Then Cas steps closer, his voice drops low.“I’ll take you to your car in half an hour. We’ll make sure it’s okay. Then we’ll figure out the rest. Sound good?”
I nod again, my throat too tight for words.
Cas walks into the house.
Grace nudges my shoulder, eyes soft.“I can’t wait to see what you capture up there. The colors this time of year are unreal.”
I smile. “I can’t wait”.
???
After breakfast, Grace surprises me with an armful of clothes.“Those few things in your bag won’t keep you warm,” she says, shaking her head.“Here.” She drops them on my bed.“These don’t fit me anymore, but they’ll work on you. No offense, I grew taller this year.”
“No offense taken. I’m pretty tiny,” I laugh.
Grace leaves me to get dressed, and I pull on a dark green hoodie and jeans soft from wear. The fabric smells faintly of her lavender detergent, familiar and safe, home in a way I’d almost forgotten.
When I step outside, Cas is already waiting by his truck. He opens the passenger door for me without a word, his steady gaze catching mine.
My stomach knots at the gesture. Mark never opened doors for me, not unless it was to shove me through them.
Cas just waits, patient, a quiet hum of strength around him.
The cab smells like pine and leather, warm as I slide in with my camera bag. He starts the engine, country music spilling softly through the speakers, and the truck rolls down the drive.
The ranch opens wide before us, golden fields, horses running the fence line, cabins scattered like puzzle pieces. Mountains rise in the distance, solid and timeless.
“It’s incredible,” I whisper, pressing my palm against the glass.“I can’t believe this is real.”
Cas glances at me, lips tugging up.“It’s home. Been in the family for generations. Don’t think I could ever leave.”
His love for this land is obvious in the way he says it, like his roots run straight into the earth itself. We stop at a crossroads, and I glance at him quickly, only to find his eyes already on me. I look away, heat fluttering where I don’t want it.
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just steady.
He breaks it gently.“So, how’d you get into photography?”
I trace the strap of my bag, swallowing.“My dad used to take pictures of us as kids. I hated it. Until one day he caught my mom laughing, really laughing, at a joke I made.” My voice dips.“She got sick a month later. That was the last time she ever laughed like that.”
I slide the photo from my bag and pass it to him.“I fell in love with how photography can capture a feeling like that and make it eternal.”
Cas studies the picture, his breath catching.“Wow. Your mother looks just like you.”
I study it too, the edges worn soft.“I’ve got her face, her hair, her skin. But she had these baby-blue eyes my father loved. I got his amber ones instead.”
At the stop sign, Cas leans closer, gaze catching mine like a hook, his eyes searching as if they’re looking for something hidden.“Not amber,” he says quietly.“Whiskey. They’re the color of good whiskey.”
Heat rushes up my neck.“What?”
“I love whiskey.” His voice lowers, rough silk, and he eases the truck forward again.
Butterflies riot in my stomach. This man sure has a way with words.
???
By the time we reach the auto shop, a squat brick building with peeling paint, I still can’t breathe right.
The mechanic glances over my car, then shakes his head.“Tire’s gotta be ordered. Can’t get it’til Monday.”
