd sell your soul for a rack of ribs, wouldn't you?"
Cash just shrugged, grinning shamelessly. "Damn straight."
Jackson chuckled, the tension loosening from his shoulders for a moment.
Daisy wiped her hands on a dishtowel and sighed, looking thoughtful. "Figure I'll invite Marla, and Carla, and maybe Becky-Lynn and her clan." She stepped back, smoothed her apron, and sighed. "Anyhow, I got errands to tend in town. Lord help me, half these folks round here think I'm their personal delivery gal." She walked over, pressing another gentle kiss to Jackson's head, this one softer somehow, a little more weighted. "You boys mind yourselves, you hear? Don't burn the place down while I'm gone."
Cash flashed a grin, tossing his napkin down. "Ain't makin' no promises."
Daisy gave him a playful swat on the arm, shaking her head. "One of these days, I'm gonna break you of that smart mouth."
He winked at her, broad as summer sunshine. "Be a fool's errand."
She rolled her eyes, laughing all the way to the stairs. "I swear, you two," she teased, "if I didn't love you so much, I'd lock you in the shed."
Jackson managed a genuine smile, the sound of her slippers tapping up the stairs making him feel ten years old again, safe for just a moment. When she was gone, the house seemed quieter, the light a little softer, like even the walls knew they'd been left alone to sort their mess.
Cash leaned back in his chair, stretching, eyes on Jackson. "So," he said, slowly, "Barbecue, huh? You ready for that three-ring circus?"
Jackson sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "No," he admitted, voice tight. "Not even a little."
Cash nodded, pushing his plate away. "Then I guess we best get ready anyhow."
*
Daisy parked the old blue truck along Main Street, the dust settling in a soft halo around its fenders. She stepped out, smoothing the skirt of her faded floral dress, and paused a moment to look around. The town was already in full swing, the hardware store had its big fan set out on the sidewalk to fight the heat, the old Rexall pharmacy had fresh whitewash on its sign, and a couple of kids were running barefoot toward the catfish pond behind the feed store.
She breathed deeply, letting the sun-warmed air settle into her bones, then stepped onto the curb.
"Miss Daisy!"
It was Laverne Simmons, standing in the doorway of the beauty shop, a curling iron in one hand and a cigarette dangling from her painted lips. "Ain't you lookin' bright as a butterbean!"
Daisy waved. "Laverne, you keep staring out that window, you'll burn someone's hair off."
Laverne laughed right back, waving her cigarette. "Honey, these girls round here pay me to talk more than to fix their heads."
Daisy shook her head with a grin, walking past the old barbershop. On the stoop sat the Presley brothers, old and lean as fenceposts, a chessboard balanced between them.
"Miss Daisy," one of them called, tapping a square, "reckon you'd have a better eye for this than he does."
She leaned in, peering at the board, then pointed. "Move your king back here. He's tryin' to bait you for the jump."
The other brother howled. "See there! Even Daisy Bell's got your number!"
She winked, keeping on down the sidewalk.
Near the corner, a young mama with a baby on her hip flagged her down. "Miss Daisy, how's Jackson these days?"
Daisy smiled, a little wistful. "Growin' faster than a weed, and twice as ornery."
The mama laughed, shifting her baby on her hip. "Well, if he needs a good home-cooked supper, you send him by our place."
"I surely will," Daisy promised.
At the corner near Ferguson's Market, Mr. Franklin, the feed store owner, was sweeping seed hulls off his stoop. "Mornin', Miss Daisy," he called. "Heard you might be doin' a get-together."
She paused, nodding politely. "I surely am."
He grinned, gap-toothed and kind. "Well, don't forget my daughter makes a mean banana puddin'. She'd be proud to bring it by."
"Tell her she's got a place at the table," Daisy said, heart warmed.
As she crossed the street toward Ferguson's, a pair of teenage boys on bikes nearly ran into her, swerving and laughing.
"Y'all best watch yourselves," Daisy hollered after them, wagging a playful finger. "Your mamas'll wear you out if you scuff them knees again!"
"Yes, ma'am!" they called back, laughing as they pedaled off.
She shook her head, smiling.
She turned off County Road 5, passed the Methodist church with its weathered white steeple, then pulled up in front of Ferguson's Market. Willow Creek's only real old-school grocery, its faded Coca-Cola sign hanging above the door like a proud, rusty badge.
When she stepped out, folks were already noticing. Daisy Bell had a way of drawing eyes wherever she went, not with flash or fancy dresses, but with a quiet confidence that said I see you, and I know who I am.
"Miss Daisy!"
It was old Mr. Allen, propped up on the bench by the propane tank cage, a toothpick dancing between his lips. "Heard you might be throwin' a get-together," he called, eyes bright. "You best save me a slice of pie."
Daisy laughed, waving him off. "You bring a bottle of somethin' worth sharin', Mr. Allen, and you can have two slices!"
He chuckled, winking. "I'll hold you to it."
Inside Ferguson's, Daisy moved down the aisles like a queen working her court. Folks stopped her every three feet, talking weather, asking after Jackson, and even gossiping about Marla's boy getting caught with someone's daughter behind the grain elevator.
"Daisy," a woman called, leaning over her buggy full of cereal boxes, "you hear about Becky-Lynn's oldest wantin' to buy himself a dirt bike?"
Daisy clucked her tongue, picking up a bag of flour. "That boy's had more broken bones than sense, but I reckon if Becky-Lynn wants gray hair sooner, that's her business."
The woman laughed so hard she nearly dropped her coupons.
Willow Creek had judged Daisy plenty over the years. A teenage mama with a baby on her hip, no ring on her finger, and no soul to stand behind her but herself. Folks had whispered, side-eyed her, tried to bury her under their Sunday-best righteousness.
But Daisy had weathered it.
She raised Jackson with a steady hand and a sharp tongue, worked double shifts, and showed up at church even when they tried to pretend they didn't see her. She brought casseroles to funerals, helped mend torn-up dresses for Easter, and stayed kind without letting anyone push her around.
By the time Jackson was in high school, folks had stopped talking behind their hands and started coming to her for advice, cooking tips, and a prayer or two when their own faith went thin.
She was Daisy Bell.
And Willow Creek had learned to respect her the way a small town respects a thunderstorm. Sure, you could grumble, but you'd be a fool to stand in its way.
After grabbing the groceries she needed, Daisy paid at the counter and traded pleasantries with the teenage boy behind the till. "Say hey to your mama for me," Daisy told him, counting her dollars. "Tell her I'll bring a cake by next week."
"Yes, ma'am," he stammered, cheeks going red like every boy in town did when Daisy turned that bright smile on them.
She left Ferguson's, groceries rattling in brown paper sacks, and crossed the street to the post office. Another half-dozen people stopped her there, passing news, trading jokes, and asking about her plans. By the time she returned to the truck, the sun was high overhead, burning down on the metal cab. Daisy paused, letting her thoughts gather.
Jackson was hiding something.
She could feel it in her bones.
But she also knew the boy she'd raised. She knew he had no meanness, only a heart too big for its own good. If she had to pry the truth from him, gentle or sharp, well, she'd figure that out in time. For now, she'd let him breathe, let him sort out his heart.
If Jackson was tangled up in something, she'd be there to catch him. Like she always had.
*
Daisy pulled the old blue truck off the two-track road and rolled it to a dusty stop just beyond the corral at the rodeo grounds, where a couple of horses stood dozing under the early heat. Folks nodded at her as she stepped out, some waving and some smiling.
She shaded her eyes with one hand, squinting across the maze of trailers lined up near the arena fences. One fella leaned on the rail. "Hey there, Calvin," she called, striding up, warm as sunshine. "You seen Blake Buckley this mornin'?"
Calvin tipped his hat, grin wide. "Mornin', Miss Daisy. Reckon he's still in his trailer over yonder." He pointed a dusty finger toward a silver trailer near the far gate. "Man barely crawled outta bed for the sunrise."
Daisy chuckled, thanking him with a little wave, and made her way across the trampled grass, her dress catching in the breeze, the hem of it swishing like a flag. She paused at the steps of Blake's trailer, breathing deeply. Then she rapped three times, clear and sure. There was a pause, then the sound of fumbling, a curse muffled through the door. Finally, the handle turned, and Blake stood shirtless, hair mussed, a line from the pillow still pressed into his cheek. He squinted against the light like a bear disturbed from winter sleep.
"Well," Daisy drawled, a grin breaking across her face, "don't you look a sight."
Blake rubbed a hand over his face, trying to wake himself up, voice rough as gravel. "Miss Daisy," he rasped, "mornin'."
"Mornin'," she teased back, eyes dancing. "Didn't mean to rattle your cage. Thought I'd catch you while the day's still young."
He leaned on the doorframe, trying to look more awake than he felt. "You...uh, need somethin'?"
"Well," Daisy said, crossing her arms gently. "I'm fixin' to throw a barbecue tomorrow evenin'. Somethin' small, just family and a handful of good folks. Thought you might want to stop by."
Blake's jaw twitched, eyes darting away. "Barbecue, huh?"
She nodded, sunny as a Sunday. "Yep. Home-cooked. Ribs, slaw, you name it. I'll even let you have the first cut of brisket if you come early."
Blake rubbed the back of his neck, hesitant. "I don't know, Miss Daisy. Seems like maybe I'd be imposin'."
Daisy's smile softened, kind but unmovable. "Nonsense. You wouldn't be imposin' at all. You'd be welcome. Jackson'll be there."
She watched how his shoulders stiffened, how his eyes flickered just a second with something he tried to bury. Daisy pretended not to notice, though her heart squeezed a bit at the silent admission.
"You know," she continued, light as if talking about the weather, "he'll be real glad to see you. And I reckon you could stand to have a good meal in your belly that don't come from a rodeo trailer."
Blake cleared his throat, looking like a cornered fox, but there was a faint, guilty grin ghosting across his lips. "I...yeah. Okay. I'll come by. Wouldn't want to pass up your cookin'."
Daisy laughed, relieved, resting a hand on the doorframe. "Good. Tomorrow at five. Bring that appetite, cowboy."
Blake nodded, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, watching her like he didn't quite know what to do with a woman so kind and determined all at once. "Yes, ma'am," he said finally, voice quiet.
Daisy stepped back, waving a little. "Alright then. I best run the rest of my errands' fore the sun burns up my whole day. Don't be late."
He gave her a soft, lopsided grin. "I won't."
*
The road wound its lazy way through the fields, the heat rising in soft waves off the red dirt. Daisy drove slowly, windows down, the warm breeze tousling the hair loose around her temples. She was humming low to the radio, mind halfway on the barbecue plans and halfway on Jackson, tangled up the way only a mama's worry can twist you.
Up ahead, a shape moved along the shoulder, a solitary boy, head bowed, shoulders drawn up tight like he was bracing for another blow.
Daisy squinted, easing her foot off the gas. As she rolled closer, her chest pulled tight.
Weston.
He walked like someone far older than eighteen, arms wrapped around his middle, one shoe scuffed nearly to pieces. His hair was ruffled, and even from a distance, Daisy could see a couple of faint purplish blooms on his face.
"Lord, have mercy," Daisy breathed, steering the truck onto the shoulder. She leaned out the window, voice steady and sweet. "Weston, you best get in this truck right now 'fore you melt straight into that pavement."
Weston stopped, eyes wide, like a stray dog expecting to get shooed away. "Miss Daisy…" he started, voice all torn up.
She shook her head, firm but kind. "I ain't askin', sugar. I'm tellin'. Hop on in."
Weston swallowed, hesitating only a moment before climbing into the passenger seat. The springs squeaked under his weight, and the minute he settled, Daisy could smell the leftover cheap aftershave and fear on him, mixing with dust and shame. She pulled back onto the road, not rushing him. They rode in a hush for a mile or two, the wheels humming a steady comfort under their silence.
Finally, Daisy spoke, eyes straight ahead. "You wanna tell me who put their hands on you, baby?"
Weston stiffened, drawing in on himself like a turtle. "Ain't nothin'," he mumbled, voice cracking. "Just...some boy."
Daisy exhaled slowly, thumb drumming on the wheel. "That same boy who's been stringin' you along these past weeks?"
Weston flinched, eyes filling up right quick.
"Oh, sugar," Daisy sighed, pulling the truck to the side again, killing the engine. She turned to him, eyes bright and fierce. "Listen to me. You hear me loud and clear right now: wantin' to be loved is a fine thing. But you best not go lettin' that wantin' turn you into somebody's punchin' bag."
Weston crumbled, right then and there, his face crinkling as tears spilled over, hard and fast, like a storm that had been brewing too long. "Why ain't I enough, Miss Daisy?" he choked, sobbing against the side of the seat. "I try so hard. I…I just want someone to look at me and see me."
Daisy's heart broke wide open, aching for every child left on the side of the road with bruises no one wanted to name. She scooted closer, gathering Weston in her arms, letting him sob right into her shoulder, patting his back softly and sure.
"Oh, baby," she whispered, kissing the crown of his head like he was hers, "you are more than enough. You hear me? These folks who treat you like this, they don't know nothin' about the size of your heart. They ain't worthy of you, Weston Price. Not one lick."
He clung to her, sobs shaking him clear through. Daisy rocked him, letting him break apart while her strong hands held him together.
When the tears slowed, she eased back, thumb wiping the streaks off his cheeks. "You breathe for me," she coaxed, gentle as a lullaby. "You wipe them tears. We gon' get you fixed up." She dug into her purse, rummaging through receipts and bobby pins, pulling out an old foundation flask. "Now you know I don't leave the house without some war paint," she teased, trying to lighten the air.
Weston laughed, weak but honest, and let her tilt his chin up. She dabbed the foundation carefully around the bruise, covering the purple bloom as best she could, then smoothed his hair with a mother's hand.
"There," she said, satisfied. "Can't have you goin' home lookin' like a prizefighter. Folks'll talk."
Weston sniffled, still staring down at his bruised knees, voice so small it nearly blew away on the breeze. "Miss Daisy," he pleaded. "Please don't tell Cash or Jackson. If they know…You know how they are. I couldn't stand it if they got themselves hurt because of me."
Daisy looked at him long, eyes clear and bright, seeing every raw edge he tried to hide. She reached across and laid her hand on his cheek, her thumb rubbing slowly along the freckles on his skin.
"Oh, sugar," she sighed, heavy as river stone. "I know you're scared. And I know you don't want to bring no trouble down on the folks who love you. But you gotta understand somethin'. Loyal hearts don't choose to turn a blind eye. Loyal hearts fight. That's what they do. That's what makes 'em worth a damn."
He tried to look away, but she guided his chin gently back toward her.
"You think keepin' this secret is protectin' them, but the Lord's honest truth?" she continued, voice low and even. "Lyin' to the ones who love you is like plantin' a snake in your own bed. It'll come back 'round to bite you, sugar. Always does. I seen it more times than I care to count."
Weston swallowed hard, tears pooling up again. "But if they know…if Cash finds out…he'll wanna break somethin'. I just know it," he stammered before pausing. "And then...I'll be alone all over again."
Daisy nodded, holding him steady with that calm power of hers. "Maybe so. But pain don't mean the end of love, baby. Sometimes it's the only way through to the truth."
He blinked at her, desperate and afraid all at once. "You think tellin' the truth makes it better?"
She sighed, looking away momentarily, her heart heavy with what she hadn't told her boy. "I think," she began, words drawing out slowly and thoughtfully. "That truth is a cruel thing sometimes. But it's honest. And honesty's the only ground strong enough to build a life on. Otherwise you end up standin' on quicksand, just waitin' to sink."
Weston's lip quivered. "I don't wanna drag 'em down with me," he whispered.
Daisy smiled, sad and sweet, thumb swiping the last tear from his cheek. "You couldn't drag them boys down if you tried. Cash and Jackson? Their loyalty's so fierce it'd scare the Devil himself. And that's somethin' to hold onto, Weston, not fear."
Her voice softened, but there was steel in it, the kind only a woman who'd survived the world could muster. "But mark my words, sugar. Secrets don't stay buried. They got a way of growin' teeth in the dark. One day, that secret you're protectin' is gon' rise up and bite every one of you if you ain't careful."
Weston nodded, shaky, his breath hitching. "Promise you won't say nothin', Miss Daisy. Not yet. Just…just let me try to fix it myself."
Daisy studied him, that big, breakable heart of his laid bare. And though every bone in her body wanted to shout it to the sky, she only nodded slowly. "I won't say nothin'," she promised. "But I'm holdin' you to one thing. If it gets worse, you come to me. You come straight to me, you hear?"
He sniffled, voice wobbly. "Yes, ma'am."
Daisy leaned forward, kissing his forehead like a mother would, like he was her own. "Good boy," she murmured. "Ain't no shame in askin' for help, sugar. This world is mean enough without us turnin' on our own."
Weston breathed a ragged sigh, letting those words soak in, then leaned back against the seat, eyes glassy but clearer somehow.
Daisy started the truck again, wheels crunching over the gravel.
And as she drove him home, her mind wouldn't let go of her own boy, wondering just what secrets Jackson Bell was burying.
And praying she'd have the courage to face them when the time came.
(To be continued...)
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