Not because I'd planned to. Not because I'd made any kind of decision. I just finished dinner, scratched Sully behind the ears, and started walking. My boots knew where they were going, even if my head was still arguing about whether this was smart.
It probably wasn't.
I went anyway.
The light was on in her window. I crossed the distance to her porch, Sully at my heels, climbed the three steps, and we sat down on the top one.
Then I waited.
Not because I was playing a game. I waited because showing up was my move—opening the door was hers. If she wanted to pretend she hadn't heard me, or turn off the light and wait me out, or open the door and tell me to leave—all of that was her call.
The night was quiet. Crickets. Wind. The distant lowing of cattle settling for sleep. Sully lay beside me, his body warm against my thigh, his attention fixed on the door with the same patience I was trying to practice.
One minute passed. Then two.
I heard movement inside—footsteps crossing the floor, stopping, starting again. She knew I was here. And now she was deciding what to do about it.
The door opened.
Maggie stood in the doorway, backlit by lamplight, wearing sleep shorts and a tank top that hung off one shoulder. Hair down. Feet bare. Arms crossed—but loosely this time, like the defense was more habit than conviction.
She looked tired. Beautiful. Like a woman who'd spent twenty-four hours fighting a battle she'd already lost.
"You're here," she said. There was a mix of surprise and relief in her eyes that made me want to storm inside and remind her how good we were together.
Instead, I said, “I’m here."
"I didn't hear you knock."
“Cause I didn’t.”
Something shifted in her expression—not surprise, exactly. More like recognition. Like she'd expected exactly this. "So you just sat on my porch. Waiting."
I shrugged once. "Seemed fair. Figured the least I could do was give you the choice."
She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. "And if I hadn't opened the door?"
"Then I'd have gone back to the bunkhouse. And tomorrow we'd have gone back to ma'am and Mr. Remington and pretended real hard."
"Would that have worked?"
"Not even a little."
The corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile—not yet—but the ghost of one. "I made rules," she said. "Yesterday. After you left."
"I’m sure you did."
Her eyebrows shot up. "How?—"
"Ivy said you reorganized the supply shed." I let a beat pass. "You reorganize things when you're trying not to think about something."
Her brows pulled together, and she stood up straight. “You don't know that.” Her tone came out defensive, but I didn’t take it personally. I knew Maggie hated the idea of me knowing her intimately. Of knowing what made her tick, what soothed her when she was troubled.
"I've been watching you for ten days, Maggie. I know that."
She uncrossed her arms. Recrossed them. Uncrossed them again, like she couldn't figure out what to do with her hands now that the barricade wasn't holding.
"My rules were good," she said. "Sensible. Professional."
