We were married.
Just like that.
Outside, the spring sunshine felt surreal. Too bright, too warm, too cheerful for what we'd just done. We stood on the courthouse steps, legally bound, functionally strangers, and I had no idea what to say.
Liam cleared his throat. "So. Wife."
I almost laughed. Almost. "Husband."
The word felt ridiculous in my mouth. Like trying on someone else's name.
"This is weird," he said.
"Incredibly weird."
We stood there, neither of us sure what came next. A couple walked past us, hand in hand, glancing our way with polite smiles. They probably thought we were newlyweds. In love. Starting a life together.
They had no idea.
CHAPTER 5
Liam
I watchedmy new life pull up the driveway in a dented sedan that had seen better days.
The dust rose behind Riley's car like a veil, catching the afternoon light, swirling gold and amber before settling back onto the dirt road. I stood on the porch with my hands shoved in my pockets, trying to see this place the way they would see it. The white farmhouse that needed a fresh coat of paint. The barn, solid but weathered, its red faded to something closer to rust. Pastures stretching toward the foothills, green and gold, dotted with horses who'd lifted their heads at the sound of the approaching engine.
This was everything I had. Everything I was.
I hoped it would be enough.
Riley stepped out first, shading her eyes against the sun. She was back in her usual clothes now—cargo pants, a worn T-shirt, steel-toed boots planted like she expected the ground to argue with her. The blue dress from the courthouse was gone, and with it that strange, fleeting softness I’d caught on the steps. This was the Riley I knew from the station.
She was small but solid—five-foot-four of compact muscle built from hauling hose and forcing doors. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, olive skin catching the light, dark eyes sweeping the property the way she scanned fire scenes. Quick. Thorough. Looking for what could go wrong before it did.
She wasn't admiring the view. She was assessing it. Counting exits. Already deciding where she and her sister would fit in a place that had been mine long before it ever thought about being ours.
Then the passenger door opened, and Mia emerged.
She moved slowly, reluctantly, a worn backpack slung over one shoulder. She was small for twelve, shorter than she should have been, with a thin frame that made the straps of the backpack look oversized against her shoulders. Dark hair hung limp around her face, straight and uneven like it hadn’t been cut in a while, and her clothes—jeans a size too big, sneakers scuffed at the toes—looked chosen for practicality, not comfort. Her arms crossed tight against her chest, shoulders hunched forward like she was bracing for a blow.
She didn’t look at the house. Didn’t look at the mountains or the horses or any of the things I’d hoped might impress her. She kept her eyes on the ground, on her shoes, anywhere that wasn’t me.
Something in my chest cracked at the sight. She was so small. So closed off. I’d met her a handful of times at the station, whenever she came by after school to wait for Riley during the long shifts. Each time, I'd tried to make friends with her, cracking jokes the way I did with everyone, trying to coax even a small smile out of her. She never laughed. Not once. Just watched me with those serious dark eyes, the same guarded expression her sister wore, like she was waiting for the punchline to turn into something worse.
I walked down the porch steps to meet them.
"Welcome to Murphy Ranch," I said, sweeping a hand toward the property, then letting it fall back to my side. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”
The words felt smaller once they were out, like I was apologizing for something I’d spent my whole life building.
Riley nodded without looking at me, her gaze already moving—barn to fence line, house to pasture—like she was cataloging what mattered and what could go wrong. "It's beautiful."
“The barn needs some work. The south fence has been giving me trouble.” The words came faster than I meant them to, my hand lifting to gesture at problems she hadn’t asked about yet. “But the house is solid.”
I hesitated, then went on anyway. “My grandfather built it in 1952. Added onto it twice.” A small pause. “My grandmother always said it had good bones.”
Mia stayed where she was, arms crossed tight, weight shifted back on her heels like she was ready to bolt. Her eyes never left me, sharp and measuring—not curious, careful.
