Chapter 13
Tex
My entire body goes still.
“What did you hear exactly?” I keep my voice low and controlled. Not gentle because gentle can sound like pity, and she’d rather bleed than accept pity.
She lifts her chin, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I heard you tell Tank you didn’t know what to do with me. That you’re out of your depth.”
My heartbeat stumbles. “That part’s true.”
Her mouth twists. “So I figured I should try harder.”
Try harder.
The room shrinks. The fire crackles like a gunshot. The air feels heavy.
I see it like a film rewinding. Her leaving the cabin too bright, too cheerful. The set of her shoulders and the way she wouldn’t meet my eyes. How she didn’t argue when I offered the scarf.
I thought she just needed space. I didn’t realize she was bleeding out internally.
She tried to transform herself into what she thought I wanted.
Her hair falls in soft waves, intentionally styled. Her makeup is light yet deliberate, the kind that takes effort to seem effortless. The gloss on her lips catches the porch light.
Then my gaze drops.
Mud. Manure. Snowmelt smeared across her coat and skirt. Brown streaks on her hands. The sharp, earthy smell hits a moment later.
I see the hurt turned to armor, then into something brittle in her expression, as if she’s holding herself together with sheer force of will, and one wrong word will shatter her.
“Jane—”
She flinches as if she expects impact. That flinch hits harder than any accusation.
“What you heard was real. And I’m sorry you heard it that way. That must have felt terrible.”
Her eyes flicker with surprise that I’m not immediately defending myself. Her laugh is still broken, a crack in the armor. “Yeah. It did.”
“But you didn’t hear the end,” I continue, taking another careful step. “Tank asked me what I was doing. If I were sure. If I understood the woman I brought home.”
Her eyes tell me that she’s unsure whether to believe anything I say.
“And I said I didn’t. I said I was out of my depth.”
Her breath catches. “And then you said it.”
“I said part of it,” I correct. “And you walked away before I finished.”
Jane’s eyes flicker with hope, only to be slammed down by fear.
I take a breath to steady myself. “I said you’re everything I didn’t want.”
Her face tightens.
“And then I said,” I press on, lowering my voice, “but she’s everything I need. Everything I never knew I wanted until she stepped onto that stage.”
The words land heavily in the cabin.
Jane goes very still. I can see her trying to process it, see her brain rifling through every memory of being too much, too loud, too wild, unable to find a place to file this new information: Everything I need. Everything I never knew I wanted…
Her throat bobs. “You... said that?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “I said that.”
She stares at me for a moment longer before her gaze drops to her hands. To the mess. To the smear across her coat.
Her breath shakes, and instead of letting the relief in, she does what I’m beginning to recognize as her default.
She runs. Not out the door. Inward.
She turns abruptly and bolts down the hallway.
“Jane—”
The slam of the bathroom door echoes through the cabin like a verdict.
I stand there for a second, my pulse racing, and force myself to move.
I don’t chase people. I don’t corner them. But I also don’t let a wounded animal bleed out alone in a place that’s supposed to be safe.
I walk to the bathroom door and stop. On the other side, there’s silence, then the sound of water turning on.
My jaw clenches as I wait. A minute. Two.
No movement. No voice. Just water and quiet.
“Jane.” I keep my voice level. “I’m out here. Whenever you’re ready.”
No answer.
I wait another thirty seconds before trying the knob. Locked. Of course it is.
Exhaling through my nose, I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the wood.
Think. Don’t force it. Don’t make her feel trapped. Don’t be another man telling her what she is.
“Jane,” I repeat, softer now. “I’m not coming in. I just want to know you’re okay.”
Still nothing. The water keeps running. Too long.
My heart falters. I’m not scared of blood or injury. I’m not scared of emergencies. I’m scared of a woman sitting alone with a hurt she doesn’t know how to name. Because I know what that looks like. I’ve lived inside it.
The water stops, and silence swallows the cabin again.
Then, a small sound, barely audible. A sniff. A breath pulled in too sharply. She’s crying.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
I press my palm against the door. “Will you let me in, Jane?”
A pause. Then her muffled voice. "Go away."
“No.”
Another pause. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” I cut in. “Because I brought you here. I’m responsible for this, and you’re not sittin’ in there thinking you have to earn a damn thing from me.”
Silence. Then, softly, as if she hates herself for it, “I smell like cow shit.”
That would make me laugh under different circumstances, but right now, it makes my chest ache.
“I don't care. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
The lock clicks.
I push the door open slowly.
She’s in the tub. Fully dressed. Coat half on like she never finished leaving. Skirt dark at the hem. Boots still laced. The porcelain looks too small for her, knees drawn up, shoulders curved in.
Jane doesn’t sit like that. She’s usually straight-backed and vibrant, bursting with energy. Now she’s folded in on herself.
Her hair is still in those soft waves she spent time on. Now it’s damp and tangled against her cheeks.
She’s trembling.
The tub is dry. She didn’t turn the water on. She just climbed into the only container big enough to hold her feelings.
My throat tightens.
I step inside and shut the door behind me, careful with the latch, as if any sudden noise might break whatever thin thread is holding her together.
I don’t move closer yet.
For a second, she doesn't look up. When she does, her eyes are bright and furious and wrecked.
“Happy?” she asks. “You got the full picture now?”
“No,” I say quietly. “Because you’re not tellin’ me what’s happening in your head.”
Her laugh is small and sharp. “You wouldn’t like it.”
I crouch by the tub carefully, keeping my voice level. “Try me.”
Jane stares at me like she wants to spit something cruel. Instead, she breaks.
“I’m tired,” she says shakily. “I’m tired of being too much. I’m tired of people loving me like I’m a problem they have to manage.”
Her breath catches, and her chin trembles before she forces it still.
“I thought... I thought you were different,” she mutters. “And then I heard you say it, and I thought, of course. Of course I’m not what you wanted.”
My chest feels like someone reached in and squeezed.
I don’t move closer or touch her yet. I just let the truth sit between us.
“I am different. But I’m still human. I’m still learning.”
She wipes at her cheek angrily, as if tears are an insult. “Learning what?”
“How to have someone in my space,” I admit. “How to want someone and not treat it like a threat.”
Her eyes flicker.
“I didn't want chaos,” I continue. “I didn’t want surprises. I didn’t want a woman who could blow my life apart with a smile.”
Her mouth tightens. “Okay.”
“And then you walked out on that stage, and the first thing I thought was, ‘There she is.’”
Jane’s breath hitches.
“The second thing I thought was, ‘How do I keep her safe?’”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“I didn’t want what you are, because what you are is dangerous to someone like me. You disrupt everything.”
Jane flinches as if I’ve slapped her.
I shake my head immediately. “Not in a bad way.”
Her expression reflects her disbelief.
I exhale slowly. “Jane. I built my life like a fence line. Straight and solid and weatherproof. Because that’s how I survive. That’s how I keep the nightmares from creepin’ into daylight.”
She watches me, breathing shallow.
“You are a storm, and storms tear down fences.” I lean in just a fraction. “So, yeah, you’re everything I didn’t want.”
Jane’s eyes shine, and the hurt flashes again.
I hold her gaze. “And then I said the truth I didn’t know I had in me.”
Her voice is barely audible. “Everything you need. Everything you didn’t know you wanted.”
I nod.
Jane looks away, swallowing hard.
“You weren’t supposed to change,” I say roughly. “You weren’t supposed to make yourself smaller or try to be neat for me.”
I reach out slowly and touch the edge of her hair, the styled waves that must have taken an hour. “This is beautiful, but I’d take you with a bird’s nest on your head and dirt under your nails. You don’t have to earn your place here.”
Jane’s laugh is broken. “Then what was I supposed to do? Just be me? That’s never worked.”
“It works here.”
Her eyes snap back to mine. “How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been alone for years, and the first night you were in this cabin, it felt less empty. Even when you were being a pain in my ass. Even when you were throwin’ up in the snow.”
Her mouth twitches despite herself.
I hold the moment gently. “That’s not a woman I’ll ever regret.”