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Bass sat again, not in Eden’s chair this time. He chose the stool near the table.

Good.

“Jess.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m going to say something.”

“I know. You always do.”

“She is not a fence post.”

Jesse flinched.

Bass did not soften it. “You can’t set her where you need support and call that marriage.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I said I know.”

Bass leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “When Emily came here, I thought I could arrange everyone’s future if it kept the ranch together. I wrote letters that weren’t mine to write. I made choices for other people and dressed them up as family loyalty.”

Jesse looked at him.

Bass’s face hardened with memory. “I nearly lost her because of it.”

“Eden ain’t Emily.”

“No. But a woman knows when a man is offering a bargain instead of his heart.”

Jesse’s throat worked. His voice came out rough. “What heart?”

Bass stilled.

“This?” Jesse lifted his weak right hand barely off the blanket. It trembled and fell. “This body? This head? This man who can’t drink tea without help? What exactly am I supposed to offer?”

Bass’s face tightened. “Yourself.”

Jesse laughed bitterly. “Not much of a gift.”

Bass leaned close enough Jesse could not escape his gaze. “Do not say that where Aunt Cleo can hear you unless you are prepared to have Scripture and a wooden spoon applied to your head.”

Despite himself, Jesse almost smiled. It vanished quickly.

Bass went on. “You are hurt, angry, and afraid. Fine. Be all of it. Do not decide in this bed God made a mistake when He made you.”

Jesse looked away.

Bass’s voice softened. “Do not ask a woman like Eden Whitcomb to marry your fear.”

The words settled hard.

Marry your fear.

That was exactly what he had done.