Chapter 9
Chance stepped into the equipment barn, squinting past rows of old tools, rusting parts, and forgotten intentions. He spotted what he was looking for behind the woodpile, under a sagging tarp.
“Tell me again why we’re risking tetanus for this?” Rafael asked, ducking under a low beam.
Chance smirked. He set down two large stainless steel bowls, then wiped his dusty palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Because apparently Bella wants to live out her Tuscan farm fantasies.”
“And Willow’s already planning labels,” Rafael added, chuckling. “Saw her doodling ‘Topa Gold’ on the back of a grocery list.”
“That’s what makes it dangerous,” Chance said. “Once they start naming things, it’s already happening.”
They moved a few more crates to get closer, then Chance removed the tarp.
Rafael let out a low whistle. “Wow.”
The old, decorative press looked like someone’s granddad had built it as a weekend project. The crank still turned, though it let out a groan loud enough to wake the barn cats.
“Maybe it’s all Bella’s dreaming, but I kind of remember your mom making oil,” Rafael said.
“Yeah.” Warmth flooded him. “She loved the idea of using the land for more than cattle and hay. I think she got a few jars out of it when the trees were still young.”
“Wonder how it tasted.”
Chance directed a look at Rafael. “As I recall, Ace said it tasted like sunshine and shoe polish.”
Rafael threw back a laugh. “Sounds like Ace.” He loaded the press on a dolly and paused to steady it. “Your mom always was an optimist though.”
“That she was.”
They rolled it toward the barn door, wheels wheezing and whining the entire way. Outside, the smell of fresh-cut hay hit their senses, and Chance found himself warming to this idea more than he thought he would.
“Mom would have loved this idea,” Chance said, quieter now. “To see the grove turn into something.”
Rafael went quiet before nodding. “She was one of the few who never looked at me like I was a mistake.”
Chance glanced at him, then looked away. “Yeah, well … she had a gift for seeing past what was presented to her.”
They wheeled the press to the outside edge of the equipment shed. Rafael wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his glove and leaned his behind against a fence post.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve said it before that I never thought I’d be back here. Especially working alongside you.”
Chance didn’t answer right away. He was watching the press, thinking of what might’ve been. He gave his cousin a small shrug. “Never thought you’d want to be back.”
“I almost changed my mind,” Rafael admitted.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Found my humility. Plus, my wife said we were moving to Sutter Creek whether I liked it or not.”
Chance barked a laugh. “Bella does have a way of getting what she wants, I’ve noticed.”
“Willow’s a willing partner in crime too.”
A smile spread across Chance’s face.
Rafael cleared his throat. “Honestly, I’m glad she pushed me. This place …” He looked out across the land, to the ranch buildings, then up toward the line of the mountains in the distance. “It’s still home. Always was.”
A quiet beat sat between them. Cautious and careful—like walking across a rickety bridge for the first time in years.
“Let’s see if this thing works,” Chance said finally, breaking the silence. He knelt beside the crank, tightening the bolts while Rafael unpacked the sample of olives he’d picked up from a grower on his way back from Santa Maria.
He’d already washed the bucket of deep green and purple olives, fresh and earthy smelling. Might not produce more than a shot glass of oil, but that would be enough.
“You want to crush ‘em or turn the crank?” Chance asked.
“I’ll crush. I’ve got more years of rage to work through.”
“Fair enough.” He stood and stepped back, giving Rafael some space.
Rafael poured the cleaned olives into the grinder and went to work creating a thick paste. Skins and pulp squelched under the pressure, and Chance shrank back at the sound—and the look on Rafael’s mug.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Therapy,” Rafael grunted. “Cheaper than a shrink.”
They each took a portion and mixed the paste in large stainless steel bowls.
After five minutes, Rafael said, “How long did I say we have to do this?”
“Half hour.”
He groaned. “Right.”
“And that’s only step two, well, three, if you count the washing. Guess we should’ve gotten the ladies in on this.”
“Maybe so, but we didn’t even know if this old thing worked.”
“True.”
Finally, Chance handed Rafael a small mesh filter, which he attached beneath the spout while he slowly turned the crank. Drop by drop, golden liquid trickled into the glass.
“Would you look at that,” Rafael said, slowing some.
Chance leaned in. “Looks like engine oil.”
Rafael grinned. “Smells better, though.”
The stream grew, then tapered. Rafael held the jar up to the light showing off the murky but unmistakable measure of olive oil.
“It works.” Rafael sounded like he almost didn’t believe it.
Chance took the jar and tilted it, letting the thick amber swirl. “Beautiful.”
“But will it be enough to start?”
“Not sure,” Chance said. “After a few days of working the arm of that crank, the ladies might open up a Kickstarter for a full mill operation by end of week.”
Rafael laughed. “I see hydraulics in the ranch’s future.”
As if waiting for just the right moment, Bella approached from the path, a straw hat perched on her head. Willow followed, wiping her hands on her apron, face flushed from kitchen heat. A basket swung from the crook of her arm.
Bella beamed. “Ooh, what’s going on here?”
“Ladies,” Chance said, his voice dripping with mock formality, “we present to you Lucille’s more respectable cousin—Olivia, the oil press.”
Willow raised an eyebrow. “That thing looks like it belongs in a museum.”
“Hey, lots of priceless artifacts in museums,” Chance said.
He handed her the jar of oil. She took it and held it up to the light. Then she gave it a swirl followed by a tentative sniff. “Oh, lovely.”
“It actually worked!” The tone of Bella’s voice rose.
“Sure did,” Chance replied. “We’ve got about two tablespoons of Topa Gold right here.”
Willow laughed softly, then handed the jar to Bella. “You did it.”
Rafael and Chance exchanged a look.
“Yep,” Chance said.
Bella blinked. “And without a fistfight.”
“Tastes better that way,” Willow said with a wink.
Bella linked her arm through her husband’s. “Amazing. The olive grove gets new life, the old press gets use again, and nobody throws any punches.”
“A Christmas miracle!” Willow said.
“In the spring!” Bella laughed.
Chance shook his head, taking the jar from her. “Oh, come on now.”
Rafael snickered.
Willow was still smiling, eyes on the oil. “This has become a dream I didn’t know I had.”
Chance looked at the jar, then out toward the grove, its narrow trunks casting long shadows across the late-day soil. “Then let’s see where it goes.”
Rafael nodded, his tone more practical. “Might be worth getting someone out here to test the soil. We can ask around about acquiring a commercial press, since this is more of a hobby one.”
Willow and Bella exchanged a look—not giddy, not wild-eyed, but grounded. Two women used to measuring hope bit by bit.
“We’ll think it through,” Bella said, careful but sure. “One step at a time.”
Willow tipped her gaze toward Chance. “But if we end up international oil baronesses, I’m not apologizing.”
He raised both hands. “Just save me a bottle for the kitchen.”
“You got it,” Willow said, reaching for the jar of oil in Bella’s hand. She looked to Chance. “Mind if I keep this?”
“It’s yours.”
Willow plunked it into her basket.
“We’re off to take a look at the grove and see what trees might need a little TLC,” Bella said.
Chance’s mind stirred. He wouldn’t mind if Willow stayed longer, but, of course, she had a short amount of time to do what was on her mind.
He cleared his throat, keeping his voice low. “Enjoy yourselves, ladies.”
As the women moved on, their voices a frenzy of talk about possibilities, Chance crouched beside the press. With his fingers, he tightened a bolt by habit more than need. Rafael wiped his palms on his jeans and passed him a wrench.
After a moment, Chance said, “Looks like this thing’s got another season in it.”
“Yeah,” Rafael said. “Some things don’t need replacing—just someone willing to give ’em another go.”
Chance nodded, still crouched. But his eyes followed Willow’s path until she disappeared from view.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Some things are worth the work.”
* * *
Two small bottles sat side-by-side like trophies on the windowsill, catching the kitchen’s warm light—Topa Gold. Willow loved the sound of it on her tongue.
If only there was enough to cook a meal for everyone.
Only a few of the trees had enough growth to produce something, since most of the grove had gone dormant from lack of water and feeding. But starting small had been the plan anyway, and from the look of things, there was hope.
Chance stood at the sink, sleeves rolled back, scrubbing the press’s crank handle with a toothbrush, of all things. A dirty tool sat on the counter next to him.
Willow leaned on the doorframe, her eyes brushing over the slight bend of his neck, the gentle shifting of his muscles as he scrubbed, the line of his jaw. He could be doing this out in the laundry area, but she wasn’t complaining.
More and more, Willow enjoyed the simple things. Like watching Chance work.
She noticed other things, too, and not just because they seemed to be working alongside each other—and more—these days. He made her laugh. He brought calm and warmth into her days, even on the most chaotic of them.
He shook water from the handle and reached for a towel. She might have scolded him in the past for that—using a kitchen towel to clean his tools—but she couldn’t bear to break up the bliss she’d been feeling.
Instead, she said, “Want me to start boiling water?”
“Sure. If you’re looking to make exactly three tablespoons of pasta.”
“It’ll be the best pasta you’ve ever tasted.”
He laughed. “I agree. It would be a start—and delicious too.” He spread out the towel on the counter and laid the handle on it. “Your enthusiasm is contagious.”
“Don’t blame me,” she said lightly. “Blame Bella and her Pinterest board full of Italian olive groves.”
“She’s determined. I’ll give her that.” He smiled. “But something tells me you’re invested in this at least as much—maybe more.”
She eyed him. It’s true. From the minute she encountered his mother’s deliberate handwriting, her dreams, and plans, she was all in. She was curious and terrified all rolled into one.
Something else terrified her … the way she felt herself expecting him. Letting him near. Wanting him near.
He’d barely touched her, well, except for saving her from certain death in the old creek. But seriously … the way he looked at her, the things he said, shoot, the things he did for her.
And yet, neither of them had professed their feelings for the other. She was living in Jane Austen’s world, just waiting for him to ask her father for her hand.
Only her father was long gone, and, frankly, she wasn’t sure where she would be this time next year.
Plus, there was the last little tidbit that she’d failed to confess …
Her phone buzzed on the counter behind her. Once. Twice. Then a third time. Her whole body went still.
Chance glanced toward the sound, one eyebrow raised. “Spam?”
She frowned. “Maybe … wait, no. I’ll go take this outside.”
He didn’t press her as she grabbed the phone and backed toward the door. “I’ll, uh … be right back.”
Chance nodded, and turned back toward the sink, his attention now on the other tool waiting for a bath.
Willow stepped outside, gravel crunching softly beneath her boots. She moved past the side of the house, toward the meadow where she’d have privacy. Her hands trembled as she brought the phone to her ear.
The voice that answered was as oily as she remembered.
“You finally picked up. Thought you were trying to ghost your dear old uncle.”
Her jaw tightened. “You know full well I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Is that any way to talk to family?”
“You lost your place in our family a long time ago. You’re not welcome anymore.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, dear.”
“I need you to stay away from Mom.”
“And ignore my only living sibling? Not a chance.”
“She has nothing to give you, Uncle. You know that.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Neither do I.”
“Not so fast. I’ve heard all about that fancy ranch you’re living at, the one with the cowboy. That’s a hoot!” He coughed a laugh. “Always knew you’d find someone to support your lifestyle. Never thought it’d be a cowboy, though.
“What do you want with us?”
“I hear you have a new venture too. A whole olive oil operation? My, my, you’ve been busy!”
Willow’s heart pounded. “How do you know about that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, my guess is your new business will help you take care of your mother and make a substantial donation to your favorite uncle.”
“I told you. I don’t have anything left.”
“Don’t lie to me, Willow. You had money to buy that shiny convertible, didn’t you?”
Lucille.
Her stomach lurched. Had he seen her car? The one everybody made fun of?
“I’m not giving you anything.”
“You sure about that?” he said smoothly. “Because if I don’t see a little kindness from you in the next week, I might just give a call to the local sheriff. Or maybe your boss. Or that fella with the scruffy smile who seems to think you’re just a sweet girl trying to find her place.”
Willow closed her eyes, dread curling in her gut. “You leave them out of this.”
“Then make it easy. Five grand. That’s nothing to a rancher’s chef.” He snickered. “A small price for peace and quiet.”
It wasn’t so much the blackmailing that twisted her insides—that was bad enough on its own.
What had her heart pulsating in an unhappy way was the one thing she hadn’t told Chance. Or anyone. Her mother had given her money for the car. At the time, it seemed like a gift, one out-of-the-blue, surprising, totally unexpected gift.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough. She’d bought “Lucille” without asking her mother one question about where she’d found the money. By the time she’d learned the truth, the title was in her name, and she had not one extra cent to her name.
She hadn’t used the funds with any malice, but after all this time, truth did not feel quite like a defense anymore.
Her uncle, likely taking her silence as guilt, hung up.
Willow’s heart thudded against her ribs. Her throat tightened until it felt hard to breathe. She couldn’t let this ruin things. Not after everything she’d done to rebuild. Not when she was finally starting to feel like she belonged here.
The sound of footsteps startled her. She turned sharply to find Chance walking toward her. He stopped at a fence post and leaned against it.
“You all right?” he asked gently.
Willow pasted on a smile. “Yeah, I’ll be right in.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. “I’m here if you need to hash something out.”
She swallowed. She needed more than hashing, she needed a plan. And she needed the truth to stop following her around like a shadow.
But all she said was, “Okay. Thank you.”
Chance lingered, his eyes searching her face. “Maybe you’ve been doing too much lately. Taking care of all of us. Cooking special meals for Ace.”
Willow exhaled, grateful for the change in subject. “Don’t worry. I’ll crash eventually.”
“Promise?”
A faint smile tugged at her lips. “Cross my heart.”
He walked closer, just enough that she could see the flicker of concern still resting behind his eyes. He didn’t press. That was one of the things she appreciated about Chance. He didn’t push too hard against her walls.
“I’m here if you need anything.” Chance watched her closely, his voice warm and low.
“Honestly, I think I just need … a change of scenery.”
He cocked a brow. “I think I can handle that. Want to run away from the ranch for a few hours?”
“I still have to make supper.”
Chance glanced toward his truck, then back at her. “Come on, then. Let’s take a drive. I know just the place.”
Willow blinked.
He reached for her hand, and she didn’t pull it away. “I’ll get you back in plenty of time.”
She hesitated, still—partly because she hadn’t planned on going anywhere, partly because she was afraid if she didn’t stick to her routines, everything might fall apart. But when he offered his hand, casual as anything, her feet moved on their own.
“Alright,” she said softly. “Lead the way.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they parked on an overlook where eucalyptus trees bent in the breeze and the air tasted faintly of saltwater. Willow pulled her hair into a ponytail, securing it with an elastic band from her pocket. The wind tugged at strands of hair, but she didn’t care. The sound of the sea made its way into her bones.
Chance offered her his hand. “C’mon.”
They made their way down a sandy trail that fanned out to a marsh dotted with seagrasses.
“You weren’t kidding,” she said, shading her eyes with her hands. “What a perfect spot.”
“I figured we’d earned it,” Chance said, flashing a smile. “You’ve been serving up miracles all week, and I’ve been elbows deep in crank grease?—“
“And don’t forget—doting on Ace.”
“You’re the one doing that. I just go in for my daily flogging.”
“Ha!” Willow shouldered him with hers. “Stop that.”
He laughed.
They kicked off their boots at the edge of a piece of driftwood, then walked barefoot along the surf. The cool water pooled around them, tickling their ankles as they strolled, the sand pillow soft beneath their feet.
Peaceful was an understatement.
For a long while, they didn’t speak. Just walked. Sometimes close enough that their hands brushed, sometimes apart. The wind picked up. A gull screeched overhead. Farther down the beach, the outline of a few surfers bobbed in the water, waiting for one last good wave.
Chance stopped suddenly, looked at the water, then at her. “You mind?”
She followed his gaze and laughed. “Seriously?”
“Never leave home without my board,” he said with a shrug. “Truck’s got everything.”
Willow gestured grandly. “By all means, go commune with the sea.”
“Watch closely,” he said, jogging back toward the parking lot. “I make it look easy.”
A few minutes later, he was paddling into the surf, the setting sun painting his silhouette in glitter. Willow sat on a stretch of dry sand, arms wrapped around her knees, watching as he rode one short, messy wave and wiped out spectacularly. He emerged grinning, hair plastered to his forehead, laughing as if the ocean had told him a joke only he could hear.
He was wild and grounded all at once. The kind of man who could rebuild an ancient olive press in the morning and dance with the tide by dusk.
And make space for her too. She didn’t deserve him.
Willow lay back in the sand, her eyes tracing streaks of color in the deepening sky. She imagined a few stars blinking back to her, patiently waiting for their light to shine when the time came.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
Chance came up the path just as she checked it, still dripping seawater, his shirt pulled on halfway, surfboard under one arm. “Told you I’d wipe out.”
“I’m impressed. Not necessarily with your form, but your bravery.”
He grinned, then frowned when he saw the expression on her face. “Everything alright?”
She tucked the phone away before he could see the screen. “Yes. Nothing urgent.”
He studied her for a beat but didn’t pry. “Ready to head back?”
Though she hated the idea of leaving this moment behind, she nodded anyway. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
They had just reached the highway that would take them back to the ranch when Chance’s phone rang, the jarring sound sharp against the hum of the road.
He checked the screen, sighed, and answered. “Ace.” Pause. His brow furrowed. “Now?” Another pause. “All right. I’ll be there in twenty. Thirty tops.”
He ended the call and cast a glance at her. “Sorry. He wants to see me tonight.”
Willow felt her chest tighten. “Is everything okay?”
“No idea,” he said. “The last time he wanted a meeting, it was nothing, really. This could be anything. He doesn’t always give context—just orders.”
She nodded, her mind already spinning. The weight she was carrying had lifted for a while—forgotten, even. But reality had followed her to the coast.
Chance reached for her hand briefly, giving it a quick squeeze before pulling away. “Thanks for coming with me.”
Willow watched the coastline shrink in the rearview mirror. “Thank you .”
She took another peek of her phone. Every minute with him was borrowed light. Even if she didn’t deserve it.
* * *
Chance dropped Willow off at her tiny cottage and watched her walk inside. He’d become used to sitting beside her with her hair smelling of salt and ocean, and though he hadn’t gone looking for any real attachment in his life, it had found him.
He was sunk.
Chance whistled through the revelation, a grin stuck to his mug. He wandered up to the back porch of the main house and looked up to where Ace kept a small study off of his bedroom. A faint glow filtered through the glass. In this small space, Ace stacked up history: books, papers, maybe even a secret or two.
Inside the main house, the air smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old leather, and he frowned. Smoking was off limits for Ace. Had been for a long time. He found his father sitting in his usual spot—an armchair by the fireplace, though no fire burned in the hearth tonight. Just the lamp on the side table casting light across Ace’s weathered face.
“You made it,” Ace said, his voice raspier than usual.
“I made it.” Chance stepped inside, his eyes searching for remnants of his father’s cigar. When he didn’t find it, nor evidence of a pipe, he asked, “Doing okay tonight?”
Ace frowned and stilled his gaze. He was either annoyed or amused. Maybe a little of both. “Not planning to keel over tonight, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Twasn’t, but alright.”
Ace gave out a garbled laugh, then coughed into his fist. “Haven’t changed, son. I say what I mean. I didn’t say come ‘cause I’m dying. I said come ‘cause I’ve got something on my mind.”
Chance took a seat on the leather love seat. He leaned forward, intent on what his father had to say. He waited, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. Ace didn’t like to be rushed.
“Been thinking.” Ace shifted in his seat. “Far too much, I admit. Sitting around this much has made me introspective.”
Chance smiled softly. “You’re not much for sitting still.”
“No. Never was. Neither was your mother.” Ace’s gaze wandered toward the empty fireplace. “She always said I’d die with my boots on. Maybe she was right.”
Chance’s chest tightened. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Dying is a part of life, son—but right now, that’s not what I’m thinking about.”
“I’m listening.”
“I think it’s getting close to when I will begin to hand off some of my ranch responsibilities. Maybe I’m not there yet, but, in the meantime, I am trying to make absolutely sure that the right people are in the right place when the time comes for me to take a step back.”
Chance sat straighter. “You thinking of stepping back?”
Ace rocked his head side to side, measuring the words. “I can’t do all this forever. Between you and me, I’ve made a few mistakes trying to.”
Chance didn’t say anything, but the word Rafael hovered in the back of his mind.
Ace lifted his chin, looking downward at his son. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Tell me what I’m thinking.
“You were blindsided by my foreman decision.”
Chance crossed his arms in front of his body. “Didn’t have to be that way, you know. We could’ve talked it over first, presented a united front with the decision.”
“Maybe I should’ve. In hindsight,” Ace admitted. “But I needed to see how you’d handle it. Whether you’d get bitter and withdraw or keep showing up.”
“And?”
Ace nodded deliberately, his lips pressed together. “You’re here.”
“Want to know why?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because this place matters to me—you matter to me.”
Ace leaned his head against his chair, his hands folded over his stomach. “You’ve always done your work. You’re reliable. But for a long time, I couldn’t tell if you wanted to be here, or if you were just here ‘cause there wasn’t somewhere else to be.”
Chance let out a slow breath. “I chose this. I came back.”
Ace nodded, quiet for a moment. “It has not gone unnoticed.”
The room was still, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall.
“I wanted you to know,” Ace continued, voice softer now, “that when I think about this ranch—its future—I think of you. Not Rafael. Not your two brothers either. They’ve chosen lives far off from here.”
Chance’s heart kicked hard against his chest.
“I have more to say on what I’ve observed,” Ace said. “I see how you handle people. How you lead when no one’s looking. That means more to me than anything you could tell me to my face.”
Chance swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.
“You’ve grown into a man your mama would be proud of.” Ace looked him square in the eyes. “And she’d be proud to see you take the reins from me.”
“You’re talking like you’re leaving.”
“I’m talking like a realist who is being smart with however much time the good Lord gives me.”
Chance tamped down the rise of emotion in his chest. “You’ve got plenty of time.”
Ace smiled, and there was something in his expression—calm, knowing, maybe even peace. “That’s not up to me. But what is up to me is making sure I don’t leave things unsaid.”
The quiet that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable.
“And another thing,” Ace added after a pause. “Willow.”
Chance snapped up his gaze to meet his father’s.
“You think I haven’t noticed?”
Chance rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah … it’s complicated.”
“What’s so complicated about falling in love?” Ace said with a small chuckle. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. And how she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching.”
Chance didn’t respond, but he felt every word of that.
“She’s good for you,” Ace said simply. “Softens your edges. Grounds you. Reminds you to smile every now and again. Your mother did that for me too.”
“She’s … well, there’s things I’m still trying to figure out.”
“You never will,” Ace said with that deep chuckle. “It’s not worth trying because just when you think you’ve got her all figured out, she’ll?—”
“Turn on me?”
Ace’s forehead bunched. He wagged his chin side to side. “No, no, no, son. That’s not what I meant. She’ll show you a whole new side of her, and you’ll be rocked to the core all over again.”
Chance met his father’s gaze head on, something unspoken passing between them.
“I don’t know what her story is,” Ace continued. “Don’t need to. But I see her working hard. Earning her keep. Loving this place—and, I suspect, you. That tells me plenty about her.”
Chance cleared away the lump in his throat with a cough. “This talk?” He nodded, acknowledging Ace. “Means everything, Dad.”
Ace rested against the cushioned back of his chair. They sat together, quietly listening to the beat of that old clock and the occasional rustle of dry oak leaves swirling around outside.
Eventually, Ace shifted in his chair and let out a harsh yawn, the back of his fist against his mouth. “That’s enough sentiment for one evening,” he said. “Go on. I need my rest.”
* * *
The following night, the tide had just begun to retreat as all four horses made their slow descent onto the sand. Crisp and clean salt air, tinged with eucalyptus and sea spray, greeted them. Hooves left deep prints in the wet shoreline, and the sun hovered just above the horizon, casting a fiery glow over the Pacific.
Ace had given the outing his blessing this evening, waving them off from the porch where his nurse had brought him out in a wheelchair. “Ride easy,” he’d said with his usual gruff smile. “And don’t let Bella talk you into galloping barefoot through the surf again.”
Now, Rafael and Bella were riding ahead, their horses trotting parallel to each other, their laughter floating back on the breeze.
“Tell me again why we don’t do this every day?” Bella called back over her shoulder, twisting slightly in the saddle. Her dark hair fluttered beneath her hat, and she looked so utterly at home that Willow felt a flutter of FOMO, aka fear of missing out.
Bella’s life held the promise of more rides like this, but all her future held was … uncertainty.
“Because some of us have to fix fences,” Rafael replied to his wife, adjusting his reins. “And some of us can’t afford to get sand in our boots every morning.”
Bella waved him off. “Practicality is boring. Romance, sweet man. That’s what this beach is for.”
Chance, riding just beside Willow, chuckled under his breath.
Bella turned back toward them. “Did you know I fell in love with him right here?”
Rafael groaned good-naturedly. “Don’t start.”
“It’s true,” Bella said, undeterred. “Right there by the rocks. He let me braid wildflowers into his stirrups …”
“She did not!” Rafael shouted into the air.
Willow smiled as the pair nudged their horses into a slow canter, heading farther up the beach, their silhouettes growing smaller against the sunlit curve of shoreline.
The sound of the surf filled the quiet as Chance slowed his gelding just slightly.
Willow sent him a questioning look.
“Just thought we could take our time.”
Willow gently pulled back on her reins, too, letting her mare fall into pace beside his. The tide was low, leaving a long swath of packed sand for them to ride along. Gulls wheeled overhead, the water lapping rhythmically beside them.
They rode side-by-side for a while, silent except for the creak of leather and the occasional soft snort from the horses.
Then Chance spoke, voice low but firm. “I’ve been thinkin’.”
“Dangerous,” Willow teased gently, trying to keep it light.
He didn’t smile, not right away. His jaw flexed, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out where I belong. Who I’m supposed to be. This ranch, this family ... it’s always been complicated.”
Willow nodded, letting the rhythm of the ride keep her grounded.
“But these last few weeks …” He paused, glancing at her. “With you. Working with you. Riding with you. Watching you coax life out of a grove most folks had given up on. It’s changed things.”
Willow’s breath caught, but she said nothing.
Chance turned in his saddle to face her more fully. His voice dropped to just above a whisper. “I don’t want to go back to the way things were before you showed up.”
Her pulse stuttered.
“I don’t want to imagine this place—my life—without you in it.”
Willow swallowed. “Chance …”
“I know you’ve got your past that you’re worried about,” he said softly. “And I’ve got mine, to tell you the truth. But what’s happening between us is worth fighting for.”
The horses slowed to a natural stop, no doubt sensing the shift in the air.
Willow took in the tautness of his shoulders, and the stillness of his grip. But there was hopefulness in his eyes too. A wanting that she had noticed before, but not fully acknowledged. Until now.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his eyes scanning her face, as if waiting for a sign.
And then it came.
Her eyes filled, and he leaned in, steady and strong, and kissed her.
There was nothing rushed or reckless about it. Rather, sweet and intentional. When she’d leaned into him, his hand found the back of her neck, cupping it protectively, and his mouth discovered hers, his kiss warm and sure.
The ocean roared in the distance, even while their world narrowed to a party of two.
Willow responded before her thoughts could catch up, her hand pressing against the front of his shirt, her lips answering with all the longing she hadn’t dared voice. The horses shifted slightly beneath them, but neither one moved to break the kiss.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead lightly against hers, his breath heavy, like he’d run a race.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Chance murmured. “Not yet. Just … let me love you, Willow. However you need. However long it takes.”
Her heart thudded like a cacophony of booming fireworks. She was out of breath. She was filled with both joy—and dread. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered, picturing the simple life that was both at hand, and still terribly out of reach.
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, then cupped her face with his hands. “You deserve everything I can give you.”
The tears she’d been holding back slipped down her cheeks in rivulets. As they sat wrapped in the hush of the evening, she let herself believe that maybe love could grow, even in uncertain soil—if only she could stop looking over her shoulder long enough to let it flourish.