“That’s...” She clears her throat. “That’s quite an opening line.”
“The bank denied the loan. There’s a state grant—Veterans’ Ag Resilience. Prioritizes married veteran operators with qualified co-signers.”
Christ, I’m making it sound like a business transaction. I hate myself.
“Your coordinator credentials make us ideal candidates. And there’s a land-grant loophole—if I’m not married when LandCorp files its petition, they can force a sale.”
“So you need a wife.” Her voice is flat. Guarded. “For paperwork.”
“No.” Too sharp. I force myself to breathe. “I mean—yes, technically. But that’s not?—”
I’m drowning. Saying everything wrong.
She waits, brown eyes unreadable in the dim light.
“When I think about losing this ranch,” I say slowly, “the thing that scares me most isn’t the land. It’s not the legacy or disappointing my family.” I make myself hold her gaze. “It’s losing you with it.”
Her breath catches.
“You came here with nowhere else to go. I know that. And I swear, Delaney—I’m not asking because you’re convenient or because you can’t say no.” I step closer. “I’m asking because the thought of you leaving—of not seeing you argue with my systems or glare at me over coffee—that terrifies me more than any financial crisis.”
“Daniel—”
“You can say no. You’ll still have a job. You’ll still have a home, even if this place doesn’t survive. Nothing changes except I spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”
Silence stretches between us. A horse shifts in its stall. Outside, the evening insects are starting their chorus.
Delaney stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression—fear and hope and something else I can’t name.
“I need to think,” she says.
“Take all the time you need.”
She walks past me, close enough that I catch her scent. At the barn door, she pauses.
“Daniel?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For asking like my choice matters.”
“It does matter.” My voice comes out rough. “You matter.”
She doesn’t respond. Just walks out into the twilight, leaving me in the barn with my heart in my throat and everything riding on her answer.
Captain Winky nickers softly. Judgment, probably.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I know.”
Chapter 9
Delaney
“Sugar, that skillet surrendered ten minutes ago.”
I don’t look up. Lucille—Miss Maggie’s prized cast iron that’s older than I am—gleams like a black mirror under my relentless scrubbing. My shoulders burn. My knuckles are raw. I keep going anyway, steel wool grinding against seasoned iron that hasn’t seen this much attention since the Clinton administration.
“It’s not clean.”
