When Harlow had stammered out a question about whether Ransom would tell Ma, his brother had shrugged those broad tattooed shoulders.
"Not my secret to tell," he'd said. "But if you're serious about this—" his eyes had moved from Harlow to me, assessing and unexpectedly shrewd, "—then you'll man up and tell her yourselves. Soon."
The "soon" had become "now" in my mind. No point in dragging it out, in giving Harlow more time to worry or Hetty more opportunity to build barriers between us. The flowers had been an impulse purchase at the farm stand on my way over—a peace offering, maybe, or just something to occupy my hands.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the clean country air that smelled of freshly turned soil and growing things. Ahead, the long gravel driveway stretched toward the farmhouse, each step bringing me closer to the confrontation I'd been rehearsing in my head since dawn.
What would I say to Hetty McKenzie? How could I make her understand that her son—her beautiful, gentle, underestimated son—was a grown man capable of making his own choices? That what we felt for each other was genuine and adult and real?
"Mrs. McKenzie," I practiced under my breath, "I respect your concern for Harlow, but—" No. Too defensive from the start.
"I care deeply about your son—" Too vague.
"Harlow and I have developed feelings for each other—" Too clinical.
I adjusted my collar with my free hand, the wildflowers trembling slightly with the movement. My sheriff's department polo felt too casual suddenly, but a uniform would have seemed intimidating, and a suit too formal.
Nothing seemed right for telling a mother you were in love with her son—especially when that mother had spent years convincing herself and everyone else that her son couldn't possibly understand such emotions.
The gravel crunched beneath my boots, announcing my approach with each step. A few chickens scattered at my presence, clucking indignantly as they raced for the safety of their coop. The sound would alert anyone in the house to a visitor.
No turning back now.
What if she refused to listen? What if she asked me to leave, forbade Harlow from seeing me? What if she called Sheriff Hardesty and complained about me? My career in law enforcement was solid, but small towns had ways of making life difficult for those who didn't conform.
I transferred the picnic basket back to my left hand, the muscles in my arm aching slightly from the constant shifting. The basket contained a simple lunch—fresh bread from Rosie's, cheese from the dairy outside town, sliced ham, and two pieces of cherry pie carefully wrapped in wax paper. A picnic for Harlow and me after the conversation with his mother. An optimistic gesture, assuming we'd have something to celebrate.
Or maybe just wishful thinking.
As I neared the halfway point of the driveway, I caught sight of movement in the vegetable garden to the left of the house. A large figure bent among the rows of young plants, broad shoulders easily identifiable even at this distance.
Harlow.
My step faltered momentarily, the tightness in my chest easing just from seeing him. This was why I was here. Not to placate Hetty McKenzie or earn the town's approval, but because that man—with his gentle hands and quiet wisdom and heart too big for his massive chest—had somehow become essential to me.
As necessary as air.
I squared my shoulders and continued walking. Whatever happened next, I needed Hetty to understand one fundamental truth: her son was not a child. He was a man with a man's desiresand a man's capacity for love. A man who deserved the chance to choose his own path, make his own mistakes, find his own happiness. Even if that happiness was with me—an outsider with a badge, a man with his own jagged edges and complicated past.
The farmhouse grew larger with each step, the porch swing moving gently in the morning breeze. A basket of laundry sat near the door, waiting to be hung on the clothesline. Everything about the place spoke of order, tradition, family roots that ran deep as the old oak trees surrounding the property.
I was the disruption to that order. The complication. The threat. But I was also the one who saw Harlow for who he truly was, who recognized the depth of intelligence behind those thoughtful eyes, who valued the strength of character that had nothing to do with his physical power.
I reached the end of the driveway, pausing where it opened into the yard proper. The wildflowers in my hand had wilted slightly in my grip, but their colors remained bright against the green backdrop of the garden. I loosened my hold, letting the stems breathe, and took one final steadying breath of my own.
Hetty McKenzie might not want me here. She might not understand or approve of what was growing between her son and me. But I wasn't leaving without making her see that Harlow deserved the chance to make this choice for himself.
Some things were worth fighting for. And I'd never backed down from a fight in my life.
I veered off the main path toward the vegetable garden where Harlow knelt between rows of young plants. My breath caught at the sight of him—all that power and strength focused on tasks requiring the most delicate touch. His massive hands moved with surprising gentleness over fragile seedlings, carefully pressing soil around their tender stems.
Something about the contrast made my chest ache, a physical pain that was somehow also pleasure.
He didn't look up immediately, absorbed in his work, murmuring something I couldn't quite catch to the plants as if they could hear and understand him. Knowing Harlow, maybe they could. He had that way about him—connecting with living things on a level most people couldn't access.
I stood watching him for a moment, reluctant to break the spell. The morning sun caught in his dark hair, highlighting the few silver strands at his temples. His brow furrowed in concentration as he measured the space between two seedlings, adjusting one slightly to give it more room to grow.
Then, as if he'd suddenly sensed my presence, his head came up. Our eyes met across the neat rows of vegetables, and his entire face transformed. The smile that broke across his features was like sunrise after the longest night—brilliant, warm, full of promise.
