18. Violet
Chapter 18
Violet
I take a deep breath before pulling up my mom's contact. I know this isn’t going to be a fun conversation to have. No mother wants to get this call. Maggie asked me to call her and tell her what happened. Maggie's handling everything so well, but talking about it seems to make her upset so I offered to do it. Currently her default is pretending that nothing happened and going shopping for new things. I’m not judging her; it’s been awful, and I’ll do anything she needs to make it easier.
The phone rings three times before my mom picks up.
“Violet?" Worry fills her voice, and I brace myself as she asks. “Is everything okay?”
I exhale slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yeah, Mom. I’m okay. Maggie’s okay, too.”
A pause. “Did something happen?”
Damn. Her mother’s intuition is strong today.
I close my eyes and press my fingers to my temple. “The Dogwood burned down.”
Silence.
Then—a sharp inhale.
“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, her voice softer now. “Are you both safe? Where are you? Why didn’t she call me?”
I shift on the bed, curling my legs beneath me. “We’re staying with… a friend of Maggie’s. We’re both okay. Maggie’s just been busy.”
Technically, it’s not a lie.
Mom exhales, relieved but still rattled. “Thank God. I was already worried about you being out there, and now I’m even more worried. And I feel terrible for Maggie.”
“Really, we’re fine, Mom,” I tell her. “I’m still with Maggie.”
I don’t mention Walker.
I don’t mention his big house on the edge of town, or his quiet protectiveness. The way he gave me that guitar like it meant nothing, even though I know it means everything. I’m still trying to figure that one out.
She doesn’t need to know any of that.
“Well, as long as you’re okay.” She hesitates, then lowers her voice. “You’re planning on staying, aren’t you?”
I look around the bedroom where I’ve slept since the fire—the soft, lived-in feel of the place, the way Maggie already put fresh towels in the bathroom like she knew I’d need them. I think about the groceries I picked up earlier, already planning to make meals for everyone this week. Walker’s kitchen is a dream kitchen to cook in, and I can’t wait to try it out.
I think about Mack and how she hugged me before bed last night. I needed that hug. God, I really like that kid.
I think about Walker and how he hasn’t once made me feel like I don’t belong here.
I don’t answer right away.
But I don’t deny it either.
“Yeah, Mom,” I say softly. “I think I am. I really like it here.”
"What happened back in Nashville to make you want to leave? Did you break up with Brice?" she asks .
"Yes, we're done," I say softly. Something in my tone must make her stop pushing because she doesn't ask details. But my mom has always known when to back off, and I love that about her.She’s nosy, but she doesn’t push. She knows I usually tell her when I’m ready.
We talk for a while and catch up, and after I hang up, I sit cross-legged on the bed, my new notebook in my lap.
I lost the songs I was working on in that fire.
Thankfully they’re still in my head. These songs aren’t gone like the ones stolen from me before.
I need to get them down before they disappear and or get buried beneath the weight of everything else that has been on my mind.
The pencil moves without hesitation, words flowing, melodies humming under my breath.
I don’t even realize I’m singing out loud until I hear a quiet shift near the door.
I freeze and look up.
And there he is.
Walker leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression on his face.
“You were listening?” I ask, voice hoarse.
He doesn’t look guilty in the slightest. He doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice low, honest. “You’re really good.”
My throat goes dry. My palms feel sweaty. I’m so nervous.
I never meant for anyone to hear them. Not yet. Not like this.
“Thanks,” I murmur, looking down, pretending to fiddle with my pencil even though my hands are suddenly too unsteady to hold it properly.
He doesn’t leave, and he doesn’t say anything else .
I glance up, meeting his gaze. “Ready to talk about that guitar yet?”
And I see it.
The warning in his eyes. The walls slamming back up.
He doesn’t want to talk about it.
His jaw tightens, just slightly.
Then—a shift. A change of subject.
“Come on,” he says, voice gruff. “Let’s go for a ride.”
I tilt my head at his invitation and think, you know what, why not ? I set the notebook and guitar aside and stand.
“What kind of ride?” I ask Walker with a smirk.
He grins at me. “A horseback ride.”
Excitement fills me when I think about riding again. It’s been such a long time. I’m giddy thinking about the stirrups under my feet, the weight of the reins in my hand, and the wind in my hair as I ride. I am here for this.
I follow Walker out to the barn, Pickles chasing after us, clumsily tripping over her own feet. She’s still in that awkward puppy stage.
I know he’s busy and probably has a million other things to take care of, but he’s making time for this. And for that, I love it. I’ll treasure this.
The barn is warm and familiar, the scent of hay and leather grounding me as I step inside.
Walker moves easily through the space, hands brushing over bridles and saddles, boots scuffing against the old wooden floor.
“How long has it been since you’ve ridden?” he asks, grabbing a saddle.
I smile. “I grew up on a farm. It’s been a long time since I left home, though. I was a city girl for pretty much the past decade.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t give me the satisfaction of an actual smile .
Instead, he nods toward a deep chestnut mare in the nearest stall.
“This is Winnie,” he says. “She’s Mack’s horse, and she’s gentle. Unlike Maximus who can be a brat sometimes.”
He runs his hand over her and pats her side.
I step closer, running a hand down her sleek chestnut colored neck, the warmth of her velvet fur on my fingertips.
She exhales, soft and steady, and something in me untangles.
Walker watches me carefully.
“You’re good with them,” he murmurs.
I glance at him, raising a brow. “Surprised?”
He shrugs, tightening a strap on his saddle. “A little.”
I smirk, but I don’t push.
“I didn’t know you grew up on a farm,” he says softly.
“A dairy farm,” I admit. “But we had horses, too. We actually had all kinds of animals. My dad could never say no. Kind of like someone else I know.”
The rhythm of the horse beneath my fingers matches my breathing, steady and even.
"What was it like?" he asks.
"Hard work, but fun. My sister and I had chores, and we learned a lot about hard work. We lived about an hour from the nearest town, so we found ways to entertain ourselves. For me it was music. For my sister, it was writing. She's a romance author now," I add with a smile.
Walker focuses on his task, but the way he looks over and his eyes meet mine show me that he's listening. That’s one of the things that I love about him. He is a good listener.
After the horses are ready, we swing up into the saddles, and already I feel at home. There’s something about riding horses that is so relaxing. Takes me back to the farm. Where life was simple. Maybe that's why I love Bridger Falls so much. It reminds me of home.
Walker rides beside me. His posture is relaxed, but his watchful gaze never strays far.
I don’t know if he’s looking at me or looking out for me.
Maybe both.
The land stretches out, vast, endless golden fields rolling toward the tree line. It’s beautiful.
I exhale, tilting my face toward the sky, feeling the sun on my face.
“You don’t talk about it,” Walker says suddenly.
I glance at him. “Talk about what?”
He doesn’t look at me. “What you’re running from.”
My stomach tightens and I focus on the horizon, the weight of the reins in my hands.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
He exhales through his nose. “Bullshit.”
I huff out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, so you can shut down every time I ask about that guitar, but I have to spill my guts?”
His jaw flexes, and I know I hit a nerve. But I don’t regret it.
His secrets are just as heavy as mine. Maybe heavier.
We ride in silence for a while and we don’t say anything else. But something settles between us.
Something I don’t know how to name. Like an understanding that we both will have to open up at some point if we’re going to keep going with whatever we’re calling this.
The sun is lower when we return, stretching long shadows over the barn.
Walker slides off his horse, stretching his legs, and steps beside me, holding his hand out to help me down as he watches me carefully.
His hands reach out and guide me down, landing on my hips and guiding me off of the horse, my legs shaky since I haven’t ridden in a while.
His hands feel so good on me, I lose my train of thought, completely lost at his touch and how much I love it.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs.
I blink up at him. “About what?”
“Your music,” he says. “It’s good.”
I don’t know what to do with that and the way his voice sounds when he says it. Like it’s the truest thing he’s ever told me.
Something burns in my chest. Something I’m not ready to face.
So, instead, I give him a small, tired smile. “Thanks, Walker. That means a lot.”
And for now, that’s enough. I guess we both have our secrets.
The bar hums with the kind of quiet that only happens after last call. We flip chairs upside down on tables while the scent of spilled beer and fried food lingers in the air and the hum of the old fridge in the back provides a steady, familiar soundtrack.
I sit at the bar, sipping water, my feet aching from a busy shift. My hair’s a mess, my makeup is smudged, and I’m pretty sure there’s ketchup on my shirt. But it's one of those nights where your heart is full and you're the good kind of tired. I had a good time tonight. I love chatting up all the locals and getting to know everyone.
Walker’s behind the bar, wiping down the counters with that effortless, end-of-night focus. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms flexing with each swipe of the towel. He looks like the kind of guy who belongs in some black-and-white whiskey ad. His dark hair tousled, a neatly trimmed beard shadowing his jaw, and those damn whiskey-colored eyes that miss nothing.
He catches me staring and one eyebrow quirks. “What?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Nothing. Just wondering if you’ve got any moves besides being a bar owner.”
He snorts. “Moves?”
“Yeah. Like…” I glance toward the old jukebox in the corner. “Dancing.”
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Red, if you’re looking for entertainment, I can turn on the jukebox. You can dance your little heart out.”
I roll my eyes and hop off the stool, wincing when my feet protest. But I make it to the jukebox, scroll through the selections, and hit the button for Forever and Ever, Amen . The machine crackles to life, skipping a beat before Randy Travis’s smooth voice spills into the empty bar.
I turn to face Walker, heart thudding a little harder than it should. “Dance with me.”
His towel freezes mid-wipe. He blinks like he didn’t hear me right.“You want to dance with me?”
“Yeah.” I cross my arms, suddenly nervous. “Unless you’re afraid my moves will show you up.”
His mouth twitches into that crooked half-smile. “Oh, Red. You’re in way over your head.”
Just what I thought. He won't turn down a challenge.
He tosses the towel on the bar and steps around it. My stomach flips as he moves toward me with an easy, confident stride. He stops just close enough that I catch the faint scent of soap and leather and the lingering smoky warmth of the grill.
His hand extends, palms up. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I slide my hand into his, and before I can say a word, he tugs me into his arms. His other hand settles on my waist, firm and sure, while mine lands against the solid wall of his chest. I feel the warmth of him through the soft cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
The music flows around us, lazy and familiar. And then, without warning, he moves.
He steps back, leading me effortlessly into the rhythm. One step, then another, his body guiding mine with practiced ease. He spins me once, pulls me back, and sways us into a smooth turn.
“Wait—” I stumble. “You actually know how to dance?”
His laugh rumbles low in his chest. “What happened to all that talk of showing me up? Let's see what you've got, Red."
I cling tighter as he dips me, his hand strong against my back. My heart leaps into my throat, my pulse racing. He pulls me upright again, his smile cocky and devastating.
“No one said anything about you being a ballroom cowboy,” I mutter, breathless. Damn, he’s good. I was just fibbing. I actually don’t know how to dance, but damn, he does.
“Didn’t think I had to.” He spins me again, the kind of spin that makes my hair fly.
“Well, good job. You're full of surprises, Walker.”
He grins, slowing the pace until we’re swaying again, the energy softening into something that makes my chest ache. His thumb brushes against my waist, and my breath catches.
I should step back. Crack a joke. Do something to break the tension.
Instead, I tilt my head up, and our eyes meet.
The jukebox hums the last line of the chorus, and the air grows thick, crackling with something unspoken. His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second, before he looks away, exhaling hard.
“This is dangerous,” I whisper.
His lips quirk. “I know.”
His grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want to let go .
I don’t either.
Walker’s hand rests low on my back, warm and steady, his thumb drawing circles through the thin cotton of my shirt. His broad chest, strong arms, and the scent of leather and soap that always makes me want to breathe him in when I'm near him.
I should’ve never asked him to dance. I'm playing with fire now, and I know it. The problem is that I can't stop. I don't want to stop. Now it’s like a game of emotional chicken, and I’m about two seconds away from swerving off the road entirely.
Because this isn’t how friends dance. This is how people who are falling in love dance, and we both damn well know it.
The song ends, and the noise in the bar fades into a low hum. I can feel the weight of his gaze without even looking.
I finally lift my eyes to his.
His jaw is tight, his whiskey-colored eyes sharp and unreadable. But underneath that? There’s heat. Slow, simmering, and far more dangerous than I’m ready to deal with.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. “What are we doing here, Walker?”
His head tilts, and the corner of his mouth curves, but it’s not his usual cocky grin. It’s softer. Deeper. “What do you want to do here, Red?”
His voice is low and rough, with a tone that should come with a warning label. And the way he says Red ? Like it’s a challenge. A dare.
I swallow hard. “I...I don’t know.”
He steps closer. My toes bump against his boots. His thumb strokes along my side, slow and deliberate. “Yeah, you do.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he dips his head just a little, his lips a breath from mine. I can see the faint scar by his eyebrow, the gold flecks in his eyes.
I should step back. Make a joke. Laugh it off. That’s what we do.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am, heart racing, pulse thrumming like a live wire.
He doesn’t kiss me.
But God, he makes me want him to.
Walker sighs, his forehead resting against mine for half a second before he steps back.
“It’s getting late,” he says, his voice tight. “We should get home.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I can remember how to walk right now. “Yeah.”
He hesitates for a second like he wants to say something else. Then he turns and walks away, his shoulders tense under that damn worn flannel.
I stand in the middle of the floor.What do I want to do here?
God help me. I know exactly what I want.
I just have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do about it. I don't know if he wants the same thing.