“We should head back,” I say. “Daddy’ll need the truck.”
He tosses our cups, opens my door, and helps me into the cab like I’m fragile crystal and not the girl who once broke her arm falling out of a hayloft and walked herself to the ER.
On the drive home, we talk about small things—a hawk on the fencepost, Josie’s latest obsession with glitter, the fact that the bakery started selling kolaches again. The big things sit quiet in the truck with us, taking up space I pretend not to notice.
When we pull into the yard, Daddy’s waiting by the barn, wiping his hands on an oil rag.
“Need a strong back,” he calls as we climb out. “One of the auger bits is stuck and Rafe’s got Penny down at the south creek with a colicky calf.”
Nash tips his hat. “I’m your back.”
He glances at me, something unreadable in his eyes—a silentyou okay?that I answer with a small nod.
“I’ll be in the house,” I say. “Working on those old files.”
It’s not a lie.
It’s also not the full truth.
Because as I watch Nash follow Daddy toward the barn, shoulders broad, gait easy, my brain offers a new plan:
Barn.
Later.
No sponsors. No Brooke. No watchful town.
Just us.
Practice, I tell myself.
We need to practice being a couple in private if we’re going to sell it in public.
Totally logical.
Completely professional.
My heart doesn’t believe me for a second.
But I go inside, pretend to bury myself in paperwork, and listen to the faint echo of male voices and clanking metal from the barn.
And somewhere between the Stroud folder and the old water rights dispute, a thought settles in like a seed:
Maybe it’s time I stopped letting the past write every page of our future.
Maybe tonight, in that barn that watched us grow up, I’ll finally stop running from the answer we’ve both been avoiding.
Or at least… start asking the right questions.
TEN
DELANEY
I climb the ladder like I’m sneaking into trouble, palms dusty, heart tapping quick against my ribs. The barn smells like clean hay and summer heat, like leather and something warm I can’t name without saying his name too. Moonlight slides through the gaps in the old boards in pale stripes. Above me, I hear the soft thud of his boots and the creak of the loft boards as he shifts his weight, unhurried, like he’s got all night to take me apart.
“Careful,” he says, voice honey-low. “Those last two rungs like to surprise a girl.”
“I’m not a girl,” I shoot back, lifting my chin as I step onto the loft.
