“We did.”
“And it was a terrible plan.”
“It was,” she whispers, then tips my face back to hers and kisses me like she’s making a new rule.
We move together in the dark—hands exploring, mouths learning, bodies fitting closer—until the world narrows down to warmth and breath and the steady beat of her heart under my palm.
I keep it tender. She keeps it fierce.
We kiss until our mouths are sore and our lungs are begging, until the line between grief and joy blurs into something softer—something like healing.
When we finally slow, Delaney curls into my chest again, fingers drawing lazy patterns over my ribs like she’s grounding herself in the fact that I’m real.
I press my lips to her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, for everything. For leaving. For deciding. For the years.
She tilts her chin up and kisses the corner of my mouth.
“I’m here,” she whispers back. “Now. That has to count for something.”
My throat tightens. “It counts for everything,” I murmur.
Outside, the ranch is still threatened. The fences still vulnerable. The night still full of shadows.
But in this bed, with Delaney in my arms and the past finally spoken out loud, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time:
Not control.
Not rage.
Not survival.
Peace.
And a vow that settles into my bones like bedrock— no matter who’s cutting wire, no matter who thinks they can scare this family into giving up…
They’re not taking her from me again.
FOURTEEN
DELANEY
It’s been three days of stolen kisses in hallways, shared coffee on the porch, and Nash Hawthorne looking at me like he’s finally done running.
I haven’t been this happy in… I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy.
Which is exactly why I keep waiting for the universe to remind me it doesn’t do fairytales.
We still haven’t said the hard part out loud—Saint Pierce, distance, what happens when the ranch stops bleeding and I’m not needed here every second. It hangs over us like a storm cloud we’re both pretending is just a nice bit of shade.
But for now?
For now, Nash’s hand finds mine like it belongs there, and my mother hums while she cooks like the whole house is lighter. My dad’s shoulders sit a little higher. The fences are holding. The vendor list is tight. The sponsor banners are hung.
And it’s Rodeo Days.
Coleman Ranch is strung with lights and flags. People are everywhere—boots, denim, kids with glitter on their cheeks, old men in folding chairs acting like they personally invented fun. The air smells like dust and barbecue and fried sugar. Somewhere, a country band is sound-checking too loud and nobody’s mad about it.
