Rain crashes onto the roof in steady sheets, the sound loud enough to fill every corner of the small space, thinking about my dreamer. Rosie used to love storms. She’d stand by the window, her reflection faint against the glass, watching lightning forks split the sky open. She always said it made her feel small in a way she liked. The little problems we all faced were like storms, because one big cry could wash them away.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat, and for a long time, I don’t write anything.
“I’m still here,” I promise quietly, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them and disappearing into the empty room.
I look down at the journal again. Writing to her isn’t about recording facts.Not really.It’s about saying the things that don’t have anywhere else to go.
Dear Rosie,
Today was easier than yesterday. It felt lighter.
Not because anything changed, because our past has certainly not grown any smaller.
It’s strange, starting over in a place where the people don’t know who I was.I’m living the life of a different man, without everyone demanding parts of me I no longer have to give. I can build something from scratch on this ranch, relearning myself quietly alongside people who see me only as I am now.
I’m beginning to understand that a life can grow here. A life that’s mine to shape. That maybe it’s possible to move forward and finally start living again.
I wish you could tell me it was. And let me know that it’s okay to carry you into a new life with me.
The rain continues its steady percussion, the sound both comforting and isolating at the same time. I close the journal without writing anything else. My love for her is beyond description and doesn’t need to be put into words for it to be real.
I set them near the door before undressing and lying back against the thin mattress. On my side, I stare at Rosie’s photo, sitting on the small table beside my bed. Her smile is frozen in time and untouched by everything that came after.
Closing my eyes, I whisper, “I love you, dreamer.”
The storm answers for her, rain falling, steady and endless, against the roof.
The days slip past in quiet succession, one folding into the next with the steady, repeated rhythm of ranch life—feed at dawn, check water, mend what’s broken, and repeat. A week has passed since the storm rolled through and scrubbed the sky clean, and the land still feels different because of it. The grass in the low pasture has taken on a deeper green, and the air in the mornings carries that damp, living scent that only comes after heavy rain.
Yet, everything feels slightly off-kilter.
Easton has made himself at home here in a way that would almost be unsettling if it weren’t so natural. He’s not cautious or waiting anymore. He anticipates and steps in without hesitation. Like the rest of us, he moves like he’s memorized the routine of this place down to the smallest detail. The first few days, Knox would needle him constantly, testing him like he was trying to see if it would crack. Now, even Knox seems to have accepted that Easton is quiet, like Deacon and Dad. It’s simply the way he is.Or maybe it’s the way he’schosen to be.
I can’t stop noticing him. He’s impossible to ignore, even if the hot-and-cold emotional whiplash hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse.
This morning, the sun has barely risen when I walk into the barn. The air inside is cool, smelling like hay and grain. The horses stir in their stalls at the door sliding open, their hooves thudding softly against packed straw and hay.
Easton is already there.He always is.Near the feed bins, shoulders broad beneath his worn shirt, the sleeves rolled back to his elbows. His hat is low, shadowing his eyes, but his awareness settles on me the second I step inside.
“Morning,” I greet him.
He glances up briefly. “Morning.” Just one word, like there isn’t this current humming between us every time we occupy the same space.
We fall into the routine without needing to coordinate it—scooping grain, measuring minerals, and checking trough levels—the barn filling with the steady sounds of labor. The air is thick. I try to convince myself that this palpable tension is imagined, but I don’t believe myself.
“You’ll need this for the south trough.” Easton’s gaze falls to the heavy mineral bag he’s carrying. I reach for it automatically as he sets it in the center of the aisle, and our hands meet. It’s barely a brush, the side of knuckles against my fingers.But it’s enough.The contact sends a sharp spark tingling up my arm. My breath stutters before I can stop it.
Easton reacts instantly, pulling back. like he felt it, too. The bag drops to the floor as we both let go, creating distance betweenus.
“Thanks,” I manage.
He nods once, almost meeting my eyes, and quickly turns away. I stand with the feed bag at my feet like an idiot, heat still lingering under my skin.It’s ridiculous that something so small can feel so loud.
The rest of the morning passes without incident, but I’m aware of him the entire time—where he stands, the way he avoids being too close, and even the careful neutrality in his voice when he speaks. It feels deliberate.And that’s what frustrates me most.
By late afternoon, the paddock feels like an oven. The sun hangs heavy overhead, pressing heat into my shoulders and baking the dirt beneath Daisy’s hooves. Dust clings to my jeans and settles against my skin as I trot her around the fenceline to warm her up.
I need this.
