Chapter 22 A Visit
A Visit
Irene hums as she moves about the sitting room, gathering papers and making a list for errands in town. I sit at the desk, pen in hand, a letter half-started to my mother, but my thoughts have long since wandered elsewhere.
To him.
The memory of Marcel’s touch lingers fervently on my skin—sweet, aching, impossible to ignore. Every time I blink, I see his eyes, I feel his touch and hear his voice.
Irene glances up and catches me staring into nothing. Her mouth quirks. “You’ve been woolgathering all morning.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I bend back over the letter. “I was just…thinking.”
She sets her papers aside and comes to lean against the desk, one brow raised. “Thinking, hm? About a ranch hand, perhaps?”
I bite my lip, the pen trembling in my hand. “Irene—”
She pats my shoulder, her voice softer now. “Darling, you don’t have to say it aloud. I have eyes, and I’ve lived long enough to recognize the way a woman carries a secret in her chest.”
I lower my hand, giving up the pretense of writing. My voice is small when it slips out. “I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s frightening.”
Her expression softens, a glimmer of mischief sparking beneath her concern. “Love often is.”
That afternoon, Irene presses a basket into my hands, her eyes bright. “Take these preserves over to Ada Hayes,” she says. “And tell the driver not to rush you. It’s a fine day to linger.”
I know exactly what she’s doing, but I don’t protest. My heart is already racing at the thought of where I’m headed.
The drive feels both endless and far too short, every turn in the road winding me closer to him.
When the ranch finally comes into view, the car stops just in front of the house.
I open the door, and step out. I start for the door, but then I spot him near the barn, an axe glinting in the sunlight as he splits logs with practiced precision.
Each swing is fluid, sure—the strength in his arms and shoulders gives me butterflies.
The sun catches on his curls, and for a moment I forget to breathe.
He looks up and catches me staring. That boyish, crooked smile spreads across his face, and the world narrows to nothing but the distance between us.
“Afternoon, Clara.” He drags the back of his hand across his brow, leaving behind a streak of dust that makes him look even more impossibly handsome.
I lift the basket, suddenly shy despite the fluttering anticipation inside me. “I brought preserves.”
His grin deepens, eyes lingering on me longer than is proper. “Then you’ve already made this the best part of my week.”
We sit together on the fence rail, the basket untouched on the ground between us, the late afternoon sun slanting low across the pastures.
Cicadas hum in the distance, and the horses flick their tails against flies, restless in the heat.
I smooth my skirt, pretending to be composed, though my pulse tells a different story.
“You’re quiet today,” Marcel says, turning to me.
“I was thinking,” I admit, tracing the grain of the wood beneath my palm. “About how different life feels here than in Cheyenne. Simpler. Kinder. Like the air itself doesn’t care what my last name is.”
He leans his elbows on his knees, watching me with that steady, unwavering gaze. “That’s because the air doesn’t have expectations. It just…is. Out here, you can be the same.”
I glance at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone. His hair curls damp at his temple, his shirt clings to his shoulders, and I’m struck by how utterly at ease he looks in his own skin. Not performing. Not posturing. Just being.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
“You do,” he says simply. “I’ve seen it. When you laugh without checking who’s listening. When you breathe easy out here, like the world belongs to you.”
His words press the air from my lungs, leaving me shaken. My fingers tighten around the folds of my skirt, holding myself still because if I don’t, I’ll reach for him without a second thought.
“I’ll have to leave soon,” I murmur. “And when I do, it will be like none of this ever happened. Like I dreamed it.”
He straightens, his jaw working, voice roughening. “Then don’t treat it like it isn’t real while you’re here.”
The intensity in his gaze roots me in place, my chest aching with a truth I dare not speak. He doesn’t touch me, yet I feel the heat of him, steady and consuming, as if the space between us is already on fire.
The silence hums, thick and dangerous, and I know—irrevocably—that I don’t want to forget a single moment of this.
I feel unsteady, my heart pressing against my ribs until the words spill out before I can stop them.
“Maybe I’m just… confused. Maybe it’s only the novelty of being here.
Hawthorn, the ranch, you…” My voice cracks.
“Perhaps it’s easier to imagine feelings than to admit what I really am. Engaged. Promised. Already chosen.”
The confession burns my tongue, ugly and hollow. I grip my skirt tighter, twisting the fabric until my knuckles ache.
Marcel doesn’t flinch. He sits there steady, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze fixed on me with such unwavering warmth it almost hurts. “Don’t do that, Clara.”
I blink, startled. “Do what?”
“Dismiss what’s between us.” His voice is quiet but resolute, like he’s laying down a truth he won’t let me bury. “Don’t try to call it a fancy or imagination just to make it easier to walk away.”
My throat tightens. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” he says, his jaw setting. “You feel it. I feel it. It’s real. Maybe it’s inconvenient. Maybe it came at the wrong time. But that doesn't make it any less true.”
I shake my head, hot tears blurring the edges of the pasture. “And what good does truth do me? It won’t break an engagement. It won’t undo years of expectation.”
His eyes soften then, that steel giving way to something gentler. “It gives you something to hold onto. So that no matter what happens, you don’t go on believing you never knew love.”
The words land deep, deeper than I want them to. My hands fall limp in my lap, trembling. He doesn’t reach for me, but the ache in his gaze makes me feel touched all the same.
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like I belong to you.”
His lips curve, not quite a smile, more a confession he can’t contain. “Maybe because in this very moment, you do. Until you leave this place, until you have to head south, you’re mine. If I can’t have you forever, I’ll always know I had you for one small moment in time.”
The world tilts, a shiver running through me. My heart pounds like it’s trying to leap free of my chest. I want to argue, to remind him of rings and vows and families who’d never allow this, but the words die on my tongue.
My hands twist in my lap, nails digging into the fabric, and when I finally look at him, my breath shivers free.
“I don’t want to leave,” I confess, the words tumbling out raw and reckless. “God help me, Marcel, I wish I could stay.”
His head lifts sharply, eyes locking on mine. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move, as though the whole world’s gone still around us.
“I don’t want to marry Phillip,” I rush on, voice trembling. “I don’t want Cheyenne, or the house my parents promised, or the life planned down to every last minute. I want…” My throat tightens, my heart pounding hard enough to shake the truth loose. “I want you.”
The last words leave me on a whisper, so fragile I almost wish I could snatch them back. But the relief that floods me the moment they’re free—like air filling my lungs after drowning—nearly brings me to tears.
Marcel exhales, ragged, his hand gripping the rail so tightly his knuckles blanch. “Clara…” My name breaks in his mouth. “Say it again.”
“I want you,” I repeat, stronger this time. My lips tremble, but I don’t look away. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
His jaw works, torn between restraint and the wild hope burning in his eyes. “You don’t know what that does to me,” he murmurs.
But I do. I see it in the way his chest heaves, the way his fingers twitch like they ache to reach for me. And for once, I don’t bury my heart behind duty. I let it stand bare between us, pulsing with the truth I can’t take back.
He leans closer, the space between us thinning, and for a heartbeat I think he’ll kiss me. My breath catches, waiting, wanting. But he holds himself there, trembling on the edge of surrender.
I whisper into the charged stillness, voice breaking with desperation and wonder alike. “What are we going to do?”