20. Luke
LUKE
Four days. Mila hasn't been to the ranch in four days and the absence sits in my chest like a physical weight, pressing down until breathing feels like work.
I haven't called. Haven't texted. Because what would I even say? I know I told you to take that job but actually I'm dying without you and please come back? That's not fair to her. She deserves the career she's been working toward, the future she should've had before everything fell apart.
I just need to get through this. Shove down the feelings, focus on work, let time smooth over the raw edges until I can function again.
So that's what I do.
The ranch runs on routine, and I throw myself into it with the kind of focus that probably looks productive but really just keeps me too busy to think.
Guest bookings for summer season. Supply orders for the kitchen.
Trail maintenance schedules. Equipment repairs that have been sitting on my list for months.
I work until my eyes blur, until the office feels like a cage, until the silence where Mila's voice used to be becomes unbearable.
Then I go home to my cabin that still smells like her—vanilla and something warm I can't name—and pour whiskey until sleep comes heavy enough to drown out the fact that she's not in my bed.
It's fine. I'm fine.
The lie works better when I'm exhausted enough not to examine it too closely.
Day five breaks cold and gray, March refusing to give way to spring. I stand in my kitchen drinking coffee that tastes wrong because I made it instead of Mila, staring at the French press she left behind that I can't bring myself to put away.
My phone sits on the counter, dark and accusing. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing from Mila because I told her to go and apparently she listened.
This is what I wanted. What I needed. For her to take that job and build the life she deserves without me holding her back.
So why does it feel like I've carved out something vital and left myself hollow?
I drain the coffee and head out before the thoughts spiral darker. Work. I just need to work.
The ranch looks the same as always—barn doors open to let horses into the pasture, fence lines stretching toward mountains still capped with snow, the guest lodge quiet this early in the season. Everything familiar, everything mine.
Everything empty without Mila's presence turning ordinary moments into something lighter.
I force myself through the morning routine, checking in with the ranch hands, reviewing the guest schedule for upcoming bookings, avoiding the office where her absence screams loudest. By afternoon I'm restless, crawling out of my skin, needing something to do with my hands that isn't paperwork.
Dean's truck sits parked near the barn when I head that direction, and relief hits sharp. My brother's been on the road for weeks—having him home means distraction, maybe even conversation that doesn't involve thinking about Mila leaving.
A bonfire could work. Get some of the guys together, stir up excitement, remind myself the ranch exists beyond the four walls where Mila used to sit.
I'm halfway across the yard when Harper steps out of the barn, and the look she gives me could freeze water.
"Harper." I slow, suddenly cautious. "Didn't know you were?—"
"Don't." She crosses her arms, expression thunderous in a way I've never seen on her. Harper's sunshine, warmth, the kind of person who makes everyone feel welcome. Right now she looks like she wants to set me on fire. "Don't even talk to me right now."
Confusion hits first, then concern. "What's going on? Are you?—"
"Am I okay? Really, Luke?" Her laugh is sharp, humorless. "You're asking me if I'm okay when you just?—"
"Luke." Caleb's voice cuts through Harper's rant, gruff and commanding as always. He emerges from the barn, expression unreadable. "You're an idiot."
I blink, thrown completely off balance. "What?"
"You heard me." He crosses to Harper, drops a hand on her shoulder in that protective way he's developed since she moved here. "An idiot."
Wyatt appears next, leaning against the barn door with his arms crossed and that look on his face that says he's about to enjoy watching me squirm.
"Boy, you are acting exactly like Caleb did when Harper almost left." He shakes his head, disappointment clear. "Thought you learned something from watching that disaster play out."
What the hell is happening? I look between the three of them, trying to piece together why everyone suddenly hates me.
"I don't—what are you talking about?"
Harper makes a noise somewhere between frustration and fury. "Mila, Luke. We're talking about Mila."
Her name hits like a punch, stealing air from my lungs. "What about her?"
"What about—are you serious right now?" Harper steps forward, and Caleb has to physically hold her back. "You let her leave! You told her to take that job and leave and now she's packing up her entire life to move to Helena in three weeks!"
Three weeks. The timeline slams into me with brutal clarity. She's actually leaving. Actually going. I knew it was happening—I'm the one who told her to go—but hearing it out loud makes it real in a way that carves deeper.
"She got offered a job." My voice sounds distant, mechanical. "Creative director position. It's what she's been working toward for years. I'm not going to—I can't ask her to give that up."
"Why the hell not?" Wyatt pushes off the barn door, frustration radiating from every line of his body. "You love her, don't you?"
Love. The word sits heavy and true and terrifying. "That's exactly why I can't. She deserves?—"
"Don't." Harper's voice cracks, and when I meet her eyes they're bright with tears. "Don't you dare finish that sentence with something about what she deserves without you. I've heard that speech before from Caleb and it was bullshit then too."
Caleb grunts his agreement, which might be the most alarming part of this entire conversation.
"She came to girls' night three days ago and told us about the job." Harper's fighting to keep her voice steady. "Said you were supportive. Encouraging. That you told her not to think about anything here, that this was her career and her future."
I did say that. Every word carefully chosen to make sure she knew I wasn't holding her back, that she had my blessing to build the life she was supposed to have.
"She should take it," I manage. "It's a good opportunity. She'd be stupid to?—"
"She doesn't want it!" Harper's voice rises sharp enough to echo off the barn walls. "She's heartbroken, Luke. She sat there at Red's smiling and lying and pretending she was fine while Sadie and I watched her fall apart. And you know what the worst part is?"
I can't answer. Can't do anything but stand here while Harper's words tear through me.
"She thinks you don't want her anymore. That you were just waiting for an excuse to end things, and this job offer gave you the perfect out." Tears spill over Harper's cheeks now. "She thinks she was temporary to you. That what you had was temporary."
No. No, that's not?—
"I never said?—"
"You didn't have to!" Harper's voice breaks completely. "You told her to go, Luke. You made it clear you wanted her to leave. What else is she supposed to think?"
The world tilts sideways. Four days of Mila not coming to the ranch, not texting, not calling—I thought she was busy preparing for her new life. Excited about the opportunity. Moving forward like I told her to.
Instead she's been packing up her apartment thinking I don't want her.
"I was trying to do the right thing." The words come out hoarse. "She has this incredible opportunity and I can't—I won't be the reason she gives up her career. I won't trap her here."
"Trap her?" Wyatt's laugh is bitter. "Boy, that girl has been settling into this ranch for a year now like she's planning to stay forever. The only person who can't see it is apparently you."
"She always said it was temporary." I'm grasping at arguments that feel flimsier by the second. "Just a break from real life. She never?—"
"Did you ever ask her to stay?" Dad’s quiet question cuts through everything else. "Did you ever tell her you wanted her here permanently?"
No. I didn't. Because asking felt selfish, felt like pressure she didn't need when she was still figuring out her life.
"I can't ask her to give up?—"
"There you go again with what you can't do." Wyatt shakes his head, disgust clear. "What about what she wants? You ever think to ask her that?"
Gravel crunches behind me and I turn to see Sadie's truck pulling up, parking at an angle that suggests she's in a hurry. She climbs out, sees me standing there, and her expression hardens into something sharp and furious.
"You." She stalks toward me, jabbing a finger at my chest. "You absolute idiot."
"Sadie—"
"No. You don't get to talk right now." She's vibrating with anger, color high on her cheeks. "You let her go, Luke. You let Mila pack up her entire life and plan to leave all of us and you didn't say a damn word to stop her."
"She got a job offer." I'm repeating the same defense like it means something, like it justifies what I've done. "What am I supposed to?—"
"Tell her you love her!" Sadie's shout echoes across the yard. "Tell her you want her to stay! Give her literally any reason to think you give a shit that she's leaving!"
"Of course I give a shit." The words rip out of me, raw and desperate. "I—she deserves better than?—"
"Than what? Than you?" Sadie's laugh is sharp enough to cut.
"She's in love with you, you absolute moron.
She's been in love with you for months and you just—you told her to go.
You looked at this incredible woman who reorganized your entire life and made you happy for the first time in years and you told her to leave. "
In love with me. The words don't make sense, can't be true, because Mila is light and chaos and everything vibrant while I'm just—I'm routine and responsibility and careful control.
"She can't—she's not?—"