That was the noble version. The version that sounded like principle instead of desperation.
The truth was simpler and more humiliating: I couldn’t afford to lose this booking. Two weeks, four cabins, the full guest house. Biggest reservation of the quarter. Refunding it would mean dipping into operating funds that were already stretched so thin I could see through them. Feed costs up. New fencing not cheap. And that vendor payment Denise had flagged last week still hadn’t cleared.
I needed the money.
Underneath the money, there was the other thing. The thing I wasn’t going to examine, not now, not while he was standing three feet from me looking like that. Jaw tight, standing there absorbing every word I threw without flinching.
He deserved all of it.
That didn’t explain why watching him take it made my throat ache.
“Your group stays,” I repeated, steadier. “But you and I are done. Don’t talk to me. Don’t approach me. Don’t try to explain or apologize or fix anything. You’re a guest. I’m the owner. That’s the line. Cross it and Hank will escort you off the property personally.”
“Rose—”
“We’re finished.” I walked to the door and pulled it open. Morning sunlight flooded in, obnoxiously bright. “Get out.”
He didn’t move right away. He stood there looking at me with an expression I couldn’t afford to read. Not regret exactly, not despair. Quieter than both. Like he’d already accepted the damage and was calculating what came next.
“You’re right about all of it,” he said. “Every word. I lied. I was a coward. I’m not going to stand here and make excuses.” His gaze held mine, and his voice shifted into conviction. “But the video’s coming down. My legal team is sending takedown notices to every repost. And I’m putting out a statement making it clear the video was posted without my knowledge or consent, that your ranch had nothing to do with it, and that anyone who shows up here uninvited will be hearing from my lawyers.”
I hadn’t expected that either.
“I don’t need your PR team to?—”
“It’s not PR. It’s the least I can do.” He paused at the threshold. “I know you don’t believe me right now. That’s fair. But what happened in that barn, what you told me, what I told you, that wasn’t Fraser Kincaid. That was me. Graham.”
He walked out before I could respond.
Which was infuriating, because I’d had the last word planned and he’d stolen it right out from under me.
I closed the door. Locked it. Pressed my forehead against the wood and stood there breathing until my hands stopped shaking.
My eyes burned.
I did not cry.
Ten seconds. I gave myself ten seconds to feel everything, the betrayal, the loss, the hot stupid ache of wanting someone who’d lied to me, and then I shut it down.
Washed my face. Laced my boots. Went to work.
The ranch didn’t care about my feelings. It never had. Horses need feeding. Stalls need mucking. Fences need fixing. The work doesn’t pause because your heart got stomped on.
By early afternoon,I was in the barn aisle refilling vitamin supplements when I heard Denise’s car crunching up the gravel drive.
She found me in the feed room. Door open, sleeves rolled, sweat on my neck. I looked like someone who’d been working hard, which was true, and not like someone who’d been gutted by a conversation, which was also true.
“Hey.” Denise leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up on her head. Put-together the way she always was. Clean jeans, fitted jacket, nails done. “So. Fraser Kincaid.”
“You saw the video.”
“Everybody saw the video.” She stepped inside and perched on the grain bin, crossing one ankle over the other. “I’ve been putting out fires all morning. Beth Whelan from the Gazette wanted a comment. I told her Gracen Ranch values guest privacy and has nothing to add.”
My stomach turned. “The Gazette.”
“The Gazette, the feed store, half the lunch crowd at Milly’s.” She pulled out her phone and scrolled. “Pete from the hardware store texted asking if you were okay. Linda at the post office cornered me wanting to know if ‘that YouTube fella’ is still on the property. And some celebrity gossip site called the ranch line. I let it go to voicemail.”
“A gossip site.”
