Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Simon
“Easy, girl,” I murmured, running both hands down Ginger’s neck, feeling the warmth of her coat beneath my palms.
The mare was restless tonight, shifting her weight from hoof to hoof as if she could sense the storm rolling through the valley. Her ears flicked toward every sound, her breath clouding the cold air between us.
“It’s alright,” I told her softly, letting my tone settle into something calm and steady. “Just the snow coming down again.”
Outside, the world was white. Snowflakes drifted past the barn door, glinting in the lantern light before disappearing into the night. The storm wasn’t fierce. It was rather persistent though.
It had been snowing since late afternoon, the kind of slow, steady fall that promised the roads would be impassable by morning.
Calling it a storm was an exaggeration, but to Ginger, any change in weather was a reason to fuss. I couldn’t blame her. I’d been feeling that same restlessness all evening. Something low and quiet, the type of energy that hums under the skin when the night gets too still.
At least, that’s what I felt whenever I got too still. Movement was how I kept myself steady. How I kept myself calm.
I ran a hand over her mane, the scent of hay and leather thick in the air. “You’d think after all this time, we’d both be used to it.”
The barn creaked in response, settling into the cold. Wind slipped through the cracks, a reminder of how old this place was, but also of how steady it could be. It was peaceful in its way.
It also made me ache a little.
This place had become my whole world. Two years ago, when I arrived at Coleman Ranch, I didn’t expect it to feel like home. I just needed work, a roof, and something to fill the long hours that grief left hollow.
I’d heard good things about the place. About how Atticus and the others made sure it was inclusive and how they looked out for their people.
I’d been a stranger then, rough around the edges, weighed down by things I didn’t talk about. But the rhythm of ranch life had a way of easing you back into the world. There was something healing about the routine.
Feeding the horses, mending fences, watching the land shift through the seasons. It all gave you purpose.
“It’s like riding a bike,” Bobby Allen had told me when I first started helping with the horses, which was his specialty. “You never really forget.”
He’d been right. Before long, I was back in the groove, spending my mornings out in the stables and my evenings in the fields.
Everyone here carried something—scars that didn’t show, stories they didn’t tell. We were all, in our own ways, healing.
And for the first time in years, I wasn’t the only one trying to put myself back together.
I brushed my thumb over Ginger’s bridle and sighed. “You’re lucky, you know that? You don’t have to think so much about what’s gone.”
She snorted, flicking her tail. I smiled despite myself.
When I’d first come here, I hadn’t expected to find family again. I hadn’t expected anything, really. I was just trying to survive. Losing Wren had gutted me in a way I didn’t have words for. The world had gone quiet after he passed, like someone had turned the sound down on everything.
He’d been sick for a long time. Too long.
The kind of sickness that steals little pieces of you each day until there’s nothing left but goodbyes. I’d taken care of him through all of it. Made meals he couldn’t eat. Told jokes that didn’t land. Held him when the pain got bad.
And still, somehow, it hadn’t been enough to prepare me for the silence that came after.
I rubbed my hands together, chasing off the chill. Sometimes, late at night, I could still feel his weight leaning against me. The warmth of his hair against my neck. I missed the little things most.
The quiet mornings.
The easy laughter.
The sound of him humming under his breath when he thought I wasn’t listening.
Grief is strange like that. It settles deep, but it never fully leaves. You just learn to carry it differently.
Wren had made me promise not to close myself off. “Don’t give up on love,” he’d said one night, his voice small and tired. “Promise me you’ll keep your heart open.”
I’d said I would. I meant it, too. But meaning and doing aren’t the same thing.
Now, two years later, I was still trying. I’d found purpose in the work, comfort in the routine. And on nights like this—nights when the cold wind whistled through the rafters and the snow blanketed the fields—I let myself believe that was enough.
But lately… it hadn’t felt like enough.
I gave Ginger another pat. “Come on now, girl. It’s time for bed.”
She tossed her head again, as if disagreeing. The horses always seemed to sense when something was on my mind. Maybe that’s why she wouldn’t settle.
She wasn’t the only one.
When I couldn’t sleep, I made my rounds checking gates, counting livestock, and walking the perimeter until my thoughts quieted. Dr. Soto, my old therapist, called it “grounding”. Said it helped me stay connected to the present.
I just called it habit.
Still, it worked. The cold air kept me awake, and the rhythm of my steps gave my mind something to focus on.
“Just you and me, Ginger,” I said softly. “Two insomniacs in the snow.”
She flicked her ear, unimpressed.
I chuckled under my breath and reached for her feed bucket. The sound of grain hitting the pail filled the barn, and for a moment, everything felt simple again—quiet, steady, familiar.
Then she froze.
Her head shot up, muscles taut, nostrils flaring. I stilled, the sudden tension in the air setting off my own pulse.
“What is it, girl?” I asked, following her gaze toward the open doorway.
Snow drifted in through the gap, catching the light. And then—just for a second—I saw it. A flash of movement.
Headlights.
I frowned. “Now who could that be?”
The ranch was isolated enough that no one came by unannounced, especially not at this hour. The others would all be asleep by now.
I gave Ginger one last stroke down her neck, murmured a quiet goodbye, and latched her stall door. She had a knack for sneaking out if I didn’t. Pulling my coat tighter, I stepped out into the cold.
The wind hit hard, carrying with it the scent of pine and snow. My breath fogged in front of me as I started toward the main house. The world was hushed, the sky heavy with puffy clouds. Only the crunch of my boots broke the silence.
The Coleman Ranch stretched out wide and open, the snow turning every fence and rooftop into something out of a painting. The lights near the big house glowed faintly, halos of white in the swirling snowfall.
It was beautiful and lonely all at once.
By the time I reached the porch, the headlights were clearer. Two steady beams cut through the falling snow. I stepped under the overhang, brushing frost from my collar, and waited.
The shape of the vehicle came into view: A small, familiar car. My chest tightened.
Tanner.
He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight.
I leaned against the post, watching as his car crept up the drive. The tires made soft, muffled sounds against the snow. He parked near the fence, engine idling for a few seconds before it cut off. Then silence again.
For a moment, I didn’t move. Just stood there, heart thudding like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
It definitely felt that way even though this was as much my home as anyone else’s.
Tanner had been around the ranch for years.
He was a lawyer, then a friend, and finally a quiet miracle worker.
Everyone spoke highly of him. He’d helped Jackson with his custody case years ago, and after that, it seemed like he’d just become part of the family.
Whenever there was trouble, Tanner was the one people called.
But I’d always seen something more when I looked at him.
The first time we met, he’d offered me a handshake that was too soft, his smile just shy of nervous. He had the kind of face that made you want to trust him. He lit from within somehow. His laugh had been quick and bright, and for a moment, I’d forgotten how heavy I’d felt that day.
Since then, I’d seen him here and there on market days, at ranch events, and during the holidays. Always surrounded by people, but never really with anyone. There was a light in him that drew people close, but also a distance, like he kept part of himself tucked away.
And every time he was near, something in me stirred.
I told myself it was admiration. Gratitude, even. But as the months went by, I stopped believing that lie. It wasn’t just gratitude.
It was longing. A slow, steady ache I tried not to name.
He wasn’t mine to want.
Sadly, the heart doesn’t listen to reason.
I watched as he climbed out of the car, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders. Snow clung to his hair, silvering the edges of it. His movements were careful, deliberate, like he was holding himself together through sheer will.
My chest tightened again, and something unspoken moved through me. Recognition, maybe. Or hope.
What are you doing here, Tanner?
The question burned at the back of my throat, but I didn’t call out. I just stood there, letting the wind carry the moment.
It struck me then how strange life could be. Two years ago, I couldn’t imagine feeling this again. This sharp awareness of another person. This quiet ache in the chest.
I’d thought that part of me was gone forever.
Yet here I was, standing in the snow, heart pounding like a fool, watching headlights fade behind him.
Maybe Wren had been right. Maybe love didn’t end. Maybe it just changed shape as it waited for us to be ready again.
As Tanner shut the car door, he paused, glancing up toward the house. His breath fogged in the air, his shoulders lifted with a shiver. There was something tentative in the way he moved, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock or turn around and drive away.
I took a step forward before I could think better of it. My boots crunched in the snow, breaking the silence. He turned toward the sound, eyes catching mine across the distance.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The wind moved between us, gentle but sharp, carrying the faint sound of the barn door creaking in the distance.
The look on his face… God, it did something to me.
He looked tired. Worn in a way that went deeper than lack of sleep. There was a weight in his eyes I hadn’t seen before, and it made me want to close the space between us, to offer warmth, comfort.
Anything he needed.
And if he needs a Daddy.
The voice in my head taunted me, wanting to remind me I wasn’t just a man who’d be his partner in life. I was a dominant individual looking for someone to submit to me. Looking for someone who craved the chance to let go. Who craved letting me lead.
I stood there on the porch, caught in the quiet pull between us.
He blinked, snowflakes melting in his hair, and for a heartbeat, the world felt smaller. It was just the two of us and the steady fall of snow.
I didn’t know why he was here. Was something wrong? Did he just need to get away?
Or maybe, just maybe, the universe had decided it was time for my heart to wake up again.
I didn’t call out to him. Not yet.
The moment was fragile, like the hush before dawn.
But as the cold settled deeper into my bones and his car lights disappeared, I knew one thing for certain—whatever brought Tanner here tonight wasn’t just business.
Something had shifted.
And standing there on that porch, snow falling all around me, I felt it.
That old promise stirred back to life.
Wren’s voice echoed faintly in my memory: Keep your heart open.
So I did.
It was the first time I believed I could live up to the notion my late husband left behind. The first time I realized there was room for me to want someone else.
I squared my shoulders, watched Tanner start toward me through the snow, and let the warmth of something new flicker to life in the space where grief used to live.
Whatever it might become, I’d be ready to take it on.
I was ready to take him on.