And I trust that if they need me, they’ll come to me.
I remind myself of that as I drive away, hoping whatever this is will get sorted sooner rather than later.
19
Stormy
Idecide to give myself a break from chasing down help for the building.
Every local I’ve contacted seemed eager at first, booking me in for meetings, but then, a few hours later, each one messaged—not called, messaged—to say they suddenly don’t have the time.
And I have no idea why.
The only ones still sticking around are the window guy and the electrician, for now. No one else. It’s weighing on me. Making me feel like maybe this whole thing is slipping through my fingers.
So, I take off for a wander. I barely leave the property as it is, always stuck within my four walls or in the garden. This morning, I need more than that. I need to step further.
The cattle graze peacefully as I cross through the fields, the boots Missy lent me pressing into the earth, the scent of fresh grass thick in the air.
When I reach the edge of the property, my breath catches in my throat. Lying at the base of the mountain is one of the most picturesque places I’veever seen. A massive, ancient tree stands tall, its thick branches stretching outward, cradling an old wooden swing, tied up with thick rope.
Beneath it, the field explodes in wildflowers, bursts of colour painting the land in shades of violet, crimson, and gold. And beside it, a crystal-clear pond shimmers under the afternoon light. I’m in complete awe. It’s the perfect place to sit and read—to escape into words and let them carry me somewhere far from reality.
I set my bag against the tree trunk and pull out my most recent book, a romantasy novel filled with fae, mystical creatures, adventure, and a strong female main character.
I try to focus. Try to let myself slip into the story.
But the world around me is too alive to ignore.
The pond teems with movement, frogs leaping onto lily pads, dragonflies skimming the water’s surface, their wings flashing in the light. A small fish pops up, only to vanish again, sending ripples dancing across the pond. I inhale deeply, letting my shoulders relax as I exhale. This place is perfect. I should take some photos for my Bookstagram. The whimsical setting will do wonders for engagement.
I force myself back into the book, dragging my eyes to the words, only to be torn from them again seconds later by the rhythmic pounding of hooves.
I look up and the book slips from focus as the sight before me steals the breath from my lungs. A black horse barrels across the field, its obsidian coat glistening under the sunlight, its jet-black mane and tail streaming back in the wind. There’s something untamed in the way it moves, a wild, effortless power, every stride a seamless blend of muscle and grace.
And then I see him.
Ford.
He’s perched atop the horse, gripping the reins with strong, steady hands, the muscles in his arms taut under the sun’s glow. His legs brace against the stirrups, lifting him slightly out of the saddle as he leansforward, completely in sync with the horse’s movements. His dark, messy hair catches the wind, tousled even more than usual and his rugged features are set in fierce focus, but there’s something else there. Freedom. For the first time, I see him as he truly is. Not just grumpy, not just stubborn, but this. This is where he thrives. This is where he belongs.
Beside them, Buddy sprints full speed, his tongue lolling, paws kicking up dirt as he keeps pace with the horse’s strides.
I smile to myself, watching as they gallop past, Ford’s eyes snag mine for the briefest of seconds before, in a fluid motion, he shifts his weight, sinks back into the saddle, and pulls the reins.
The horse slows. Then Ford turns, guiding it back towards me. He brings it to a stop by the fence, and his features shift back into their usual grumpy expression.
"Stormy!" he calls, curling two fingers, beckoning me over.
I insert my bookmark, hop down from the swing, and set the book in my spot before making my way towards him, my dress brushing against the wildflowers as I move.
He reaches back, pulling something from his jeans pocket. His baseball cap. He unfolds it, runs his fingers through his hair, then places it on backwards.
And I don’t know why—don’t understand it—but something about the action makes my stomach tighten, and heat spread in my veins. My mouth is suddenly dry.
The horse’s snout nudges against my cheek the moment I reach the fence, its warm breath tickling my neck. A giggle escapes me, and Ford clears his throat. I glance up at him. His expression is the same as always; unreadable. But for a second, it does seem slightly softer than usual. Like he’s forgotten to scowl.
“Did you need something?” I ask.
