Chapter 32
thirty-two
Sunlight sliced through the gap in the curtains, painting a warm stripe across Naomi’s bare shoulder.
She stirred, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed, seeking the solid warmth of Owen’s body.
Her fingers found only cool sheets and empty space.
She blinked awake, the last wisps of sleep falling away as she confirmed what her hand already knew. He was gone.
Naomi pushed herself up, wincing slightly as her ribs protested the movement.
The bruises had faded from deep purple to a sickly yellow-green, but they still ached when she moved too quickly.
She ran a hand through her tangled hair and glanced at the bedside clock.
Nearly ten. She never slept this late, even on her days off.
She stretched, cataloging the pleasant soreness in muscles that hadn’t been used in far too long.
Three years, she’d told him. Three years since she’d been with anyone, and none of those encounters had come close to what she’d experienced with Owen.
The memory of his hands on her skin, his voice in her ear, the way he’d taken control so completely—it sent heat curling through her belly even now.
Her fingers drifted to her throat, finding the delicate silver fox pendant he’d given her.
It was warm against her skin now, almost as if it had absorbed some of her body heat through the night.
One press sends a signal directly to me.
No matter where you are, I’ll know you need help.
I’ll be there. A promise made physical. She traced the curve of the fox’s back, the tiny gems of its eyes catching the morning light.
The thought of him planning this gift, selecting it specifically for her—it was almost too much to bear. Owen Booker didn’t do sentiment. He didn’t do vulnerability. Except last night, he had.
With a sigh, Naomi swung her legs over the side of the bed. She couldn’t lie here all day, revisiting every touch, every whispered word. He was out there somewhere on the ranch, probably throwing himself into work to avoid thinking about what they’d done. About what it meant.
She found his flannel shirt draped over the foot of the bed and pulled it on.
It smelled like him—cedar and gunmetal and that indefinable scent that was uniquely Owen.
It was ridiculous, wearing his clothes like some lovesick teenager, but she couldn’t help herself. It felt like armor, like protection.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and assessed the damage.
Her cheek still bore a faint yellow shadow where her captor had struck her, but the split in her lip had healed to a thin pink line.
She looked... different. Not just because of the bruises or the shadows under her eyes.
There was something else, something in her gaze that hadn’t been there before.
She wasn’t the same woman who’d walked out of this cabin days ago, determined to prove she didn’t need Owen Booker’s help or protection. That woman felt like a stranger now.
After a quick shower, she dressed in jeans and a tank top, pulling Owen’s flannel over it. All the rain last week had knocked the colorful leaves off the trees and ushered in cooler temperatures. Before long, she’d need her winter coat.
She made her way to the kitchen, where she found a pot of coffee still warm on the hotplate.
He’d made coffee before he left. The small consideration made her throat tighten unexpectedly. She poured a cup, added a splash of creamer, and took a sip. Perfect, as always. The man couldn’t express his feelings in words, but he could brew coffee exactly the way she liked it.
Through the kitchen window, she watched as the day unfolded across the ranch.
It was a beautiful Montana morning, the sky an endless blue vault overhead, the mountains rising purple and majestic in the distance.
Workers moved between buildings, attending to their chores.
Dogs raced across the yard, playing some canine game only they understood.
Life at Valor Ridge continued, utterly indifferent to the fact that Naomi’s world had tilted on its axis last night.
She needed to find Owen.
Not to force a conversation he wasn’t ready to have, but just to see him.
Naomi set down her coffee cup and stepped out onto the porch, letting the door swing shut behind her.
The morning air was fresh and cool, carrying the scent of hay and horses and the rich, earthy smell of the mountains.
Somewhere on this ranch, Owen was hiding.
And she was going to find him, even if she had to search every barn, cabin, and paddock to do it.
She started down the porch steps, determination straightening her spine. The fox pendant bounced lightly against her skin with each step, a silent reminder of his promise. He would always come for her.
Now it was her turn to go to him.
The barn door stood half-open, warm golden light spilling onto the packed dirt outside.
Naomi paused at the sound of Jonah's voice drifting out—low and steady like a heartbeat, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakably gentle.
Something about it drew her closer, curiosity momentarily overriding her search for Owen.
She stepped into the shadowed entryway, careful to keep her boots from scraping against the concrete, and peered around the corner.
Jonah crouched beside a pig pen, a feed scoop in one hand.
He was dressed in his usual worn jeans and faded Carhartt jacket, his beautiful rust-brown hair ruffled as if he'd been running his fingers through it.
What caught Naomi's attention wasn't his appearance, but the earnest sincerity with which he addressed an enormous pink sow who watched him with intelligent eyes.
"You are loved, Petunia," he told her solemnly, scratching the broad expanse of her back with the edge of the scoop. "You are powerful. You are a radiant queen in a world that cannot contain your glory." He leaned in closer, as if sharing a vital secret. "You are not bacon."
The pig grunted, clearly pleased with this assessment, and gave a little shimmy that sent her ears flapping. Jonah nodded, as if she'd just made an excellent point in their conversation.
The scene captured everything she was starting to understand about Valor Ridge—beneath the rough exterior and the broken men, there was a current of compassion that ran deeper than any of them would admit.
So, yes, of course this Golden Retriever of a man was having a heart-to-heart with a pig at seven in the morning. It made perfect sense.
Naomi couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her, and Jonah glanced over his shoulder. If he was embarrassed to be caught delivering affirmations to livestock, it didn't show on his face.
"Morning," he said, straightening up with an easy grace that spoke of a lifetime spent around animals. "You're up and about early."
"Actually, I slept in," Naomi admitted, stepping fully into the barn. She tugged at the cuffs of Owen's flannel, suddenly self-conscious about wearing his clothes so openly. "I was looking for Ghost—for Owen."
Jonah's eyes flickered briefly to the oversized shirt, but his expression remained neutral. "Haven't seen him since sunrise chores. He took Coyote and Cinder out toward the east ridge."
"Oh." She tried to hide her disappointment. The east ridge was the farthest point of the property, at least an hour's hike. She wasn't sure her still-healing body was up for that trek.
Jonah seemed to read her thoughts. "He'll be back for lunch. Boone doesn't tolerate tardiness at the mess hall." He set the feed scoop on a nearby shelf. "I could show you around while you wait, if you'd like. You've been here a week, but knowing Ghost, I bet you haven't seen much beyond the Hub."
Naomi hesitated. Her instinct was to decline, but Jonah's open expression made her reconsider. There was no agenda in his offer, just simple kindness.
"That would be nice," she said finally. "If you're not too busy with your... affirmation session."
He grinned. "Petunia's done for today. She gets cranky if we go over time."
The pig grunted agreement, turning in a circle before flopping down in a pile of fresh straw.
"Do you always talk to the animals like that?" Naomi asked as Jonah led her deeper into the barn.
He shrugged. "I believe positive reinforcement works on everyone. Even pigs." He glanced at her. "Especially pigs. Petunia's the smartest animal on this ranch, but don't tell the horses I said that."
Naomi found herself smiling again. "Your secret's safe with me."
Jonah showed her the feed bins, each meticulously labeled with contents and feeding schedules. In the tack room, saddles and bridles hung in neat rows, the leather gleaming with regular care.
"Walker believes in order," Jonah explained, gesturing to the immaculate organization. "Says chaos on the outside leads to chaos on the inside. Most of the guys here have enough of that already."
It made sense. Structure and routine as antidotes to trauma—she'd seen it work before, in rehab centers and recovery programs on the reservation.
They moved on to an outdoor pen where two goats peered at them with rectangular pupils, their beards giving them the look of tiny, judgmental old men.
"Meet Rip and Ruckus," Jonah introduced. "They're escape artists. We've had to reinforce the fence three times this month."
As if on cue, one of the goats reared up on his hind legs and placed his front hooves on the fence, testing its strength.
"Don't even think about it," Jonah told him firmly.
The goat bleated innocently, as if he'd merely been stretching, and paced his hooves back on the ground.
Naomi laughed, the sound surprising her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed so much. "They seem like troublemakers."
"Like calls to like," Jonah said cryptically. "That's why River's in charge of them. They understand each other."