The bartender slid my beer across the counter.
I replayed the moment in my head, looking for something I might have missed. Some sign that Maggie had hesitated. Some flicker of regret. But there hadn't been any. She'd answered Georgia’s question without a second thought, like introducing me as the help was the most natural thing in the world.
I knew that wasn't fair. I knew I was hurt and not thinking clearly.
But the pain didn't care about fairness.
I understood what happened. Maggie wasn't being cruel—she was being scared. Caught off guard, defaulting to safety, retreating behind walls that felt familiar even when they hurt. I knew she cared about me. I knew she was trying.
But knowing didn't make it hurt less.
And understanding didn't mean accepting.
I had my own limits. My own lines. I wouldn't stay where I had to shrink myself to fit. Not even for Maggie. Especially not for Maggie—because she deserved someone who showed up fully, which meant she needed to choose someone who showed up fully. Not a secret. Not a man she was ashamed to claim.
The rest of the night passed gently. I stayed present. Warm. Attentive. I laughed at Hunter's jokes. Congratulated Stephanie on her set and meant every word. Talked horses with Owen, discussing the Fort Worth auction and the Raven Spur bloodlines and all the plans that might never happen now.
Maggie sensed the shift. I saw it in the way she kept glancing at me across the room. The way she found reasons to touch me—a hand on my arm, a shoulder pressed against mine. She was trying to pull me back, trying to close the distance that had opened between us without acknowledging it existed.
I gave her only what was real: kindness without illusion.
When we finally left—the crowd thinning, the family scattering toward their trucks—Maggie's hand found mine in the parking lot.
"You okay?" she asked. Her voice was soft, uncertain. "You got quiet in there."
I squeezed her hand. Didn't let go.
"I'm fine."
I wasn't fine. But this wasn't the moment for that conversation. Not here, not tonight, not when I hadn't figured out the right words yet.
And if tonight was going to be goodbye, I didn't want it to be angry.
I drove her home. Sully was probably pacing the bunkhouse porch, waiting for me to come back, sensing something in the air he couldn't name.
I walked Maggie to her cabin. She pulled me inside without asking, and I let her. Because I wasn't strong enough to say no. Not tonight. Not when this would be the last time.
The night that followed was different from any we'd shared. I didn't rush. I touched her like I was memorizing her—every curve, every sound, every small gasp that escaped when I found the places that made her unravel.
Maggie responded in kind. Open and present in a way she'd never quite allowed before. No rules. No walls. No exit plan.
She didn't know this was goodbye. I did.
I made love to her like it mattered. Because it did. Because she did. Because even if this was the last time, I wanted her to know—in her body, in her bones—what we could have been if she'd been brave enough to claim it.
Afterward, Maggie fell asleep wrapped around me. The moonlight came through her window in silver stripes, painting shadows across the bed, across her face. I lay awake and watched her.
She was beautiful like this. Soft in a way she never allowed when she was awake. The furrow between her brows had smoothed for once, and I could see the girl she must have been before the walls, before she'd decided she was too much for anyone to love.
But I couldn't prove anything if she kept me hidden.
I couldn't fight for her if she wouldn't let me stand beside her in public.
I let myself feel the full, terrible weight of loving her. Because I did love her. God, I loved her.
That was exactly why I had to go.
Maggie Blackwood deserved a man she was proud to claim. Not someone she introduced as the help. She deserved someone who made her brave—and right now, she wasn't ready to be brave with me.
