“You did all this for me?”
He shrugs, but there’s pride in his eyes.
“Didn’t want you feeling like you had to give up everything.”
I step closer, wrapping my arms around him again, this time slower, deeper. I press my cheek to his chest, and he holds me there like he means it.
“This is so thoughtful,” I murmur.
He brushes a hand over my back.
“Figured you deserved a win.”
43
Stormy
Back in the truck, I’m still clutching my coconut water like it’s some kind of treasure.
Ford insisted on paying for everything. The drinks and the snacks and I had tried to argue, but he just gave me that look. The one that saysdon’t fight me on this. So, I didn’t.
We drive back the way we came, retracing the quiet roads towards town, but then veer off again, this time down a narrow lane that dips between trees. The branches arch overhead like a tunnel of green and gold. The sun is beginning to set, casting the sky in soft pinks and warm amber, and the air feels cooler now, touched by the evening.
Ahead, I see a lake.
It stretches out before us, still and glassy, with the surface catching the colours of the sky like a mirror. Pink, lavender, and gold hues ripple gently with the breeze. It’s breathtaking.
Ford parks the truck near the edge and hops out, coming around to open my door again. It’s so quiet here, there’s no one else around. Just the water,the trees, and the fading light.
I take his hand, stepping down slowly, my heart fluttering.
He doesn’t say much, just gives me a soft smile and heads to the back of the truck.
The tailgate drops with a thud, and he starts setting things out—a couple of thick blankets, some cushions, a small cooler, and a brown paper bag that smells faintly of sugar and butter.
I walk towards the back, but before I can climb up, Ford’s there, and his hands gently settle at my waist.
“Let me,” he murmurs, voice low.
He lifts me, strong and steady, like it’s nothing. Like I weigh less than the moment between us. His hands remain just a second longer than necessary, and when I meet his eyes, he’s looking at me sweetly. Something in his expression says he likes this. Looking after me. He likes being the one I let in.
He sets me down on the edge of the truck bed, and I slide back into the cushions.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Just need to get the fire going.”
I settle into the cushions, pulling one of the blankets over my lap as Ford walks toward the fire pit. Buddy jumps up next to me and rests his head against my leg as we watch Ford.
He moves with that quiet confidence I’ve come to recognise. He’s at one with the earth, and it respects him as much as he respects it.
He gathers a few stones, arranges some kindling, and lights a small fire in the pit nearby.
It crackles to life, casting a warm glow that dances across his face and the lake beyond. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. Just works with calm precision, like he’s done this a hundred times before.
And this time it really hits home. This man, the one lighting a fire for me by a lake at sunset, the one who remembered coconut water and British snacks, and lifted me into the back of his truck like I was something precious, is not the gruff, guarded rancher I met on my first day here. He’s still quiet and stubborn, but he truly is that thoughtful, gentle man that I’d started to think he was. He’s protective in a way that doesn’t smother, but steadies. And I feel safe. Not just here, in this place. But generally, with him.
The fire burns steadily now, and Ford stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans before turning back towards me. His eyes meet mine, and something in my chest shifts, like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks and only just remembered how to exhale.
He walks back slowly with the firelight trailing behind him, and I swear the whole world feels calmer. Not so weighed down with sadness, hurt, and grief.
