32. Saramaria
Saramaria
Iwake up feeling like I’m going to vomit.
It’s not the heat this time. It’s the dread. It’s a heavy, cold rock sitting in the pit of my stomach that no amount of deep breathing can dislodge. The sun is pouring through the windows, bright and mocking. It’s inspection day.
I drag myself out of bed. My legs feel like lead. I wander into the kitchen.
Boone is at the stove. He’s wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his back to me. Bacon sizzles in a cast iron skillet, the scent filling the room. It’s a smell that should remind me of breakfast, but right now, it just reminds me of the judgment coming our way.
“Eggs?” he asks without turning. He hears my boots on the floor.
“I can’t eat,” I mutter.
“You need to eat,” he says. He slides a plate onto the table. “You’ll need the energy. We stayed up pretty late last night.”
I sit down, staring at the eggs. I can’t do this.
Knox walks in from the living room, carrying a mug of coffee. He sets it down in front of me.
“Two sugars,” he says. “Splash of cream.”
I look up at him. “How did you know?”
“I watch you,” he says simply. “Every morning.”
I take a sip. It’s perfect. Exactly how I like it. The warmth spreads through my chest, fighting off the chill of the dread.
Rhett appears in the doorway. He’s holding a clipboard.
“Checklist,” he says as he hands it to me.
I scan it.
Barn roof tarps removed: Check. Tools hidden in the shed: Check. Electrical box door secured with a zip tie: Check. Lumber stack covered with a blue tarp: Check.
“We’re ready,” Rhett says. “We just have to act like we’re ahead of schedule. We’re making progress.
“Okay,” I say. I take a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
At 10:00 a.m., the gray sedan pulls into the driveway.
A man in a county uniform steps out. He’s a Beta with a thin mouth and a clipboard. He looks like he has seen too many dilapidated farms and not enough compliant owners.
We meet him on the porch.
“Ms. Cruz?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“The electrical grid,” I say. “We had some storm damage. We’re working on it.”
“Show me,” he says.
We walk toward the barn. The guys flank me. Boone is on my left. Knox on my right. Rhett is behind me. We walk in a formation, a wall of solid muscle and determination.
The inspector stops in front of the electrical box. He frowns. “The door is missing.”
“Temporarily,” I say smoothly. “We’re replacing the hinges. We had to strip the interior for the storm damage. We’re waiting on a new part.”
He eyes the box. “Did you rewire the breakers?”
“We bypassed the main line,” Rhett says. “It’s temporary, but it’s up to code. We have a permit number right here.” He points to a piece of paper taped to the side.
The inspector looks at it. He grunts. “Let’s see the barn.”
We walk to the barn. The tarps are gone. The roof looks rough, but it’s covered. The wood is stacked neatly under the eaves.
“It’s old,” the inspector says. “The wood is rotting in places.”
“We have the lumber to replace it,” I say. “We’re waiting on the foundation to dry before we start.”
He walks the perimeter. He kicks at a post. He checks the hinges on the big doors.
“Structural integrity is sound,” he mutters. He looks at the roof. “The tarps are holding. No water intrusion.”
He walks back to the house. He looks at the fence line. We didn’t have time to fix the breaks in the lower pasture, so we parked the bulldozer in front of them, making it look like we are about to start repairs.
“Good,” the inspector says. He scribbles on his clipboard. “The house is old. The wiring is a mess. But you’ve managed the exterior hazards. The barn is secure. The livestock are watered and fed. You’re not in violation of animal welfare codes. That’s the main thing.”
He rips a sheet off the clipboard and hands it to me.
“Structural inspection passed,” he says. “You have thirty days to repair the roof and update the wiring. If you fail to make progress, I’ll be back with a red tag.”
I take the paper. My hand is shaking.
“Is that it?” I ask.
“That’s it for today,” he says. “Good luck, Miss Cruz. You’re going to need it.”
He gets back in his car. He drives away.
I stand there. The paper burns in my hand. We passed.
The relief is so intense it hits me like a physical blow. My knees buckle. I start to go down.
Boone catches my arm. He holds me up, his grip strong and sure.
Knox steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine, ready to catch me if I fall.
Rhett is behind me, his hand resting lightly on my lower back, steadying me.
For a suspended moment, we are one. A unit. A solid, unshakeable front. I feel the warmth of their bodies, the strength of their presence. I don’t feel like a lawyer fighting for her life. I feel like the center of a pack. And it feels right.
“Okay,” I say. “We did it.”
“We did,” Boone says.
I pull myself together. We spend the rest of the day in a daze of relief.
That night, we have a bonfire behind the barn.
The yard is clean. The lumber is covered. The trash is gone. We have to celebrate. We have to acknowledge that we survived. The storm. The heat. The inspection. The sabotage.
The fire crackles, sending sparks up toward the black sky. The stars are brilliant, scattered across the velvet darkness like diamonds.
Wellsy chases a moth, yipping happily. I sit on a blanket near the fire. Boone hands me a cup of hot cider. Knox sits on a log nearby, whittling a stick. Rhett leans against a tree, watching the flames.
“I have to say,” I start. My voice is quiet, but in the silence, it carries. “Thank you. For everything. For the heat. For the inspection. For... for taking care of me.”
Boone looks at me. The firelight catches the sharp angles of his face.
“We didn’t do it out of obligation,” he says. “We did it because we wanted to. Because this place is ours.”
He hesitates. “Because you are ours to take care of.”
I look down at my cup. “I don’t want you to go,” I say. The words slip out before I can stop them. “I thought I did. When I first got here, I wanted you gone. But now...”
I trail off. I can’t say it. I can’t explain the fear of losing them.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” Knox says. He stands up and walks over to me. “Unless you want us to. But we aren’t leaving. Not unless you tell us to go.”
“Of course I don’t want you to go,” I say. “But everything is so complicated. My job, my life... and the way I feel about you. It’s a lot.”
“We know,” Boone says. He nearly chokes on the words. He has to look away from me, staring into the fire, to compose himself. “We know it’s complicated. We know we’re asking for a lot.”
“We’re not asking you to decide anything right now,” Knox adds. “You deserve to choose freely, Saramaria. Not out of fear or debt, but because you want to.”
“We can wait,” Rhett says from the shadows. “We aren’t pushing. We won’t push you past what you can handle. We can wait forever if that’s what you need.”
My shields crack. The walls I built in Denver, the walls I use to keep people out, crumble.
“I’m not ready for bond talk,” I say. “I’m not ready for that kind of commitment. I’m scared of the loss of control. I’m scared of losing myself.”
“It’s okay,” Boone says, his voice rough. “We can wait. We’re not going anywhere.”
“It’s okay,” Knox agrees. “We can take it slow.”
“It’s okay,” Rhett says. “We’re right here.”
I look at them. I look at the fire.
I shift on the blanket, making room. Boone sits down beside me. He doesn’t say anything, just offers his shoulder.
I lean my head against him. The smell of rosemary and mint and the warmth of his body are the only things that feel real.
Knox walks over and drapes his jacket over my shoulders. It smells of whiskey and black tea and his own distinct scent. It’s heavy and warm and comforting.
Rhett moves closer. He doesn’t sit, but he rests his hand on the blanket, right near my hip. A silent offer of support.
We sit there, looking at the fire. The scents of the three of us blend together in the cool night air. Vanilla and honey and rosemary and whiskey and cinnamon. It’s a complex, beautiful mix. It smells like home.
We don’t say anything. We don’t need to.
The pack is forming, and it’s not just a bond or a bite.
It’s something else. It’s a connection. A commitment. A family.
I close my eyes and breathe it in. I let myself fall into the feeling. I let myself belong.