Chapter 6
Jane
I don’t know how to exist in someone else’s space without earning it.
That’s what I keep thinking as I watch Tex saddle the horses, his movements economical and sure. He doesn’t waste energy. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t fill silence with noise just to prove he’s there.
I fidget constantly. I fill every silence I can reach. I’ve spent my whole life taking up space as loudly as possible because the alternative of being overlooked feels worse than being too much.
But Tex doesn’t seem to mind.
He hasn’t told me to calm down. Hasn’t suggested I take a breath, or take a moment, or think before I speak. He just... lets me be.
I love it, but it’s disorienting.
“You ready?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Born ready,” I say, because that’s what I always say, even when I’m not.
He nods and holds out the reins.
I take them, and our fingers brush. His hand is warm. Steady. Everything I’m not.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he says.
It shouldn't mean anything. It’s a practical statement. We’re riding out to check fences, and he’s letting me lead because I know horses better than half his ranch hands.
Right behind you.
When he says things like that, something tightens in my chest, because he’s not just giving me space to move, he’s watching my back while I do.
I swing up onto the mare, my movements fluid and controlled, and settle into the saddle like I was born there, one hand on the horn.
Horses make sense. They don’t play games. Don’t expect you to be quieter or calmer or less. They just want you to be present.
I can do that. With horses.
With people, it’s harder.
The horse immediately relaxes under me.
The ranch hand from earlier whistles low.
I tip my hat to him without looking. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“You look more at home in a saddle than half the men on this ranch,” he says.
I grin. “Half? That’s generous.”
Tex mounts up beside me, and we start toward the tree line. The snow crunches beneath the horses’ hooves. The air is cold enough to sting my cheeks, but the sun is bright, and the sky is that impossible winter blue that makes everything feel clean.
“You’re quiet,” Tex says after a few minutes.
“I’m absorbing.”
“Absorbin’ what?”
I gesture broadly at the landscape, at the pines, the snow, the fence line cutting through the field like stitches in white fabric. “This. All of it. It’s..." I search for the word. “Peaceful.”
He glances at me. “Not boring?”
I shake my head. “Boring is when your brain has nothing to do. My brain always has something to do. It just... usually has too much. This”—I wave at the quiet around us—“gives it room to breathe.”
Tex is quiet for a moment before he says, “I get that.”
“You do?”
He nods. “After I got out, everything was too loud. Cities. Crowds. Even normal conversations felt like being inside a drum. The ranch was the first place that didn’t demand anything from me.”
I turn that over in my mind. “So you built fences.”
“I built fences,” he agrees.
“And I ran.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but there it is.
Tex looks at me. Really looks. “Different strategies. Same goal.”
“What’s the goal?”
“Surviving your own head,” he says simply.
And just like that, something slots into place.
Not attraction, though that’s there too, simmering under my skin every time he looks at me. Not gratitude, either, though I’m grateful he hasn’t tried to fix me.
It’s recognition.
He knows what it’s like to fight a brain that won’t be quiet. Knows what it’s like to need structure and space in equal measure. He knows, without me having to explain, that I’m chaos on the outside and desperate for calm on the inside.
“Tex?”
He tips his head toward me.
“Thanks for not trying to fix me.”
His mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile, but close. “You’re not broken.”
The words land in my chest like a stone dropped in still water, the ripples spreading outward into spaces I didn’t know were empty.
I don’t know how to respond, so I nudge the mare forward and pretend my eyes aren’t stinging.
We ride in comfortable silence after that. Tex points out a section of fence that needs attention. I spot a loose tension point he missed. We work together without needing to negotiate. He holds the post while I hammer; I hand him tools before he asks for them.
It’s easy in a way that nothing in my life has ever been easy.
And that terrifies me because easy doesn’t last. Easy means I’m not trying hard enough. Easy means I’m going to ruin it somehow, say or do the wrong thing, be too much or not enough.
I’m overthinking. Again. So I focus on the way his hands grip the post, forearms flexing. On how his jaw tightens when he concentrates. On the way he moves like he’s always ready to react.
And I look away before I do something stupid, like imagine those hands on me.
Too late.
My skin prickles. My breath becomes shallow.
Tex straightens, lifting the wire. “Hold that.”
I step closer, taking the wire in my gloved hands. “Got it.”
He moves behind me to pull it taut, close enough that his chest almost brushes my back.
Almost.
The heat of him is there anyway.
Tex’s breath shifts. He goes still for a fraction of a second, as if he feels it too.
Then he says roughly, “Keep holding.”
He pulls the wire tighter, muscles straining. His arm brushes mine. A small contact, barely anything, but my entire body reacts like it’s been struck by static. Not that bad kind that fries my brain, but a different, disturbing kind.
Once the fence is secured, Tex steps away like he’s forcing himself to. When he looks at me over the repaired fence and says, “Good work,” something in me settles.
Not because I earned it, but because he means it.
We mount our horses and start back toward the barn as the sun begins its slow descent. The mare’s gait is smooth… until a rabbit bursts out of the brush to our left. The mare startles and rears up. My reins jerk in my hands.
I’m a good rider, a damn good rider, but the ground is slick, and the mare’s hooves hit a patch of ice.
She slips, and my stomach drops.
I shift my weight automatically, trying to steady her, but the mare’s hind end slides, and the next thing I know, I’m going down.
I hit the snow hard, but the body beneath me takes the brunt of our fall. I land half on Tex’s chest, half on the ground, my breath punched out of me.
The mare scrambles upright and snorts, stepping away. Tex’s horse stays steady.
Tex doesn’t move for a second.
Neither do I.
One minute, I was heading for a nasty fall—time slowing into sharp fragments of whirling sky and snow—and the next, Tex was there.
He caught me mid-fall, yanking me out of harm’s way and into him as if his body reacted with instinct and muscle memory.
Now, I’m sprawled on top of him, his body warm beneath mine, his arm locked around my waist. My hat is gone. My hair is everywhere. Snow clings to my jeans.
And Tex’s face is inches from mine.
His breath is visible in the cold; each exhale slow and controlled.
Mine isn’t.
I stare at him, stunned, cheeks burning despite the cold.
“You okay?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My body is suddenly a live wire, and my brain is ten steps behind.
Tex’s gaze drops to my lips. Then back to my eyes.
“Jane,” he says, like a warning.
I swallow hard. “Tex.”
His jaw tightens. His grip on my waist shifts, adjusting as if he’s trying not to hold too hard.
And I can’t seem to make myself move.
I should push up. Laugh it off and make a joke. Do anything other than stare at him like I’m about to do something reckless.
Instead, I say, “You caught me.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Anythin’ hurt?”
“Just my pride,” I say automatically.
The air between us tightens. The world narrows. The cold doesn’t exist anymore.
All I feel is his heat beneath me, his arm around my waist, and the way his gaze holds mine as if he’s trying to decide whether to cross a line.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
Tex’s hand slides up my back, fingers splaying over my shoulder blade like he can’t help it. Then he shifts, and the movement presses me close enough to feel the hard line of his chest, the strength in him, the restraint.
His voice is strained. “If you keep lookin’ at me like that—”
“Like what?” I whisper because I need him to say it.
His eyes flash. “Like you want me to kiss you.”
My breath catches. I don’t deny it. I can’t.
Tex’s gaze drops to my mouth again, and this time, he doesn’t look away. He cups my jaw gently. “Jane, can I kiss you?”
I meet his eyes. “Yes. Please.”
Something shifts in his expression, not relief, exactly, but recognition, as if I just gave him something he was afraid to take.
When his mouth claims mine, it’s not gentle or exploratory. It’s rough, startling, and hungry.
I’ve read about kisses, but I’ve never been kissed. Not properly. Not like this.
I’ve flirted. Thrown sass like darts and used humor like armor. I’ve had men look at me. But this kiss feels like something that could rearrange me.
I make a soft sound, and he groans like he’s been holding back for years. His arm tightens around my waist while his other hand slides up my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as if he needs something to hold on to while he kisses me like he means it.
My body lights up, every nerve screaming. Heat rushes low and fast, pooling between my thighs.
My hands clutch at his coat, fingers curling into the fabric like I might melt into the snow if I don’t hold on.
Tex’s kiss deepens. His tongue slides against mine, and I gasp into his mouth. The taste of him is coffee and something dark and male. My head spins.
He pulls back abruptly, forehead resting against mine, breathing hard. His eyes are wild. Green and shadowed, like his calm finally cracked.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
I lick my swollen lips, tasting him, my heart slamming.
“What—” My voice is filled with wonder. “What was that?”
His gaze flicks over my face as if he’s checking for regret.
I don’t have regret. I have… confusion. Heat. Want.
“The best damn thing I’ve done in years,” he admits.
My breath catches. I don’t know what to say. So I do what I always do when I’m overwhelmed. I joke.
“That’s… dramatic.”
He lets out a short laugh. “You have no idea.”
Standing, he offers me a hand. I take it. The contact sends another spark through me, and his grip tightens slightly. I’m shaky, but not from the cold. From him.
“Sure you’re okay?”
I nod, retrieving my hat from the snow. “I’m okay. I’m more worried about you. You took the brunt of the fall.”
“I’m fine,” he says, still looking me over instead of himself. “I’ve survived worse.”
Those three words tell me so much. That whatever he survived taught him how to fall so someone else didn’t have to. The thought brings tears to my eyes, and I blink them away quickly. He won’t appreciate what he perceives as pity.
We get the horses sorted. The mare is fine, but. Tex checks her anyway, smoothing her neck as he murmurs soothingly to her.
My mouth tingles. My skin feels too tight. Every time I breathe, I feel like I’m inhaling the memory of his kiss.
I can’t stop replaying it. How he held me like he wasn’t going to let me go.
And the terrifying part is… I don’t want him to.
I want him in a way that makes no sense. I barely know him, yet every part of me feels like it’s been waiting for him.
The ranch hands are gathering near the side building as we approach the barn. I can hear their laughter from here, rough and easy.
And that old familiar itch starts in my chest. The need to belong. To prove I’m one of them. To be accepted.
I just hope I don’t do something stupid to try to earn it.