I think about sixty-three voicemails and the woman who left them.
I think about the way Bex said my name in the tack room—Lee, Lee, don’t stop—and the way she looked at me after, openand unguarded, like she was waiting to see what I’d do with everything she’d just given me.
I think about the last voicemail.
I never blamed you. I just missed you.
The thing between us isn’t a mistake.
It’s a continuation.
A thread that runs through Rose—through the love she had for both of us, through the family she built around the three of us, through the life she would have wanted us to live if she couldn’t live it herself.
Bex didn’t call sixty-three times because she was checking on me.
She called because we belong to each other.
Because Rose bound us together before we knew what that meant, and her death didn’t sever the bond—it changed its shape.
The bay sighs against my chest.
A deep, contented exhale.
The sound of a living thing that has decided, after months of resistance, that trust is worth the risk.
I know the feeling.
CHAPTER TEN
Bex
It starts with coffee.
Monday morning, a quarter before seven, I pull into the ranch and Lee is standing outside the barn with two mugs.
One black—his.
One with enough cream to turn it the color of caramel—mine.
He knows how I take my coffee.
I don’t know when he learned that.
I don’t know when he started paying enough attention to notice that I dump half the creamer bottle into every cup, or that I drink it like water from dawn until noon and then switch to ice tea when the heat peaks.
But he knows.
And he’s standing there with two mugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Morning,” he says, handing me the mug.
Our fingers brush during the handoff and he doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just lets the contact happen—skin on skin, warm from the ceramic, brief, deliberate, and ordinary.
“Morning.” I take the mug and drink, watching him over the rim.
