Chapter 12
TWELVE
RAE
The ride out of town is quiet. Not awkward-quiet, exactly, just heavy. The kind of silence that hangs in the cab of the truck when two people are both thinking too much and neither one of them feels like being the first to say something.
Cole drives with both hands on the wheel, his jaw set in that hard line I’ve already learned means he’s still angry. Not yelling angry. Worse than that. Controlled angry. The kind that sits under the surface like a storm waiting for somewhere to land.
I sit beside him with my cheek pressed lightly against the cool window, giving directions every few miles when the road splits.
“Take the next right.”
He nods once.
A few minutes later I point ahead. “Then stay left when the road curves.”
He doesn’t ask questions. He just follows the directions I give him, which leaves me with entirely too much time to think.
My mind keeps circling the same things over and over.
The bruise spreading across my face. Voss and how stupid I was to go in there guns blazing.
The look on Cole’s face when he first saw me sitting on the floor at the bar.
And the fact that we’re driving straight toward my place.
My stomach tightens a little as the truck turns onto the narrow dirt road leading out toward the fields. The headlights cut through the darkness ahead of us, illuminating the ruts in the road and the long stretch of fence running along the pasture.
“There,” I say quietly, pointing ahead. “The farmhouse.”
Cole slows the truck as the old white house comes into view.
It isn’t fancy. It’s old. The paint is chipped in a few places and the porch sags just a little on the left side where the wood needs replacing. The barn sits off to one side with the pasture stretching out behind it, and the faint shapes of the fences are just visible in the moonlight.
The porch light I left on glows softly against the front steps.
I watch Cole’s face carefully as he pulls the truck into the gravel driveway, my stomach tightening a little as the tires crunch over the stones.
This is my place. The one thing in my life that belongs completely to me.
No landlord hovering over my shoulder, no boss setting the rules, no one telling me what I can or can’t do once I step onto this land.
The animals, the house, the stretch of dirt and grass surrounding it, every stubborn little piece of it.
It’s mine in a way nothing else has ever been, the only place I’ve ever had where the ground under my feet feels steady, the one thing in my life no one can take away from me.
Which is exactly why my chest tightens a little as I watch his expression while the truck idles in the driveway.
I don’t want him to judge it because that feels more like he’s judging me. I never give a shit what people think, but I care what he thinks.
I don’t want him to see the crooked fence posts or the barn that still needs half a new roof or the porch steps that creak when you walk on them.
I stare out the windshield, pretending I’m not paying attention.
“Well,” I say lightly, trying to sound casual. “Welcome to my humble chaos.”
Cole doesn’t answer right away.
Instead he shuts off the truck and looks out across the yard.
And right on cue, the goats start yelling.
One of the chickens squawks from somewhere near the barn.
Then Pickle the donkey lets out a loud, dramatic bray that echoes across the pasture like a dying trumpet.
I close my eyes briefly.
“Don’t,” I mutter under my breath.
Cole finally speaks.
“What… is that?”
I sigh.
“That,” I say, opening my eyes again, “would be Pickle.”
He turns his head slowly to look at me.
“Pickle.”
“The donkey.”
Another bray cuts through the night like he’s personally offended we’re ignoring him.
Cole looks back toward the pasture.
For a second I can’t read his expression at all.
Then the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly.
And something in my chest loosens a little.
The truck engine ticks quietly as it cools, and for a moment neither of us moves.
The animals keep up their usual chaos out in the yard like they’ve decided this is the perfect time to announce their presence to the entire county.
The goats are yelling from the pen, one of the chickens is squawking like it’s personally offended by something, and Pickle lets out another long, dramatic bray that echoes across the pasture.
I sigh and push open the truck door.
“Come on,” I say.
Cole is out of the truck a second later, his boots crunching lightly on the gravel as he walks around the front. Even in the dim light from the porch I can feel his eyes moving over everything. The barn. The pasture fence. The yard. The house.
Assessing.
It makes me oddly self-conscious.
“This way,” I say, starting toward the porch before he has too much time to inspect the crooked fence posts or the stack of lumber leaning against the barn that’s been sitting there for three months.
The wraparound porch creaks softly under our weight when we step up onto it. The boards are old but solid, and the porch light throws a warm glow across the railing and the row of mismatched chairs lined up against the wall.
Cole pauses for half a second, glancing around again like he’s taking everything in.
I lead him across the porch toward the front door.
And push it open.
It swings inward without resistance.
Behind me I hear Cole mutter something under his breath.
“What?” I ask, glancing back over my shoulder.
“You don’t lock your door?” he says.
“It’s the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
He swears quietly under his breath as he follows me inside.
The farmhouse smells like wood and coffee and the faint lingering scent of hay that never really leaves no matter how much I clean.
The lights are already on in the living room, and the second we step inside the animals react.
A blur of fur launches off the couch.
“Whoa.”
Hank barrels straight toward us, his tail wagging so hard his entire body moves with it. He skids to a stop in front of Cole and immediately leans his full weight against his leg like they’ve been best friends for years.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, scratching behind his ears. “Miss me?”
Hank ignores me completely in favor of inspecting Cole.
Cole looks down at the hundred-pound rescue mutt currently pressing against him.
“This one yours too?” he asks.
“Yep.”
Hank sniffs his boots once, then looks up at him with the same soulful expression that convinces half the town to give him snacks he absolutely does not need.
“This is Hank,” I say.
Cole nods slowly.
“Hank.”
Cole is still standing in the middle of the living room when the rest of the welcoming committee arrives.
The first one through the hallway is Daisy.
She trots into the room like she has been personally waiting for my return all day, tail wagging gently while she makes a soft little whining sound the second she sees me.
Daisy doesn’t run. She doesn’t jump. She simply walks straight over and presses herself against my legs like she’s making sure I’m actually here.
“There you are, sweetheart,” I murmur, bending down to rub her ears.
Cole watches the interaction quietly.
“She follows you everywhere, doesn’t she?” he asks.
“Pretty much,” I say. “That’s Daisy.”
Daisy glances at him politely, decides he’s acceptable, and then immediately goes back to leaning against my leg like her job is to keep me upright.
The peace lasts about two seconds.
Then Moose crashes into the room.
He’s huge. Part lab, part something enormous and slobbery, and he skids across the wood floor chasing a tennis ball that somehow appears in his mouth the second he notices we have company.
The ball drops directly onto Cole’s boot.
Moose stares up at him expectantly.
Cole looks down at the slobbery tennis ball now resting against his foot.
“Don’t do it,” I say.
Cole glances at me.
“Don’t do what?”
“Throw the ball.”
Cole bends down and picks it up.
Moose’s entire body vibrates with anticipation.
Cole tosses the ball gently across the room.
Moose launches after it like a missile.
“Great,” I sigh. “Now he’s never leaving you alone.”
Cole watches the dog skid across the living room and bring the ball right back.
“He seems enthusiastic.”
“That’s Moose,” I tell him. “His entire personality is ball.”
Moose drops it again.
Cole looks at me.
“You created this.”
Before I can answer, a blur streaks across the floor.
Something tiny and frantic darts between Cole’s boots like a caffeinated squirrel.
“What the.”
“That’s Cricket,” I say quickly.
The tiny dog zips across the room, jumps onto the couch, spins three circles, and then sprints back toward the kitchen for no reason at all.
Cole watches her disappear.
“…Does she ever stop moving?”
“No.”
Hank is still leaning against Cole’s leg like a furry support beam while Psycho and Menace observe the situation from their respective thrones on the couch and coffee table.
Cole slowly looks around the room again.
Dog leaning on him.
One dog chasing a ball.
One tiny dog vibrating at high speed.
Two judgmental cats watching from above.
He exhales.
“You live in a zoo.”
I grin.
“Don’t forget the goats.”
Cole closes his eyes briefly.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Oh you should be,” I say. “Kevin is a menace.”
Outside, right on cue, Pickle the donkey lets out another dramatic bray that echoes through the yard.
Cole stares at the door.
“…What did you name the donkey again?”
“Pickle.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“I’m going to need a drink.”
I shrug.
“You’re in the right house.”
I wince when I bend down to pick up Moose’s slobbery tennis ball, and the sharp pull across my cheek reminds me very quickly that my face is not having a great night.
The movement is small, but Cole notices anyway.
Of course he does.