Chapter 5
Olivia
It starts with a phone call I should have ignored. Mom’s voice bursts through the speaker like she’s conducting a board meeting instead of checking in on her daughter. “Married? Olivia, you can’t just drop something like that over voicemail!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s … recent. Love at first sight. What can I say?”
“Who is he? What does he do? Where did you meet him? Please don’t say one of those online dating apps. You remember what happened with the hedge fund guy who …”
“Mom,” I interrupt. “His name’s James. He’s the ranch foreman. It’s a long story.”
There’s a pause so long I check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. Then, “You married the help? What about your position here in Manhattan? What about your apartment? Are you going to stay there with him?”
I close my eyes. “I married a man, mom. You need to slow down. James and I are still working out the particulars. It’s complicated.”
My sister Caroline’s voice joins in on speakerphone—of course. “Oh my God, Liv, tell me you’re joking. Grandpa’s foreman?”
I groan. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Oh, you’re absolutely doing this,” Mom cuts in. “You’re coming home for Christmas. Both of you. I want to meet my new son-in-law. And I mean in person. None of this ‘we’re too busy on the ranch’ nonsense.”
“Mom …”
“Tickets are being booked as we speak,” she continues, as if I’m not even on the line. “First class, of course. It’s the least we can do since we were not able to have a property wedding for our daughter.”
I hang up before she can say another word.
James is standing by the truck when I find him, hands in his coat pockets, watching snow drift off the roofline. He looks peaceful, which makes what I have to say feel even more criminal.
“We’ve been invited to New York,” I blurt. “Correction — commanded.”
He blinks. “New York City?”
“Mm-hm.”
He goes quiet for a long moment. “Never been.”
“Never?” I ask, incredulous.
He shakes his head. “Never had reason to. Closest I’ve come was Denver airport once. Didn’t much care for that either.”
I pinch my lips together to keep from laughing. “You’ve flown before though, right?”
He looks at me, dead serious. “Not unless you count getting tossed off a horse when I was seventeen.”
My brain short-circuits. “You’ve never been on a plane?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” I swallow a giggle that bubbles up anyway. “This’ll be … fun.”
His eyes narrow in mock suspicion. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe a little.”
When we finally board the flight a few days later, the comedy writes itself. He stares at the metal detector like it’s a trap, calls the TSA scanner a “fancy cattle chute,” and tips his cowboy hat to the flight attendant like she’s royalty.
By the time the plane starts taxiing, he grips the armrest so hard his knuckles go white. “Feels unnatural,” he mutters.
I grin. “You’re doing great, cowboy.”
He cuts me a side look. “You city people pay money to do this on purpose?”
“Every day.”
When the plane lifts off, his jaw tightens. But then the window view catches him. The mountains fading to silver, the clouds spreading like a blanket below us. He leans in, eyes wide with something close to wonder.
“Guess it’s not all bad,” he admits quietly.
“Not bad at all,” I agree.
By the time we land, I’m already bracing for impact — the family kind. Manhattan greets us with taxis blaring, lights flashing, and my faux cowboy husband holding his hat like it might blow away. He turns one slow circle on the sidewalk, taking in the skyline.
“Tallest glass and steel mountains I ever saw,” he says under his breath.
I laugh, tension easing for the first time all day. “Welcome to New York, Mr. Callahan.”
He looks down at me, grinning for real now. “Reckon I’ll survive if I stay close to you.”
By the time we collect our luggage and fight through the chaos at baggage claim, the afternoon’s already slipping toward dusk. The city looks different when the lights start coming on. It’s bigger, louder, and more alive.
The cab driver honks before we’ve even shut the door. James hesitates, one boot on the curb, frowning at the rush of horns and motion.
“They’re all in a hurry to get somewhere,” he mutters. “Don’t reckon any of ’em knows where that is.”
I laugh and tug him in. “Welcome to Midtown.”
He ducks into the back seat, hat in his lap, fringe on his black suede jacket brushing against my coat. The driver jerks into traffic like we’ve entered a demolition derby. James braces one hand on the window and grabs the door handle with the other.
“Good Lord,” he says under his breath. “Back home, if a man drove like this, we’d pull him over for reckless endangerment of livestock.”
I bite back a grin. “Different kind of herd.”
Outside, lights blur past in streaks of gold and red. People pour across intersections like schools of fish. James watches it all, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
“There’s more folks on this one street than in our whole county,” he says. “You sure they ain’t all late for the same meeting?”
“Pretty sure.”
When we lurch to the curb outside my building, he steps out carefully, setting his hat back on his head like armor. The doorman gives him a once-over—boots, fringe, and all. James tips his hat and nods politely, unfazed.
Upstairs, I unlock my apartment. The door swings open on six hundred square feet of over-priced Manhattan efficiency. It holds one couch, one kitchenette, one teeny tiny bedroom, and one window pretending to be a view.
James stops in the doorway and silently looks around.
“Well,” he says finally, “it’s … compact.”
“It’s Manhattan,” I reply.
He steps inside, his boots sounding too loud on the hardwood. The place suddenly feels smaller, his height and broad shoulders filling it up. He sets his hat on the counter, glances around once, then looks back at me.
“You pay how much to live in a closet?”
“Don’t ask.”
He chuckles, low and genuine. “I’ve had tack rooms bigger than this.”
“And I bet yours didn’t come with a city view,” I say, motioning toward the skyline slicing the night.
He walks to the window, fringe brushing his sleeves, and studies the sea of lights below. “Still feels like lookin’ down on a beehive.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Don’t want to,” he says softly, then glances back at me with a half-smile. “But I’ll try.”
He takes another look around, then lowers himself onto the edge of the couch. The leather creaks under his weight.
“You sure this thing’s safe to sit on?” he asks, testing it with one big hand.
“I’ve survived three years on it. You’ll be fine.”
He grins. “Reckon I’ll take your word for it.”
I start toward the bedroom, then pause. “You can take the bed if you’d rather. The couch isn’t exactly five-star.”
He’s already shaking his head. “My mama didn’t raise a man who takes the bed from a lady.”
“You’ll break your back.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He chuckles, easing off his boots and lining them neatly by the door before settling against the cushions. “Besides, I’ve slept in barns less comfortable than this.”
“High praise,” I say, smiling.
He tips his hat back, eyes catching mine in the lamplight. “Guess we’re both learnin’ somethin’ new.”
For a moment, the city rhythm fills the silence between us—horns, sirens, a thousand strangers rushing somewhere else. But in here, it’s just us. Two people who never meant to be married, trying to make sense of a quiet night in a noisy city.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Callahan,” he says softly.
“Goodnight, cowboy.”
When I peek out a while later, he’s already asleep—hat tipped low, boots by the door, one arm draped over his chest. Somehow, the whole apartment feels safer for it.