"Nothing," I say. "Just... picking up a friend from the bus station later. Someone I knew in the military. She's going through a rough time and needs a place to stay."
Boone's eyebrows rise slightly. "*She?*"
"Yeah. Claire. We served together, stayed in touch. She's had some bad luck lately, and I told her she could crash here for a bit."
It's amazing how easily the lies come once I start talking. I tell myself it's not really lying, that Claire and I did make contact, and she does need help. I'm just leaving out the part where I'm hoping she'll marry me.
"That's good of you," Boone says, and I can't tell if he believes me or not. "She can stay in Wade and Sierra's old cottage?"
"That's the plan."
"Want company at the station? I could drive you."
"No," I say too quickly, then soften it. "Thanks, but I've got it. Might be easier with just me, you know? Less overwhelming for her."
"Alright. Let me know if you need anything. Nicole and I can help her settle in if she wants."
"Appreciate it."
He leaves, and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. One conversation down, dozens more to go. By tonight, all my brothers will know about Claire, will have met her, and will have questions I'll have to dodge.
The buzzing returns with a vengeance, and I grab my jacket off the back of my chair. Can't sit in here spiraling for another hour. Need to move, do something productive. I head to the guest cottage, checking it one more time. Clean sheets on the bed, fresh towels in the bathroom, a basket of snacks on the kitchen counter that Sierra helped me put together when I told her about my "friend" coming to visit. The place is small but comfortable, with a view of the hills and enough privacy that Claire won't feel like she's living in a fishbowl.
Assuming she stays.
Assuming she doesn't take one look at me and realize this was all a terrible mistake.
I straighten a throw pillow that doesn't need straightening, adjust the curtains, check the bathroom again. Everything's perfect. Everything's ready.
Except me.
I pull out my phone and open my messages with Claire. Our last exchange was yesterday:
*Her: Bus gets in at 2 PM. Still okay to pick me up?*
*Me: I'll be there.*
Short, simple, practical. Neither of us has acknowledged what we're really doing here. Two strangers agreeing to get married because we're both desperate for something we can't name.
Claire's profile was different from the others on that website. Most of the women had professional photos, practiced smiles, curated descriptions of themselves. Claire had three slightly blurry pictures and a bio that was honest to the point of being brutal: *25, no family, no money, no prospects. Father died two years ago. Lost everything. Need a fresh start. Not looking for a fairy tale, just someone decent.*
And then there was her face. Pretty blue eyes, long brown hair, soft features. And a scar above her eyebrow, smaller than any of mine, but visible in every photo. She hadn't tried to hide it or angle her face away from the camera. It was just there, part of her.
Something about that scar made me think she might understand. Might not run when she saw what I looked like under my clothes.
I sent her a message that same night, before I could chicken out. Told her I was a ranch owner in Montana, thirty-nine, former military. Sent her the least terrifying photos I had—fully clothed, scars mostly hidden, taken in good lighting.
Just the basics: decent guy with a stable life looking for someone to share it with.
She responded the next morning. We messaged for two weeks, nothing deep or personal, just surface-level getting-to-know-you stuff. She told me about her father, about losing him and then losing their house. I told her about the ranch, about the life I could offer her here.
When I asked her to marry me, I did it through a message because I'm apparently a complete coward. Expected her to say no, or at least to want to meet first. But she said yes within an hour.
*I know this is crazy*, she wrote, *but staying where I am isn't working. At least with you I have a chance at something different. Something better. Let's try.*
The clock on the wall reads 12:15. Time to shower and make myself presentable. Time to become the man I told Claire I was—stable, decent, someone worth taking a chance on.
I just hope when she sees the truth—the scars, the damage, the broken parts I can't hide forever—she doesn't run.
