Ten miles pass in silence. She stares out the window, travel mug pressed between her palms, shoulders tight under my jacket. Reaching over, I take her hand off the mug and lace our fingers together on the bench seat between us.
She startles and looks down at our joined hands but doesn't pull away.
"You're quiet," I say.
"I’m thinking."
"About?"
Her throat works. "This. What we're doing."
Squeezing her hand, I bring our joined fingers to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, keeping my eyes on the road. "We're going to town. Getting supplies. Nothing complicated."
"Cash," she says, her eyes wide and suddenly vulnerable as she looks at me. "There won’t be any hiding this; everyone’s going to know."
"Good."
"Good?" Her voice goes up half an octave.
"Yeah." I catch the skip and jump of her pulse beneath my thumb. It’s a desperate, fluttering heat that tells me she’s seconds away from wanting to bolt. "I want them to know you're with me."
Tension fills the silence that follows. Her pulse jumps under my touch. Finally, she whispers, "I don’t know if I’m ready for that."
"Then you tell me. Right now. And we turn around."
The words are true. If she's not ready, I'll take her back to the ranch and give her more time. But I need to know where we stand. Need to know if she's mine or if she's still running.
She's quiet for three miles. Then she turns her hand in mine, palm to palm, and threads our fingers tighter. "Don't turn around."
The tension releases from my shoulders, and I press the gas. The truck picks up speed on the empty highway.
We arrive in Saddlehorn around nine-thirty. It’s one main street lined with storefronts that haven't changed in decades. Feed store on the corner, diner across from the post office, general store with its faded awning and wooden porch. Saturday morning means the parking spots are full, trucks angled in like dominoes.
We slip into a space near the feed store, and I kill the engine. Sloane stares through the windshield at the diner, and tension climbs her spine vertebra by vertebra.
"Hey." I cup the back of her neck, thumb stroking the soft skin behind her ear. "You're safe with me."
She nods but doesn't look convinced.
We climb out into heat that's already building, the sun climbing toward noon. Rounding the truck, I take her hand again before she can think about pulling away. Her palm is damp with nerves, but she holds on.
The feed store first. We need grain and salt licks, and Tom behind the counter has known me since I was twenty-two and green as spring grass. He looks up when the bell over the door jingles, and his eyebrows climb toward his hairline when he sees Sloane.
"Cash." He sets down the clipboard he was holding. "Didn't expect to see you with company."
"Tom, this is Sloane. She's staying at the ranch." The way I'm holding her hand says everything.
Tom's gaze flicks between us, and recognition settles in his expression. "Ma'am." He nods to Sloane. "Welcome to Saddlehorn."
She manages a smile. "Thank you."
I keep her close with a hand on her lower back as I walk her through the store and gather what I need. She's tense under my palm, but she's not pulling away. That's progress.
At the counter, Tom rings up my order and loads bags into my arms. "Haven't seen you bring someone to town in a long while."
"No," I agree. "You haven't."
His smile is slow and approving. "Good for you, buddy."
