Chapter 9
We pull into Liam’s drive just as the mist thickens into a steady drizzle, the mountains behind his house cloaked in heavy gray.
The Chief had met us outside Lura’s Porch before we left, handing over a small bag of clothes he managed to grab.
He promised he’d let me know when it might be safe to retrieve more.
But now, sitting in the cab of Liam’s truck, a new fear coils deep in my bones, tighter and colder than the rain outside.
Lura didn’t have any living family that I know of. No children. No siblings. And to my knowledge, no will. No instructions. No safety net. And the building—the only home I’ve known since coming to Broken Heart Creek—what happens to it now? Who does it belong to?
And selfishly, shamefully, another thought worms its way to the surface. What’s going to happen to me?
The weight of it crushes down all at once, and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. I voice every fear, every awful what-if, my throat raw and cracking around them.
Liam listens, silent and steady, and then without a word he reaches over and pulls my hand into his. Big and warm and solid around mine.
“You've got a place, honey,” he says quietly. “Right here with me.”
My heart stutters. I let out a watery laugh that sounds more like a broken thing caught between hope and heartbreak.
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep it light, trying to armor myself with humor. “That'll work for a few weeks. But I know you, Liam Stone. You're gonna meet some busty blonde at Knot and Spur, flash that cowboy charm, and want to bring her home.”
I shake my head, the words sharper than I mean them to be, because if I let myself soften, I’ll fall apart completely.
“And then what?” I whisper. “I’ll be in the way? Some awkward explanation you have to make?”
I stare down at our hands, blinking hard.
“I appreciate the offer,” I say, voice shaking. “I do. More than you know. But I have to figure this out. I can’t be someone’s charity case.”
Liam is quiet for a long moment. The kind of silence that feels thick and full of things he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. Then, with heartbreaking gentleness, he squeezes my hand.
“Okay,” he agrees, voice rough. “But you have time, Olive. As much as you need.”
I look up, ready to protest, ready to argue, but he cuts me off with a smile that’s sad and real and so damn patient.
“No busty blonde beating down my door, honey,” he says. “Just you.”
And somehow, that feels even more dangerous than a promise. Because if I believe him, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let him go.
“Let’s get you inside,” Liam says softly. “You can shower while I throw together some dinner.”
I nod, the motion stiff and mechanical, like my body’s working on autopilot while my mind struggles to catch up.
The rain has picked up again, cold and insistent as we step out of the truck. I follow him inside, boots scuffing against the stone floor of his entryway, the familiar scent of leather and cedar wrapping around me.
He leads me down the hall, past the living room and kitchen, to the spare bedroom tucked just beside his own.
When he pushes the door open, I bite back a groan.
The room is cozy enough, but the thin wall between this room and his isn't lost on me. If or when he finds someone else, someone who actually fits into his life, I’ll hear everything.
Every whispered laugh, every groan, every proof that I was just a placeholder in a house that was never meant to be mine.
I shove the thought down hard, swallowing the lump in my throat before it can choke me.
Liam sets the small bag the chief brought onto the bed, his movements careful, like he knows how fragile I feel even without me saying a word.
He straightens and meets my gaze, his expression unreadable but soft.
“I'll let you know when dinner's ready,” he says, his voice low, steady. “And I’ll put away what we bought in town.”
For a second, I almost reach for him. Almost ask him to stay. But I don’t. I just nod, hugging my arms around myself, and watch as he backs out of the room, leaving the door open a crack like he’s giving me space without truly leaving me alone.
When he’s gone, I stand there, the silence pressing in from all sides. The grief sits heavy in my chest, too big to name, too raw to unpack. And for the first time since Lura’s laughter faded from the world, I let the first real tear slide down my cheek.
The guest room feels too big and too small all at once.
After a few minutes of just standing there, staring blankly at the bag on the bed as tears roll down my cheeks, I force myself to move.
I grab the clothes, shuffle into the adjoining bathroom, and turn the shower on hotter than necessary, letting the small room fill with steam.
Stripping out of my clothes feels mechanical. Shirt, jeans, undergarments, and socks all pooling on the tile. I step under the spray, the water hitting my skin like tiny burning needles.
At first, I just stand there, hands braced against the cool tile, forehead bowed. The water beats down, washing away the outside world. The smell of the barn, the chill of the rain, the dust and debris of the day.
But it doesn’t touch what’s inside me. It doesn’t wash away the gaping hole in my chest. It doesn’t silence the echo of Lura’s laugh that will never ring out again. It doesn’t fix the way the world feels cracked and wrong now. And somewhere between one breath and the next, my knees buckle.
I catch myself on the wall, gasping out a sob. It rips through me, wild and ugly, bouncing off the tile in painful echoes.
Another follows.
And another.
Until I’m crouched under the spray, crying so hard my chest hurts, the grief pouring out of me faster than the water running down the drain.
I don’t know how long I stay there.
Long enough for the steam to cling heavily to the air.
Long enough for my skin to turn pink and raw.
Long enough for the knock on the door to come, soft but insistent.
“Olive?” Liam’s voice is low, careful. Like he’s trying not to scare me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing a fist against my mouth to muffle the sobs. But it’s too late. He heard.
“Olive,” he says again, voice thick now. “Can I come in, honey?”
I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.
But somehow, my hand moves to unlock the door.
A second later, it eases open, and Liam steps inside, moving slowly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
He doesn’t look at me like I’m pathetic. Or broken. Or something he doesn’t know how to fix.
He just sees me.
He crosses the room, reaching out to turn the water off with one quick, sure movement. The sudden silence feels deafening, heavy.
Without a word, he grabs a towel and drapes it gently around my shoulders, sinking down to the floor beside me, pulling me into him with a tenderness that absolutely undoes me.
I collapse against him, wet and shivering and raw, and he wraps me up like he’s willing to carry it all for me if he has to.
“I’ve got you, honey,” he murmurs into my hair. “I've got you.”
And I believe him.
Liam holds me there on the cold tile, his arms steady and sure even as I shudder against him. He doesn't rush me. Doesn’t say anything. Just breathes with me, slow and steady, until my sobs taper off into hiccupping, broken little breaths.
Eventually, I pull back a little, my cheeks burning even through the rawness of everything.
“Sorry,” I croak.
Liam brushes a damp strand of hair from my face, his touch featherlight.
“You don't ever have to apologize to me,” he says, so quiet it almost doesn’t reach me over the pounding in my ears.
His words settle somewhere deep in my chest, warm and aching.
Still cradling the towel around me, he rises to his feet and offers his hand.
I hesitate, feeling exposed, but he just waits until I slip my fingers into his.
He helps me up gently, steadying me when my legs wobble. I clutch the towel tighter around me, shivering slightly despite the lingering heat of the room.
“Come on, honey,” he murmurs. “Let's get you into something dry.”
I nod mutely, letting him guide me into the bedroom where the clothes the Chief brought sit neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Liam hesitates just long enough for me to register the choice he’s giving me. Privacy, if I want it. But right now? I don't want to be alone.
I give the barest shake of my head.
He exhales, almost like he was hoping for that answer, and kneels to pick up the sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee.
Moving with a gentleness that nearly breaks me all over again, he helps towel off my hair, his hands slow and sure, never rushing me.
Never treating me like I’m fragile, even though I am.
He keeps his eyes carefully averted as I shift the towel and tug on the dry clothes, giving me dignity even in my brokenness.
When I’m dressed, he cups the side of my face, thumb brushing just beneath my eye, where a tear still clings stubbornly.
“Come on,” he says again, his voice rough. “You need rest.”
He pulls back the covers on the bed and helps me climb in, tugging the quilt up around my shoulders. For a second, he lingers there, standing over me like he doesn’t know if he should leave or stay. Neither do I.
But when I reach out, he doesn't hesitate.
He kicks off his boots and slides into bed behind me, fully clothed, careful but sure.
He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me gently back against his chest like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like this is just where I’m supposed to be.
And I sink into him, feeling his warmth seep into my frozen bones, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my cheek.
Neither of us speaks.
There’s nothing left to say.
Only this.
And somewhere between the shudder of my breath evening out and the steady weight of his hand over my heart, I finally, blessedly, fall asleep.
Morning seeps in, the pale gray light of dawn creeping across the room.
For a moment, I don’t move.