Chapter 3
Olivia
For a long moment, I just stare at him. The words hang in the cold barn air like the mist of our breath.
If you needed someone to help keep the ranch, I’d be willing to stand in.
James’s voice was serious when he said it, the same tone he’d probably use to talk about mending a fence or checking on cattle. Like marrying me was a practical matter and no big deal. I can’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or run for the nearest exit.
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper again, because maybe if I say it twice, the world will right itself.
He doesn’t flinch and indicates this isn’t something he’d joke about. The mare snorts, tossing her head, and I swear she’s judging me. “You barely know me,” I say.
“I know enough,” he answers, voice quiet but firm. “I know what kind of man your grandfather was. I know what this land means. And I know you don’t deserve to lose it because of a line in a will.”
I exhale, pacing a few steps toward the open barn doors. Snowflakes drift in, melting against my boots. “You make it sound so simple.”
He shrugs. “It is. Paperwork. Ceremony. We keep it between us. After the land is transferred to you, we can have it dissolved. We’ll handle it proper.”
My pulse hammers. I’ve handled high-stakes meetings, New York boardrooms, public relation crises that would make grown men cry. But this? This feels like standing barefoot in snow. “You really think we can just … fake a marriage?”
James tilts his head, mouth twitching. “People do stranger things for less.”
I snort, despite myself. “That’s comforting.”
Before I can say more, my phone buzzes. Mom. Oh no, not now. I silence it without answering. The last thing I need right now is another reminder that my family already thinks I’m a walking disaster.
“Miss Martin …”
“Olivia,” I interrupt.
He nods once. “Olivia. You don’t have to decide right this second. Think on it. Talk to Harlan if you want to make sure it’s legal.”
As if summoned, Mr. Harlan appears at the barn door, pulling his scarf tighter. “Everything all right here?”
I blink at him, caught. “Define all right.”
James straightens politely. “Just explaining a possible solution, sir.”
The attorney looks between us, brows raised. “Ah. The … marriage clause.”
I cross my arms. “You knew this would come up, didn’t you?”
He clears his throat. “It is an option, and a legal one. If you were to marry, even temporarily, it satisfies the will’s requirements. After everything is transferred, you could pursue annulment … if desired.”
I rub my temples. “You’re both insane.”
“Practical,” Harlan corrects with a faint smile. “There’s a difference.”
James stays quiet, hands tucked in his coat pockets, like he’s perfectly content to let me work through every conflicting thought. The longer I stand there, the louder my heartbeat gets.
I picture the ranch folded into government paperwork, my grandfather’s land sold off in pieces to strangers who’ll never care about it. The thought makes me sick.
“Okay,” I whisper.
James blinks. “Okay?”
I nod, throat tight. “We’ll do it. For the ranch.”
His lips curve—not a grin, not even a smile, just a subtle lift that warms something inside me. “For the ranch,” he echoes.
Harlan exhales, clearly relieved. “Very well. I’ll draw up the paperwork and schedule a time at the courthouse. Sheriff Collins can officiate if you like.”
The absurdity hits me all at once. “Well, that makes it simple,” I mutter.
James’s low chuckle fills the space, deep and unhurried. “Guess it’s settled then.”
I glance at him, trying to read the lines of his face. There’s no mockery there, no smirk, just quiet certainty. Like he’s already decided to carry the weight of this choice without making me feel small for needing help.
And somehow, that scares me more than anything.
???
The drive up the long dirt lane feels like slipping back through time. Snow whirls in the headlights, soft as ash, and the ranch rises out of the darkness just as I remember it—wide porch, trimmed windows glowing warm against the night. Not neglected, not broken. Alive.
My chest tightens. I half expected boarded shutters and overgrown fields. Instead, everything looks… kept. The fences mended, the barn roof new. Someone loved this place enough to keep it breathing.
James pulls in behind me, headlights washing over the porch before he cuts the engine. I step out into air that smells of cedar smoke and snow.
He joins me at the steps, keys in hand. “Place’s been waiting on you,” he says simply.
The keys jingle when he drops them into my palm—five in all, heavy and cold.
“One for the gate, one for the barn, one for the shed, one for the truck out back,” he says. Then he nods at the last key. “And that one’s for your grandfather’s office. I never touched his desk. Figured it should stay that way.”
I look up at him, and for the first time since landing in Colorado, I can’t find anything to say. The porch light catches on the line of his jaw, on the faint breath that clouds the air between us.
“Thank you,” I manage, voice soft. “For keeping it like this.”
He shrugs, the motion quiet but sure. “Didn’t seem right to let it go to ruin.”
I fit the key into the door, the old lock turning with a familiar click. Warm air spills out, tinged with wood polish and coffee—the same scent I remember from childhood mornings here. My throat tightens.
James pauses beside me, hand braced on the porch post. “You should check the pipes before morning. Cold snap’s coming.”
“Right,” I say, still taking it all in—the glow from the kitchen, the echo of boots on wood floors, the ghost of my grandfather’s laugh in the walls.
Then I turn to him. “Where do you live?”
His gaze flicks past me, toward the ridge line visible through the dark. “Cabin up on the north line,” he says. “Close enough to keep an eye on things.”
The words are plain, practical. But the way he says them in his low cowboy timbre sends something twisting through me. Things. Meaning the ranch. Maybe me. I can’t tell.
“I see,” I say, even though I don’t.
He tips his hat slightly. “You’ll be all right here?”
“I think so.”
He hesitates, glancing toward my bag. “You got a phone that works out here?”
“I should,” I say. “Cell service might be spotty.”
He nods once, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. “Then let’s trade numbers. Easier if you need something—or if I need to let you know about weather or stock.”
His fingers move over the screen slowly. When my phone buzzes, I glance down and see his name pop up: James Callahan. No emojis, no fuss. Just plain and sure, like the man himself.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“Now,” he say, tucking his phone away, “if anything feels off, lights, noise—just holler. I’ll be here fast”
“Of course you will. Thanks.”
His boots creak against the boards as he heads back toward his truck. The sound fades and then he’s gone—tail lights cutting through the snow until they disappear behind the ridge.
For a long moment, I stand in the doorway, keys heavy in my hand, heart heavier still. The house feels both familiar and foreign, like stepping into a memory that’s still deciding whether to let me stay.