“I don’t want justfine,” I said, picking up my purse. “You deserve someone who wants all of this—who feels lucky every time you look at her. That’s not me.”
He frowned, trying to turn it into a negotiation, into something he could fix with logic. “Let’s talk when you get back. Don’t make decisions when you’re emotional.”
“I’m not emotional.” I met his eyes, calm and certain, letting the truth out for the first time in months. “I’m just done pretending.”
He shook his head, a little smile tugging at his mouth, the one he used when clients said something naïve. “You’ll change your mind.”
I didn’t answer. There was no fight left to have.
By the time he drifted back to sleep, convinced I’d come around, I was already locking the door behind me.
The city was quiet at four a.m.—just delivery trucks and early joggers, skyscrapers still lit up like Christmas trees against the dark sky. My Mercedes—the one indulgence I’d allowed myself after my first big bonus—was packed with clothes that suddenly felt all wrong for where I was going. Designer blouses that would wilt in barn humidity. Heels that would sink into soft earth around cattle chutes. The armor I’d built for my city life was useless against the memories waiting for me in East Texas.
The skyline shrank in my rearview mirror as the sun came up, painting the glass towers gold before they disappeared entirely. Dallas gave way to suburbs—cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns, strip malls that could’ve been anywhere in America. Then the suburbs thinned out, replaced by something older, something that made my chest ache with recognition.
Gas stations became fewer and farther between. The ones that remained had been there forever—family-owned places with time-worn gas pumps. I stopped at one about an hour outside Dallas, needing coffee and a moment to steady myself.
The old man behind the counter had looked at my clothes, my car, and said, "You lost, honey?"
"No," I'd replied, though it felt like a lie. "Just heading home."
"Where's home?"
"Copper Creek."
His eyes had lit with recognition. "Blackwood country. Good people out there. You know the family?"
Everyone knew the Blackwoods. They were Copper Creek royalty, as close to aristocracy as Texas ranching allowed. Only a handful of other families were that big. The McLeods in Wild Creek were one of them.
"I used to," I said, and left before he could ask more questions.
The landscape changed gradually, then all at once. City sprawl became farmland. Cotton fields stretched toward the horizon, their white bolls ready for harvest. Cattle grazed behind barbed wire fences that ran parallel to the highway. Red-tailed hawks circled overhead, riding thermals in the morning heat.
The radio seemed determined to torture me. Every station played country—not the pop-country that passed in Dallas, but the real stuff. The music of my childhood. George Strait singing about Amarillo by morning. Willie Nelson crooning about blue eyes crying in the rain. Randy Travis wondering about the storms of life.
And then, because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, that Tim McGraw song came on. The one Wyatt and I had danced to at senior prom.
"It's your love, it just does something to me..."
“Oh, it does something to me all right,” I muttered, stabbing the power button hard enough to bruise my finger. “Gives me hives.”
The silence was worse. In the silence, I could hear everything. Ghost conversations that played on repeat in my mind. Wyatt explaining the difference between Angus and Hereford cattle, hands moving as he talked, passionate about bloodlines and breeding programs even at seventeen.
God, that boy could talk about cows like they were poetry.
His voice would get deeper when he talked about the ranch, about the legacy he was inheriting. Not arrogant, just... sure. Sure of his place in the world in a way I’d never been.
Louisa’s voice drifted through the years, patient and warm as she taught me to make cornbread in her kitchen. “The secret is buttermilk, honey, and not overmixing.”I smiled a little. “Guess that’s one secret I actually kept. Along with every bad decision I’ve ever made.”
Owen’s laugh echoed in memory, low and rumbling, the sound of a man who found joy even in chaos. He’d always made me feellike I mattered—like I belonged. I swallowed hard. “Great. Crying over cornbread now. We’re off to a stellar start.”
The boys. God, they’d be men now. Clay—thirty-one, probably still charming everything in a skirt and pretending it was accidental. I could almost hear him laughing, that reckless gleam in his eye. Hunter—steady, gentle, probably married to some lucky vet tech who bakes cookies for the entire county. Luke—the baby. He was eleven when I left. I’d probably have to stop myself from patting his head like a golden retriever.
And then there were the Walkers—Liam and Sophie. Liam would be thirty-two now, same as Wyatt. Texas Ranger material through and through. Quiet, intense, probably terrifying in an interrogation room. Sophie—sweet Sophie—had probably become exactly what she’d always wanted to be. A healer.
And Maggie. God, Maggie. Two years younger than me, she’d been my partner in crime, my late-night confidante. Probably running the whole damn ranch by now. The thought of seeing her again made something twist in my chest. Guilt, nostalgia, regret. Take your pick.
Ten miles out from Copper Creek, my hands were shaking so bad I had to pull over at the old Sinclair station that had been abandoned since before I was born. The green dinosaur sign leaned against the wind, stubborn and rusted, and I couldn’t help but think,Yeah, same.
