Chapter Forty Two
Healing In Motion
T he clang of the post driver rings through the empty pasture as I drive the steel down hard, grip tight, sweat running down my spine beneath my shirt.
It's quiet out here—just the wind rustling through the grass, the occasional groan of wood settling under strain, and the sound of our horses grazing. Dusty's tail flicks at a fly. Pudding —the mare Georgia’s claimed as her baby, huffs and stomps the ground.
Behind me, my girl pushes a strand of hair out of her face, hands on her hips, squinting down at the broken section of fence. The split in the post is too clean to be from a cow. No splinters or crush marks. Just a sharp crack near the base and a bent rail that was definitely pried out on purpose.
“Don’t think it’s cattle pressure,” I grunt, shaking my head. “No way.”
She kneels down, fingers trailing the jagged break. “Not unless they’ve figured out how to use tools.”
“Hazel said she thought it was just leanin’. Said it’s been happenin’ for a while.”
“Yeah?” Georgia looks up. “Because this looks like someone kicked the damn thing in.”
“Exactly,” I mutter, yanking another post out of the truck bed and dragging it over.
“And this section runs the boundary where we lease land to the Stevens ranch. But if their cows get loose and tear up someone’s land or make it onto the road, the liability falls back on us. Lease says we maintain the perimeter.”
Her eyebrows lift. “So you could get sued.”
“We could lose the whole lease,” I say flatly. “It’s one of the only steady income streams Ma’s got since wheat sales dropped last season.”
All the little shit I’ve learned since moving back has thrown me for a loop. Even worse, I feel awful that I’ve been away, avoiding my family, avoiding responsibility, while they’ve suffered and struggled.
Grief where my dad’s concerned might be healing, but this all just adds another layer of guilt to the never ending pile.
Georgia watches as I line up the new post and slam the first strike down with the driver. The sound vibrates through my arms and chest.
"Thinking of putting in cameras," I add into the comfortable silence. "Good ones. Night vision, motion triggers. Friends of mine could rig them up.”
“That’s a good idea,” she says softly. “Honestly? I'm surprised you haven’t already.”
“My parents never had the money before. And after Dad died, I wasn't around to notice how bad it got.” My jaw flexes. “But I'm here now.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I feel her eyes on me while I hammer. When the post’s set, I step back and wipe the sweat from my brow with my shoulder, breathing hard.
“Still don’t make sense though,” I finally say, mind racking for answers. “Who the hell would have it out for us?”
Georgia walks up beside me, her gaze scanning the field like it might hold answers. “Could be someone trying to rattle you. Or your mom. Or maybe it’s not about you at all—it’s about the land.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Been thinkin’ the same.”
“Cooper Ridge?”
“Don’t know, baby. Doesn’t make sense for a big fuckin’ company like them to mess with us in such…” I trail off searching for the word.
“Immature way?” She scoffs, using her hand to cover her eyes and glare up at me. “Did you forget the reckless, irrational behavior of the leader at the bar?”
Anger swirls through me, fast and hot. “Fuck no.”
And I haven’t. Probably never will. And now that I know who he is—Clint Cooper, son of multi-millionaire Jett Cooper, I’m even more pissed. Wealthy, spoiled rich fucks like him don’t know how to take no for an answer. Explains why he thought putting hands on my woman was okay.
But he’s in my town now.
Not in a big city, with big lawyers.
We handle shit differently here.
Money and power aside—I see him near her again, I’ll probably kill him, consequences be damned.
“Still don’t think it could be them?”
With a long, tired exhale, I shrug. “Don’t know, to be honest. Seems like they’d use money instead of fear tactics and fucking with our little operation, but if it’s not them, I have no idea who or why it’s happening.”
Dropping my head back to stretch my aching shoulders, I stare at the blue sky, not a cloud in sight. The constant random showers of early spring have passed, and now that it’s nearly June, the sun is bright and hot.
Winter crops are blooming strong, and wildflowers are poking up in long rows of bright colors. The wheat’s about a month and half out from being harvested, and I make a mental note to talk to Georgia about what she wants to do when it happens.
“And the fire?” she asks, drawing my attention back to her. “Did you get the final word from the Calloways?”
I nod, pulling my hat off and dragging a hand through my hair. The sweat at my temples is drying sticky in the breeze.
“Definitely arson. Ridge found a gas canister about a mile out past the south pasture. Right next to fresh tire tracks in the mud. But nothing we can track ’em by. Whoever it was, they knew how to cover their trail.”
Which pisses me the fuck off.
Some insurance money came through and we’ve been replacing what we lost, but it’s not fast enough, and we’re losing valuable time that could make or break things on a farm like this.
Georgia steps closer, placing a gentle kiss on my cheek like she doesn’t give a damn about how filthy I am. “I’m sorry. I know how much this land means to your family,—your dad.”
My throat tightens. I look out across the field, my heart stuck somewhere between anger and memory.
“Every post I drive, I hear him,” I say after a minute. “Not his voice exactly. Just... that look he used to give me. Quiet pride when I got something right. When I followed his lessons without reminders.”
Georgia doesn’t move. Just waits and listens. Like she always does.
“I messed it up,” I admit. “He wanted me home years ago. Told me to stop runnin’, to let it hurt, to heal here. I didn’t listen. And then...”
“You didn’t know he’d go,” she says gently. “You didn’t know he’d pass. No one thinks their loved ones' time with them is temporary.”
“No, but I stayed gone a hell of a lot longer than I should have.” I pause, swallowing hard, the truth of it sinking in deep. “I was pissed. At him. At myself. At everything.”
She wraps her arms around my waist. I fold mine over her shoulders and drop my chin to the top of her head. She smells like flowers and sunlight, and home.
“You’re here now,” she whispers. “You’re back, and you’re helping out the best you can. You’re breaking yourself, Kade. Running ragged.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It is.” She kisses my throat. “You’re enough for them. I promise.”
Her phone buzzes, breaking the moment. She pulls back, checks the screen, then lights up.
“Oh my God. Thank fuck!” she says, grinning wide.
“What’s up, darlin’?” I ask, smiling already just from her joy.
She bounces on the balls of her feet. “Okay, don’t laugh—but I’ve been working on something in secret.”
My heart pounds but I lean on the fresh post and gesture for her to continue.
“Okay, so… you know how your mom doesn’t think the Honey Bea Bash can happen this year?
She thinks there’s not enough money, not enough time, not enough help.
Especially with everything you guys lost.” Georgia waves her phone, curls bouncing around her.
“Well, I’ve been messaging local vendors, business owners, friends of friends—seeing if they’d be willing to donate food, time, services. Like a full-town collaboration.”
My brows rise, stomach flipping with…
Fuck, I don’t know.
Excitement? Not at what she’s planning, not really.
But her commitment to help my family, my mom, like she’s already a part of this place. Like she’s finally digging in roots of her own. All I can do is pray like hell they’re deep and the permanent kind and she doesn’t rip them out and run, taking my whole world with her.
“That’s awesome, baby,” I murmur, voice thick. “Tell me more.”
She beams. “I’ve got almost twenty vendors confirmed. Two food trucks. Three bands and someone who can set up a little stage here. Craft booths. The works. If I can keep pulling it together, we can make the Bash happen without your mom spending a dime, and it’ll be bigger and better than ever.”
I blink, stunned. “You serious?”
“Dead serious. This town needs something to celebrate after everything that’s happened. And your mom needs to see that she’s not alone.”
My heart kicks, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. I just stare at her—this woman who walked into my life with fire in her chest and hope in her hands, and decided we were worth saving.
She grins, snatches my hat straight off my head, and turns on her heel, sprinting toward Pudding.
“Hey—” I call after her.
She swings into the saddle with ease, adjusting the reins like she’s done it a hundred times.
Her new Lucchese boots flash in the sun, buttery tan and stitched with delicate turquoise.
I bought them for her last week on a whim, and she wore them like they were made for her—like she was always meant to belong out here.
From the saddle, she winks, dropping her voice to a low imitation of mine. “You know the rule, darlin’ .”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “I’m countin’ on it, sunshine.”
She kicks her heel gently, and Pudding takes off at a steady lope, her laughter trailing behind her as she waves my hat in the air, hair flying behind her.
Wild. Free. Mine.