13. Thirteen
Thirteen
Emily
The morning sunlight streams through the farm’s kitchen window, brightening the worn kitchen with a warm glow.
Sam leans against the counter, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching his dad move about the kitchen with practiced ease.
“Emily, will you be okay here by yourself?” Sam says, his attentive gaze on me.
I roll my eyes, barely resisting the urge to cross my arms. “I’m not helpless, Sam. And I have a phone.”
Clay lets out a quiet chuckle as he sets his mug in the sink. “She’s got a point, son.”
“Fine.” Sam grins, his lips twitching with amusement. “But reception isn’t that good out here. So use the landline if you need to. Just promise me you’ll take it easy.”
“Go check the fencing,” I reply, waving him off. “I’ll be fine.”
The sound of hooves against packed earth grows faint as Sam and his dad ride off into the distance, their figures growing smaller until they’re specks on the horizon. The house feels quiet without them.
I wander slowly through the house, my fingers grazing the edges of furniture and picture frames, each a glimpse into Sam’s life before he became a famous rockstar in the Wild Band.
There’s a framed photograph of Sam as a kid on the mantel, grinning widely with a missing front tooth. He’s holding a chicken, his small arms wrapped around the squawking bird, while Clay stands behind him, his expression somewhere between pride and exasperation.
I can’t help but smile at the image. Even then, Sam had that same playful energy that makes him impossible to ignore.
The living room is comfortable and well-loved, with sturdy furniture and a faded quilt draped over the back of the couch. It’s so different from the glitz and chaos of the band’s world, but it feels welcoming like a home should.
As I move into the small hallway, I notice more pictures lining the walls. Most are of Sam as a child, though there are a couple of Clay out in the field standing beside his tractor.
One picture catches my eye—a teenage Sam standing in front of the barn, his arm slung around a horse’s neck, a guitar strap slung over one shoulder. His smile is bright, full of youthful confidence, and something about the image tugs at my chest.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to imagine what it must have been like for him growing up here. Did he love it, or was he always itching to leave?
I think back to the way Clay didn’t hug him or even shake his hand when we arrived. At first, I thought it was cold, almost distant, but now I realize it’s just his way. Clay’s love is in the details—in the way he cooks breakfast without asking if you’re hungry or how he allows you to help with the chores even though he insists he doesn’t need it.
Sam’s humor suddenly makes so much more sense. It’s probably how he learned to communicate affection, to fill the empty gaps his dad’s quiet nature left unfilled.
Back in the kitchen, I decide to brew some herbal tea. After I’ve poured myself a cup, I sit at the table, my thoughts drifting to Sam.
I’ve always known he had layers—he wouldn’t be Sam if he didn’t. But seeing him here, on this farm, with his dad, it’s like I’m discovering a whole new side of him.
The way he carries himself here, so comfortable and at ease, makes me realize just how much he loves this place. It’s not just where he grew up—it’s a part of him.
And the way he cares about his dad, it’s clear he feels responsible for him, even if Clay won’t let him do as much as he’d like. Sending money and offering to hire help are all Sam’s ways of showing that he cares and of trying to repay his dad for everything he sacrificed.
I think about the way Sam is with me, too—how he’s been protective without being overbearing, his concern for my health and for the tiny baby inside of me. It’s different from the Sam I initially met, the one who drove me crazy with his teasing and refusal to take anything seriously.
This Sam is still playful, still infuriatingly charming, but there’s a depth to him I hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe I just wouldn’t allow myself to see it.
And this Sam is slowly stealing my heart, whether I want him to or not.
I rest my hand over my abdomen. “I don’t know what the future holds for us, baby. But I know it’s something good,” I whisper softly, feeling a wave of love toward the tiny life growing inside me.
When Sam and Clay return, the sun is lower in the sky. Their voices carry through the open window as they approach the house. I step out onto the porch, shielding my eyes against the glare as they dismount their horses.
Sam looks every bit like a rugged, heart-stealing cowboy with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his jeans dusted with dirt. He flashes me a wide grin from under the brim of his cowboy hat, and my heart flutters. He turns to lead his horse to the barn, and a familiar warmth spreads through me as I watch him walk away in his tight jeans. His back view is as good on the eyes as his front view.
What is it about this man that is so irresistible? I determinedly pull my attention away just as his father approaches.
“We ran into Hank,” Clay says as he strides up the porch steps, pulling off his hat and wiping his brow.
“Hank?” I ask, curious.
“Neighbor who owns the property next to mine,” Clay explains. “He reminded me there’s a barn dance tonight over at the old Hampton place. Starts just after sundown.”
“A barn dance?” I repeat, glancing at Sam as he reappears from the barn.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been to one,” Sam says, smiling.
I shake my head. “No, I’m a city girl.”
“Well then,” Clay says, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, “tonight’s your lucky night.”
When we arrive, the Hampton Ranch is already buzzing with activity. Strings of lights crisscross above the open-air barn, looking festive. A live band is set up at one end of the barn, and the upbeat twang of country music spills out into the surrounding fields.
People mill about in boots and cowboy hats, their laughter mingling with the music. Sam leads me through the crowd, his hand warm against the small of my back.
“Relax,” he murmurs as we step into the barn. “You’re going to love this.”
The smell of hay and wood fills the air. It’s so different from anything I’ve experienced before—simple, unpolished, but full of life.
We’re barely inside when a tall blonde approaches us, her confident stride and tight jeans making her impossible to ignore.
“Sam Ryder,” she drawls, her voice dripping with familiarity. “As I live and breathe.”
Sam tenses slightly, but his smile remains easy. “Bobbi. Been a long time.”
Bobbi’s gaze flicks to me, her perfectly shaped brows lifting in surprise. “And who’s this?”
“This is Emily,” Sam says, his hand tightening slightly on my back. “My wife.”
Her eyes widen briefly, but then she recovers, her lips curving into a slow, almost predatory smile. “Your wife? Well, isn’t this a surprise?”
“It is,” Sam replies, his tone cool. “We’ve mostly kept it under wraps.”
Right then, Clay waves Sam over. “Sam, I want you to meet someone.”
Sam glances at me, and I nod for him to go. “Go ahead, I’ll get something to drink.”
“Shots?” Bobbi looks down her nose at me. “I’ll show you where the hard stuff is. Follow me.”
I follow her toward what looks to be the beverage table, with all types of liquor bottles as well as a keg of beer.
Quietly, I murmur, “Thanks, but I shouldn’t drink anything alcoholic. Just a water for me.”
Her gaze drops to my stomach, and her smile turns sharper. “Oh, I see. So, that’s why Sam married you.”
The words land like a slap, and I can’t breathe for a moment.
“Actually,” I say, my voice steady despite the heat rising in my cheeks, “we’ve been married for over a year, and I’m only a couple of months along.”
Bobbi’s smile falters, just for a second, before she recovers. “Well. Congratulations,” she says, but her tone implies otherwise.
“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a tight smile.
She looks like she wants to say more, but another voice cuts in before she can.
“Emily, right?”
I turn to see a petite but curvy girl with sandy blonde hair. She’s wearing a bright smile and a friendly spark in her brown eyes.
“I’m Lila,” she says, holding out her hand. “You look like you could use a friend right about now.”
I blink, caught off guard, but then I shake her hand, grateful for the lifeline. “Nice to meet you, Lila.”
“Come on,” she says, looping her arm through mine. “I’ll show you the snack table.” Giving a goodbye nod to Bobbi, she leads me away. “Pregnant women get first dibs on the good stuff. Here, try a cupcake.”
Practically moaning after I take my first bite, I state. “These are wonderful.”
“Thanks. I made them. I’m a chef, but there’s not much call for one around here. So currently, I help run the local bakery.”
Rolling my eyes at how good the cupcake tastes, I say, “You should come to Jacksonville. I’d be glad to introduce you around. People are always looking for private chefs there. And if this is anything to go by, you won’t have any problems getting customers.”
“Thanks.” She gives me a thoughtful look. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Lila is a godsend. She chats easily, making me feel welcome as she introduces me to a few other people and points out the best places to snag a piece of pie or a cold drink.
“You’re doing fine,” she says as we watch a group of couples two-stepping on the dance floor. “Don’t let Bobbi Jo get to you. She’s just mad that Sam’s off the market.”
“Was she...” I trail off, unsure how to phrase the question.
“Once upon a time,” Lila says with a shrug. “But it wasn’t serious. Sam’s never been one to date the same girl more than once.” Lila’s voice trails away as she realizes what she said. “Sorry. I guess that’s not true anymore.”
I give a weak smile, not knowing what else to say.
“Sam’s a big deal around here. Local boy hits it big and all that.” Lila leans in confidentially. “That’s why Bobbi Jo wants him back. But she’s the one who broke it off right after graduation. So serves her right.”
Lila continues feeding me bits of gossip as we make our way through the crowd.
Suddenly, Sam appears at my side, holding out his hand.
“Two-step with me,” he says, eyes locking onto mine.
“I don’t know how,” I admit, feeling self-conscious.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, his voice soft but insistent.
Lila winks at me before slipping away, and I let Sam lead me onto the straw-strewn dance floor.
I try to follow Sam’s movements as he expertly leads me around the floor. By the end of the first song, I feel like I’m starting to get a feel for the dance. But then the music changes to something softer and slower.
When Sam pulls me close for the slow dance, his hand warm against my waist, everything else fades away. The string lights above us create a soft glow that makes his green eyes shine, and I can feel his heartbeat steady and strong against me. At this moment, I'm not his accidental wife or his band's manager—I'm just Emily, dancing with the man who's becoming more important to me than I ever expected.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against my ear.
I glance up at him, my heart pounding as our eyes meet. The rest of the people no longer exist, leaving only us, the soft glow of the lights, and the gentle hum of the music.
“Thanks. I guess I haven’t danced to that many country songs.” I whisper, leaning closer so he can hear me as I confess, “It’s hard to imagine you as a country music fan.”
Sam grins. “You’d be surprised. Growing up, that’s all they had around these parts.” Sam gives an amused chuckle. “Some of us teenagers used to sneak out back and blare loud rock and roll music. Until one of the parents would shut us down.”
“Now that I can imagine,” I say with a teasing smile.
Sam suddenly twirls me out and then back in, making me laugh and breathless. His hands go around my waist as he pulls me close—so close that I can feel his warmth.
I rest my head on his shoulder as his hands softly caress my back, and I shiver at the sensation.
“You look great in that dress, by the way,” Sam whispers close to my ear.
I’m suddenly glad I wore the one dress I brought with me. It’s a cornflower blue that exactly matches my eyes. It’s simple, and the way it swirls around my legs makes me feel feminine and pretty.
“You don’t look too bad yourself there, cowboy,” I try to say it in a sexy southern drawl. Sam throws back his head and lets out a hearty laugh. I notice some of the people giving him looks of approval. My eyes snag on Clay, Sam’s dad, and even from here, I can see the slight smile on his face. His stance is one of pride.
I grin up at Sam. “I knew I was right. Your father is very proud of you,” I say, lifting my chin.
He stills, his eyes searching mine. Then he looks around until he spots Clay. His dad gives him a curt nod, but there’s no hiding the satisfied and proud look on his face.
In a low voice, I say, “I’m proud of you too, Sam,” hoping he can see the sincerity in my gaze.
For a moment, I think he’s going to pull away, but then he smiles, his hand tightening on my waist.
"Good," he says softly, "I could get used to that look, Cupcake."
The way he says it, tender and intimate, makes my heart flutter. I no longer mind the nicknames because now I know it’s his way of showing affection. His hand tightens on my waist, and I realize I'm no longer fighting this feeling between us—and haven't been for a while.