"Harlow," I said slowly, "whose truck is this?"
"Told you. Yours." He adjusted his large frame in the passenger seat, looking pleased with himself. "Pa says he and Quaid can fix those dents easy. And you can pick whatever color you want when they repaint it."
I stared at him, the implications finally sinking in. "Are you telling me that your father bought me a truck?"
"Pa and me," Harlow corrected, his expression open and earnest. "Your insurance claim is still processing, but you need wheels now, not whenever some office worker gets around to your paperwork."
A rush of complicated emotions hit me all at once—gratitude, embarrassment, a touch of pride that wanted to refuse such a generous gift, and underneath it all, a warmth that spread through my chest at the thought of Harlow and his father shopping for a vehicle for me.
"Harlow, I can't—you shouldn't have—"
"Yes, we should," he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. "Your truck got totaled saving me and my family. This is just making things right."
I ran my hand along the steering wheel, taking in the worn but serviceable vehicle. It wasn't flashy or new, but it was exactly what I needed—practical, reliable transportation to get back on my feet.
"I don't know what to say," I admitted, emotion making my voice rougher than I intended.
Harlow's large hand covered mine on the gearshift, warm and steady. "Say thank you," he suggested with a smile. "Then drive us home."
Home. There was that word again, hanging between us with all its complicated meanings. But the way Harlow said it made it sound simple, like there was no question where we were headed or where I belonged.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. "Not just for the truck. For everything."
He squeezed my hand. "You saved us all that night, Dan. You took a bullet protecting my family." His eyes, earnest and direct, held mine. "Least we could do is make sure you have transportation."
I put the truck in drive, still adjusting to the idea that this vehicle—this unexpected gift—was now mine. As we pulled out of the hospital parking lot, Harlow's hand found mine again, his palm warm against my fingers.
"Where to?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Home," he said simply. "McKenzie River. Where you belong."
I nodded, pointing the truck toward the highway that would take us back to the town that had somehow, against all odds, become the place I wanted to be. The place where Harlow was. And for now, that was enough of a destination.
Chapter Nineteen
~ Harlow ~
I wiped my sweaty palms against my jeans for the hundredth time, my stomach twisting itself into knots that would make Pa's fishing line look organized. Dan hummed along to some country tune on the radio, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers like he didn't have a care in the world.
That made one of us.
My heart hadn't stopped hammering since we'd left town, and now that we were only minutes away, I thought it might beat right out of my chest.
"You okay over there?" Dan asked, glancing away from the road to flash me that grin that still made my insides flutter after all these months. "You look like you're waiting for a firing squad."
"I'm fine," I lied, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "Just thinking."
"About?" he pressed, one hand leaving the wheel to squeeze my knee briefly.
I shrugged, not trusting myself to speak without giving away the surprise. Three months since Dan had been shot, and I'd somehow managed to keep the cabin a secret the whole time. It hadn't been easy, but my brothers had helped whenever they were free.
The truck bounced over a rut in the road, and Dan winced slightly, his free hand instinctively going to his chest where the bullet wound was still healing. The gesture made my own chest ache in sympathy.
"Still sore?" I asked, grateful for the change of subject.
"Only when I breathe," he joked, dropping his hand back to the wheel. "Getting better every day, though. Doc told me beforeI left the hospital that I'll be cleared for light duty next week if everything looks good at my checkup."
Pride swelled in my chest. Dan had pushed himself hard in recovery, determined not to let Collins win by keeping him down. It was one of the million things I loved about him—that stubborn streak that matched my own.
