I looked at him, really looked, and in the full daylight his face was something new. Relaxed. Maybe even content. There was a shadow of a smile at the edge of his mouth, and his eyes were soft, not searching for danger for once, but just… watching me.
And then, like it had been waiting its whole life for the right cue, the realization hit me—We’d won.
I stopped dead in my tracks. The wind picked up and tried to flip the deed out of my hands, but I clutched it tight. “We won,” I said, the words popping out loud and high-pitched and absolutely not cool, but I couldn’t help it.
Knox squeezed me in. “You won,” he said, and the pride in his voice was so thick I could have eaten it with a spoon.
My face did something I’d never experienced before. I smiled so hard it hurt. I couldn’t stop. The muscles twitched and pulled and burned, and for the first time ever, I understood why people used the phrase “couldn’t wipe the grin off.”
He steered me toward the truck. Every step felt like it might turn into a dance move or a skip, but I tried to hold on to what was left of my dignity.
It was not a lot.
In my head, I’d prepped a whole list of things to say in a moment like this. “Thank you” was at the top, followed closely by “I love you,” but both seemed too simple for what had just happened. Instead, what came out was, “Does this mean I get a reward?”
I regretted it instantly.
Knox stopped, turned, and looked at me with one eyebrow cocked in pure, unfiltered amusement. “You want a reward?”
I panicked. “I mean, saving the farm is more than enough. Really. But also, maybe, like, a high-five? Or—ice cream? Or, I don’t know, something else?” My mouth was moving too fast to catch. “Not that I expect anything. I’m just happy to be alive. But, you know, if there’s a traditional reward system for surviving a legal battle with my dad, I’m not against it.”
Knox’s low, rumbling laugh vibrated through his chest and into my shoulder. “You want a reward,” he said again, but slower. He moved closer, until our faces were just inches apart. “You’ll get your reward, Newt.”
I swallowed. “Oh. Okay.”
He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the soap and wood-smoke on his skin. “But not here,” he said, voice dropping to that register that should be classified as a controlled substance.
My knees did something they’d never done before.
They wobbled.
“Good,” I managed, and then, “I mean, yes, that’s probably for the best, public decency and all.” I was babbling again. “Not that I’m opposed to indecency. You know. In general. But—oh god, I’m still talking.”
He grinned, really grinned this time, and it was like watching the sun rise over the mountains—surprising, overwhelming, a little blinding.
He kissed me, quick but not rushed, and I didn’t even care that we were in full view of half the county. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, lingering, almost gentle.
Sheriff Hardesty, who had been pretending to check his phone by his squad truck, tipped his hat and said, “Congratulations, boys. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
Knox nodded in his direction, never taking his eyes off me. “Will do, Sheriff.”
We made it to the truck in one piece. I climbed in, clutched the deed to my chest, and grinned at Knox, who was taking his sweet time circling to the driver’s side.
The sun followed us home. The whole way back, the world looked different, brighter, louder, a little unhinged, like it was daring me to dream even bigger.
I looked at Knox as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on my knee. I reached over, laced my fingers through his, and squeezed.
He looked over, smiled that small, private smile he saved for moments like this, and squeezed back. We didn’t needwords, not anymore, because we’d already said everything that mattered.
Chapter Sixteen
~ Knox ~
If you want to know what it’s like to be born for war, try standing shoulder to shoulder with four McKenzie men at dawn, waiting for the enemy to cross your land.
The morning had the hush of a funeral, all fog and premonition, the sky barely cracked open and the only thing moving was the slow advance of bodies up the gravel drive.
We’d picked the place with care—the fence line east of the old barn, sightlines clear in every direction, our boots planted where the first ruts met the boundary marker my great-granddad had sunk in the dirt a hundred years ago.
