The land we both love. The life we've built.
"Six weeks ago," she says after a while, "I was standing in that barn trying to decide if I was brave enough for this."
I turn to look at her. "And now?"
"Now I can't imagine being anywhere else."
"No regrets?"
"Not one."
I study her for a moment, making sure she means it. Then I nod and turn back to the view.
We sit in comfortable silence as the sky shifts from orange to pink to deep purple. Six weeks ago, silence like this would've felt loaded. Heavy with all the things she was too afraid to say. Now it just feels peaceful.
"I used to think staying meant giving something up," she says quietly. "Like I'd have to make myself smaller to fit here."
"And now?"
"Now I know I was wrong." She leans into me. "I'm more myself here than I ever was in Denver."
My arm comes around her, pulling her closer against the cold. "Good."
That's all I say. But I mean everything underneath it. The relief. The certainty. The permanence.
We've both stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I've been thinking," I say after the sun fully sets.
"About?"
"Expanding the barn. Adding six more stalls."
She takes a sip of wine. "That's a lot of work."
"Worth it if the business keeps growing like this."
"It will."
I glance at her. "Confident."
"I've seen the numbers. We're good."
We are good. Better than good. The boarding business has exceeded every projection she made when she first quit her job. The ranch is thriving in a way it hasn't in years.
"Been thinking about other things too," I say, more carefully now.
"Like what?"
"Like what comes next."
"Next?"
"For us."
She sets her wine glass down on the porch railing. "What are you thinking?"
I turn to face her fully. I've been thinking about this for weeks now. The ring I haven't bought yet. The question I haven't asked. The future I can see so clearly it feels like it's already happened.
