Eventually, the tears slowed. The gasping stopped. I sat up, wiped my face with shaking hands, and stared at the crumpled paper in my lap.
If you ever come for me, come all the way.
I didn't know what to do with that. Didn't know how to be the person those words were asking me to become. The person who chose loudly. Who loved publicly. Who wasn't afraid to want something and claim it in front of everyone.
I'd spent years being afraid. years hiding. convincing myself that the safest thing was to never need anyone, never want anyone, never let anyone close enough to see the real me and decide I wasn't worth keeping.
Jack had seen the real me. He'd decided I was worth keeping.
And I'd told a practical stranger he was the ranch hand.
I looked at the note again. Read it one more time, letting the words sink into my bones.
He did. He deserved that. After everything he'd been through, he deserved someone who would stand up and say this man is mine without flinching.
He'd stayed here. He'd risked it for me.
And I'd made him feel like he wasn't worth claiming.
If you ever come for me, come all the way.
The shame of it burned through me, hot and bitter. I wanted to go back in time. Wanted to answer Georgia's question differently. Wanted to say this is Jack, and he's mine, and I'm keeping him.
But I couldn't go back. I could only go forward.
The question was: did I have the courage to do it?
So I did what I always did. What I'd been doing my whole life.
I got dressed.
I splashed cold water on my face, watching my reflection in the mirror—red-rimmed eyes, blotchy cheeks, the unmistakable evidence of a woman who'd just had her heart shattered. I braided my hair with trembling fingers, the familiar motion steadying me slightly. Put on jeans. Boots. A work shirt that didn't smell like Jack.
I tucked the note into my pocket, where it burned against my thigh like a brand. Like evidence. Like a promise I didn't know how to keep.
And I walked out the door.
The morning was bright and clear, mockingly beautiful. The horses were stirring in their paddocks, expecting feed and attention and the normal rhythms of ranch life. Somewhere near the barn, I could hear Hunter's voice, giving instructions to one of the hands.
Everything had changed.
I stopped on my porch, frozen between the cabin and the barn. The truck was right there. I could get in it. Could follow whatever road Jack had taken. Could find him and tell him I was sorry, that I'd been a coward, that I wanted to choose him—loudly, publicly, without fear.
But what would I say? What could I possibly say that would undo what I'd done?
I'm sorry I called you the ranch hand.
It sounded pathetic even in my own head. Because it wasn't about the words—it was about what they revealed. About the fear that had driven them. About the ten years I'd spent building walls so high I couldn't see over them anymore.
Jack didn't want an apology. He wanted a choice.
And I didn't know if I was capable of making it. Not yet. Not when the fear was still so loud, still drowning out everything else.
The armor settled around me like an old friend—the competence, the control, the careful mask of someone who had everything under control. I'd worn it so long it should have felt comfortable. Should have felt safe.
It didn't.
For the first time in my life, it didn't fit. The seams were wrong. The weight was off. It chafed in places it never hadbefore, rubbing raw against the parts of me that had cracked open in Jack's arms and never quite closed again.
