I bark out a laugh, already heading toward the barn with Daisy’s lead rope in hand. “Oh, this is good. Please, do elaborate.”
He falls into step beside me, running a hand over his face. “I’m serious, Teag. Three dates.Three. And she calls meallthe time. Like, constantly. I don’t answer once, and she leaves a voicemail asking if I’m”—he air quotes—“emotionally withdrawing.”
I nearly choke, trying to hold in my laughter.
“She’s already named our future children. All country singers,” he continues, horrified. “The list? Dolly, Waylan, Morgan, Lainey, Reba, Brooks & Dunn.Brooks! And! Dunn!”
“That’s your issue?” I snicker, nudging the barn door open. “The names? Not that she’s probably already mapped out your entire lives together, down to your retirement home?”
“I amnotnaming my kid after Brooks Dunn Wilson.” Knox shakes his head and exhales a heated sigh. “We haven’t even made it to second base yet, and she’s filled a minivan like it’s the Grand OleOpry.”
Before I can respond, Easton’s voice carries through the barn. “The fact you’re a grown man, still referring to it as second base, might be part of the issue there.”
I snicker outright.
Deacon chuckles from somewhere behind a stack of hay bales near the tack room. “Pretty sure he’s right.”
Knox throws his hands up. “Would you all shut up?” He shoots me a betrayed look when I can’t stop giggling.
Easton steps past us, then, brushing close enough that his arm grazes mine. It’s subtle but intentional. His eyes meet mine for a brief second, and he mouths, “See you soon, wildfire.” My heart stutters, and he disappears out into the yard before I can reply.
I focus on Daisy instead, leading her into her stall. The familiar rhythm of unsaddling steadies me. I rest my forehead briefly against her warm neck and let out a slow breath.
Knox’s voice drifts in from the aisle, still muttering about his hypothetical son, Brooks.
I straighten and finish brushing Daisy before closing her stall and stepping into the aisle. If this turns into something real—something lasting—it won’t just be mine. It will belong to the ranch in some way. To my family. To the rhythm of days that start before sunrise and end bone-tired. But if it falls apart, there will be no escaping it.
Through the open barn doors, I can see Easton walking up to the bunkhouse.
I want him. That part is simple.
I want the way he looks at me, like I’m something fierce and worth holding on to. I want the steadiness in his hands, the heat in his mouth, and the quiet promises tucked into stolen glances that no one else notices.
When he opens the door, Easton glances over his shoulder. Our eyes meet, and he shoots me a soft smile.
I want him.
Even if it isn’t simple.
Coming back to the ranch feels like walking into a house where someone has rearranged the furniture while I wasn’t looking.
Nothing is different, not really. The paddock fence still sags in the same place. The wind still carries the scent of hay, dust, and livestock. Deacon still barks orders like he was born with a clipboard in his hand. Knox is still loud enough for three men. The rhythm of the ranch moves on without pause, steady and unbothered by whatever storms we ride through.
And yet everything feels altered.
I adjust the loose board along the corral fence, tightening the screw until it bites firm into wood. My hands move on instinct, the work familiar enough that I don’t have to think about it. Which is good, because my mind is already too full.
Teagan steps out of the barn as I finish. Something about her presence shifts the air pressure around me, like themoment before lightning cracks open the sky. When I finally glance up again, she’s watching me. I give her a small nod, then I head toward the equipment shed before Deacon can find another task to assign me to. I need some space. A second to breathe.
As much as I didn’t want it to, things feel different between Teagan and me now that we’re back. Out there, in the storm, it was simple. There were no expectations beyond survival, warmth, and the undeniable pull between us. Our world shrank to the size of a tin-roofed shack. There was no past inside those walls. No ghosts. No watching eyes.
I walk into the shed and grab a rope that doesn’t need coiling, just to give myself something to do. My chest feels tight, like I’ve swallowed more than air. It’s not the emptiness or guilt that I’ve spent far too long accustomed to. It’s the opposite. It’s the terrifying realization that what I feel for Teagan might be real.
If I let myself step fully into this—into her—I won’t be able to give her halfway. I don’t know how to love like that. My heart doesn’t work like that. When I love, it’s all-consuming. It roots deep. It will mean giving every bit of myself, even the parts of my heart I keep guarded.
But roots can be ripped out.
I fix what needs fixing, and I ride where I’m told to, the afternoon passing in a blur of work. Teagan approaches as I’m working near the water trough, her arms folded and a displeased look on her face. She shakes her head slightly, clearly unimpressed. “You’re avoiding me,” she states plainly.
