Three dots appear immediately. Then:Give her space or fight for her. You pick
My thumb hovers. Both feel wrong. Space means watching her pack in two days. Fighting means risking pushing her away faster. But doing nothing means losing her by default, and that's not an option.
Finally:Fight. Tomorrow.
Good. Call me when you need backup.
I pocket the phone, finish with the tack, and head outside. The sun's overhead, turning the dust to gold and making fresh sweat break across my shoulders. Across the yard, Cabin 5's door sits shut tightly. The curtains are drawn. She's probably on her laptop right now, answering emails, falling back into the patterns that nearly killed her.
And I'm standing here watching it happen.
My boots carry me toward the lodge before I decide to move. Inside, Lucinda's at the front desk sorting paperwork. She looks up when I enter, and her expression shifts from neutral to concerned in half a second.
"What happened?"
"Sloane's skipping the afternoon ride. Said she has work to handle." The words taste bitter.
Lucinda's mouth presses thin. She sets down her pen and leans back in her chair, studying me with those sharp eyes that see too much. "You knew this was coming."
"Doesn't make it easier."
"No." She stands, walking around the desk. She’s shorter than me by half a foot, but right now she feels ten feet tall. "What are you gonna do about it?"
My shoulders pull tight. "What can I do? She's got a life in Seattle. A career. I'm not asking her to choose between me and everything she's built."
"Cash." Her voice goes firm. "She was exhausted when she got here. That career didn't build her. It buried her."
The truth of it feels like a weight on my chest. I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat.
"Give her tonight," Lucinda says quietly. "Let her work through whatever's going on in that head of hers. But tomorrow? You fight."
I nod and manage to croak, "Yeah."
"I mean it. Don't let her talk herself into leaving without knowing what she's walking away from."
The heat feels oppressive when I step out of the lodge. I head toward my house, boots kicking up dust, and try not to look at Cabin 5 as I pass.
I fail. I can’t help it. The curtains remain drawn.
Inside my house, the air is cooler, but not by much. I strip off my shirt, toss it toward the hamper, and stand in front of the kitchen sink running cold water. I splash it on my face and neck, letting it drip down my chest, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps except the plan forming in my head, the words I'll say, the way I'm going to make her listen.
My phone's on the counter. It’s seven p.m. Sloane's probably skipped dinner. I could bring her something, use the meal as an excuse to check on her.
But that feels like chasing. And if she's retreating, chasing will only make it worse.
She needs tonight to realize Seattle's a cage. Tomorrow, I'll show her that the door's been open all along.
I pull a beer from the fridge and drink half in three swallows. It’s cold and bitter, and it does nothing to quiet the noise in my head.
The phone rings. Alban's name appears on the screen.
"Yeah," I answer.
"You sound like hell."
"Feel like it too."
There’s silence on his end but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that says he's giving me space to talk when I'm ready. I walk to the window, beer in one hand, phone in the other, and stare out at the ranch yard going purple with dusk.
