Chapter 9
NINE
WILLA
The sun climbs higher than it has in days, melting the top layer of snow into glistening rivulets that run off the porch eaves.
The sky is a sharp, endless blue, the kind that makes everything feel possible.
I stand at the kitchen window in Colt’s thick wool socks and another oversized flannel, watching him move through the yard with that easy, deliberate stride.
He’s already been out since first light, but now he’s waving me over, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I get dressed quickly in my clothes and grab my shoes. I grab my coat off the hook, and step outside. The cold nips at my cheeks, but it’s crisp, invigorating. No wind. No threat. Just us.
“You ready to meet the boys?” he calls, jerking his thumb toward the barn.
My heart does a little flip. “More than ready.”
He waits for me at the barn door, holding it open. The smell hits me first—hay, leather, horse, earth. Warm and alive. Two heads swing toward us from the stalls: a big bay with a white blaze and a gray with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“This is Stamp,” Colt says, patting the bay’s neck. The horse nickers softly, bumping Colt’s shoulder like an old friend. “Solid as they come. And this troublemaker is Whiskey. Thinks he’s smarter than both of us.”
I laugh. “He probably is.”
Colt snorts, but there’s no edge to it. No gruffness. Just warmth. He hands me a flake of hay. “Here. Show ‘em you’re not scared.”
I step forward, offering it flat on my palm. Stamp lowers his head, lips soft and careful as he takes it. Whiskey shoves in next, greedy, making me giggle when his whiskers tickle my wrist.
“Easy, you pig,” Colt mutters, but he’s smiling—really smiling—as he scratches Whiskey’s forelock. “They like you already.”
“I like them.” I lean my forehead against Stamp’s, breathing in his warm, sweet scent. “I like all of this. The quiet. The space. You.”
Colt goes still for a second, then reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger. “Never thought I’d hear someone say that about this place. Or about me.”
“You’re not as grumpy as you pretend to be,” I tease, bumping his hip with mine. “You just needed the right person to soften you up.”
He arches a brow. “That so?”
“Yep. I’m basically a cowboy whisperer now.”
He laughs—low, real, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll put you to work every day.”
“Promise?”
His eyes darken, but it’s playful. “Careful what you wish for, darlin’.”
We spend the morning like that—him teaching me the rhythm of the ranch.
How to measure grain without overdoing it (“They’ll con you into thinking they’re starving”), how to check hooves for stones, how to brush them in long, soothing strokes so they lean into you like cats.
I’m terrible at first—fumbling the curry comb, getting hay in my hair—but Colt’s patient.
He stands behind me sometimes, hands over mine to guide them, his chest warm against my back.
“Like this,” he murmurs near my ear when I’m brushing Whiskey’s flank. “Firm but gentle. They feel everything.”
I turn my head just enough to catch his lips in a quick kiss. “You’re not so bad at gentle yourself.”
He growls low. “Don’t tempt me out here. Horses get jealous.”
I laugh again—free, easy, the kind of laugh I haven’t let out in years.
By afternoon we’re back inside for lunch—thick venison stew he’d had simmering, cornbread still warm from the oven.
We eat at the table, knees touching under it, talking about nothing and everything.
He tells me about the first winter he spent up here alone, how he almost lost a finger to frostbite fixing the roof.
I tell him about the kids in my class—how one boy, Mateo, finally read a whole page out loud last month and beamed like he’d won the lottery.
“You light up when you talk about them,” Colt says quietly.
“They light me up.” I reach across, trace the scar on his knuckle. “What lights you up?”
He looks at our joined hands for a long moment. “Used to be just the quiet. The work. Now?” His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist. “You. This. Waking up and knowing you’re here.”
My throat gets tight. “I don’t want to leave, Colt.”
He squeezes my hand. “Then don’t. Not yet. We’ll get the evidence to Hank tomorrow. Let the wheels turn. But after that… we figure out what staying looks like. For both of us.”
I nod, blinking fast. “Okay.”
The rest of the day slips by slow and golden.
We walk the ridge hand in hand, snow crunching under our boots, sun warm on our faces.
He points out the eagle’s nest high in a dead pine, the frozen creek where he fishes in summer.
I steal kisses under low branches, laughing when snow dumps on us both.
By nightfall the fire is roaring again, quilts piled on the rug in front of the hearth.
We’re tangled together—me between his legs, back to his chest, his arms wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
The flames dance, casting flickering light across his face.
He looks softer than I’ve ever seen him.
No hard lines. No guarded eyes. Just Colt. My Colt.
“You’re not grumpy anymore,” I murmur, tilting my head back to look up at him.
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Had nothing worth smiling about before.”
I turn in his arms, straddle his lap, frame his face with my hands. “You’re smiling now.”
“Damn right I am.” His hands settle on my hips, thumbs stroking slow circles. “Got the prettiest girl in the Rockies sitting on me, wearing my shirt, talking about never leaving. What’s there to be grumpy about?”
I lean down, kiss him soft and slow. “I love it here. I love the horses. I love the quiet. I love you.”
His breath catches. “Love you too, Willa. More than I thought I could.”
We stay like that—kissing lazy, talking in whispers, laughing at nothing. The fire pops. The wind sighs against the windows. Outside, the world is vast and cold and waiting.
But in here?
I’ve never been happier. I’ve never felt more like I belong. And for the first time, tomorrow doesn’t scare me. Because whatever comes next, it comes with him.