Chapter 8
Jane
I wake up warm, buried under a quilt. My stomach feels settled, but my pride is still lost somewhere in the snow behind the barn.
I blink at the ceiling. I’m in the guest room.
At some point last night, after Tex tucked me in, I fell asleep so deeply that my body finally accepted the comfort. I don’t remember moving here or leaving the bathroom. I only remember his careful hands and his deep, steady voice.
You’re enough.
My chest tightens, just as it did when he said it last night. Men don’t say things like that unless they mean them.
And Tex doesn’t seem like the type to throw words around carelessly.
I roll onto my side and stare out the window. The field beyond is dusted with fresh snow, smooth and untouched, like it hasn't yet been trampled by my poor decisions.
My brain is already buzzing, cataloging sensations, replaying last night, and planning what to say when I see him. The noise never stops. It’s been like this my whole life, a constant internal narration that I can’t turn off. Most people call it ‘overthinking.’ I call it ‘being awake.’
My phone buzzes.
I grab it before it can buzz again; if Caleb calls at seven in the morning, I might actually throw the thing out the window.
It’s the group chat.
Caleb: You okay?
I exhale, the ache in my chest softening a little.
Jane: Alive. Not kidnapped. Slightly embarrassed.
Weston: Embarrassed how? Like “tripped in public” embarrassed or “accidentally joined a traveling circus” embarrassed?
Jane: Weston!
Boone: That’s not an answer.
Weston: Coffee. Drink it. That fixes 70% of Jane’s problems.
Caleb: Where are you?
I hesitate, my thumb hovering.
Don’t lie.
Also: don’t tell them too much.
Jane: Still in Clover Canyon. Safe. Warm. Roof. No bears.
Weston: Yet.
Boone: Check in later. Seriously.
Jane: I will.
Caleb: Love you. Be careful.
Three messages hit at once:
Boone: Love you. Don’t fight anyone.
Weston: Love you. Don’t die.
Jane: Love you. I’m fine.
Setting the phone down, I stare at it for a moment.
I miss them. A lot. But I needed to exist somewhere that wasn’t shaped by their worry. To be a person, not a problem to manage.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I flex my toes against the cold floor.
My stomach feels hollow. Not sick anymore, just empty. The cold floor grounds me; too much sensation is overwhelming, but too little makes my brain float away. Cold feet? Perfect.
I pull on my jeans, then choose one of my own shirts because I’m not ready to face Tex in his flannel this morning, not after last night, not after the way he looked at me.
I shove my hair into a messy braid and step into the hallway. The cabin is quiet.
Then I hear soft movement in the kitchen. A clink. The hiss of a kettle.
Of course, he’s already up. Of course, he’s already functioning like a normal person.
Meanwhile, I’m standing in the hallway trying to remember if I brushed my teeth while also wondering why “normal person” even means anything when nobody feels normal on the inside.
I pad into the kitchen and stop.
Tex is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he slices something with slow precision. His hat is on the hook by the door, and his hair is a little mussed.
The kitchen smells like coffee and bacon. I notice the soft lighting again. Nothing harsh. No fluorescent buzz. I didn’t realize how much that mattered until I stopped bracing for it.
He looks up the moment I enter. His gaze lands on me and lingers for half a second too long.
My skin prickles.
“Mornin’,” he says.
“Morning,” I echo.
He gestures to the coffeepot. “Coffee?”
“You need to ask?”
His mouth twitches. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He pours coffee into a mug and slides it across the counter. I wrap my hands around it, feeling warmth seep into my fingers.
I take a sip and nearly moan, clamping my lips around the sound before it escapes.
Tex’s eyes darken anyway.
“Better?” he asks.
“Better,” I admit.
He nods, satisfied.
That nod makes my chest flutter and my stomach clench. I want to be someone who satisfies him—not in a desperate way, but in a chosen way. Like I could be enough without trying so hard.
I do want that. I don’t know how to want that. I’m not supposed to want that. Except—
My brain buzzes again, and I force those thoughts down by focusing on practical things.
“So,” I say, leaning against the counter, “what’s the plan today, Captain Schedule?”
“Fence line on the south pasture got hit overnight. Probably deer. Maybe a bull. I’m going to check it.”
My mouth quirks. “And I’m coming.”
His gaze sharpens. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. But I want to.”
The words hang between us, neither defiant nor timid, just honest.
Something shifts behind Tex’s eyes as he watches me for a minute, like he’s assessing whether I mean it or if I’m performing again.
“Okay,” he finally says. “But if you’re tired—”
“I’m not,” I cut in.
He studies me a moment longer, then nods. “Eat first.”
“I can eat on horseback.”
“Jane.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but his tone shifts. “Eat. Then we go. Deal?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because it’s not a command, it’s an offer. He’s giving me the option to accept or push back.
“Deal.” A tightness inside me unclenches because, for once, someone isn’t managing me. They’re asking.
He makes breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast. We eat quietly, and it’s strange how easy it is now. Like last night broke something open, and the mess of me throwing up in the snow stripped away the performance.
When we’re done, Tex pulls on his coat and grabs his gloves. I follow suit, tugging my hat down over my braid.
Outside, the cold slaps me awake, but the winter sun is brighter today, pale and clean.
Tex leads me toward the barn, and my stomach clenches with the memory of humiliation. I expect the ranch hands to be there, smirking, looking at me like the girl who couldn’t handle whiskey and a cigar.
But the morning is calm. Men are working, but no one looks twice at me. No one laughs.
Maybe Tex said something. Or maybe Havenridge isn’t the kind of place that keeps score like that. Either way, the relief makes my shoulders drop.
We saddle up two horses. Tex chooses a steady gelding for himself and, without asking, hands me the reins of a mare that looks like pure attitude.
She’s tall and strong, her ears pinned as if she’d bite someone just for breathing wrong.
I grin despite myself. “Oh, you do trust me.”
Tex’s gaze flicks to the mare. “She likes you.”
“Because she’s smart.”
“Because she’s stubborn,” he corrects.
“Same thing,” I reply, swinging up one-handed.
The mare shifts beneath me, testing me. I settle into my seat, calm and sure. She exhales as if she’s satisfied and walks forward without being asked.
Tex watches, and I can feel his attention like heat on my skin.
“What?” I demand.
He blinks as if he forgot he was staring. “Nothin’.”
“Liar.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re... competent.”
I snort. “Wow. High praise.”
“I meant it,” he says gruffly. “You belong up here.”
My chest does that stupid ache again. I’ve belonged in male spaces my whole life, proved myself in barns, corrals, and kitchens full of calloused hands and laughter.
But belonging because I earned it isn’t the same as belonging because someone wants me there.
Tex isn’t grading my performance. He’s just.. . watching me be.
We ride out across the south pasture. Snow crunches beneath the horses’ hooves. The world opens wide, white, and endless, and for a moment, I can breathe without my brain over-analyzing everything.
Tex rides beside me—not crowding, not leaving me behind. The mare keeps pace easily, her breath steaming.
“You feel better?”
“Yeah,” I say, then add, because I can't help myself, “I’m still never touching a cigar again.”
“Probably for the best.”
“I could’ve handled it,” I mutter.
Tex’s gaze slides to mine. “You didn’t need to.”
I look away quickly, staring at the field as if it’s suddenly fascinating.
“Do you always say things like that?” I ask. “Or are you just in a ‘make Jane emotional’ mood?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You make yourself emotional.”
“Rude.”
“True.”
I glare at him. He looks back, unbothered.
It’s infuriating. And oddly grounding. My brothers would have softened that, changed the subject, and made it okay. Tex just states facts. He’s not intimidated by my sharp edges. He’s not asking me to sand them down.
We reach the fence line, and sure enough, one section is sagging. The wire is stretched, and a post is snapped clean at the base.
Tex dismounts first to assess it, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. I dismount too, the mare standing calmly beside me.
“What hit it?” I ask.
“Could’ve been deer,” he says. “Could’ve been a bull. Either way, we fix it.”
He pulls pliers, wire cutters, and a mallet from his saddlebag. Everything neat and prepared.
I crouch by the broken post, testing it. “This post is rotten. See the grain? It’s been soft for a while.”
Tex’s gaze flicks to it. “Yeah.”
“You’re going to replace the whole thing, not patch it,” I add.
He watches me for a beat. “You tellin’ me how to do my job?”
“I’m preventing you from doing it wrong,” I say sweetly.
His mouth twitches. “Bossy.”
“Competent,” I shoot back.
That makes his eyes go darker, and my stomach flips again.
We work together like we did yesterday, Tex cutting the wire while I brace the new post. The physical labor makes my body hum with purpose. My hands grow cold, my cheeks burn, and my muscles warm.
This is what I need: movement, a task, something to occupy my hands so my mind can quiet down. I’ve never been able to sit still, not because I don’t want to, but because stillness is loud. Work is quiet.
Being close to him is dangerous. Our shoulders brush, our knees bump, his breath fogging in the air. I watch the way his hands grip the post, his forearms flexing, how his jaw tightens in concentration.
And my body responds.
“Done,” he announces once we’ve secured the fence.