9. Becky
Chapter nine
Becky
I carry a tray with coffee, a small plate of toast, and jam to the living room.
Mike is sitting on the couch, his injured arm resting on a pillow, and B. is curled up beside him as if she’s claimed him as her personal guardian.
Glancing around the home’s warm, rustic interior, I feel an unexpected sense of connection. The exposed wooden beams, vaulted ceilings, and stone fireplace make the space both grand and cozy. The walls are lined with family photos, antique ranch tools, and shelves filled with well-worn books on farming, horses, and country life.
Wide-planked hardwood floors shine with a rich caramel hue, softened by handwoven rugs that add warmth and color. A plush leather couch and an assortment of oversized armchairs surround the large stone fireplace—the heart of the home on chilly nights. Mike reclines on one of the sofas, his feet propped on a leather ottoman.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, setting the tray down on the coffee table.
He glances up, his dark eyes meeting mine. For a second, something vulnerable flickers across his expression.
“Better,” he says, though his voice is gruff.
I sit beside him, careful not to jostle the kitten. “Let me check the bandage. It might need freshening up.”
Mike hesitates, clearly not used to being fussed over, but finally nods, allowing me to undo the makeshift sling I’d rigged the night before. As I unwrap the gauze, I try to keep my movements gentle, though my hands tremble slightly. Years of arranging flowers have kept my fingers nimble, but this is different.
“You’re good at this,” Mike murmurs, his voice softer than I expected.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” I reply, thinking of the countless times I’ve patched up friends or family. “You’re not the first stubborn person I’ve had to take care of.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Stubborn, huh?”
“Oh, definitely,” I tease, meeting his gaze. “But I think that’s what makes you good at what you do. Stubbornness is just determination in disguise.”
Mike chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes my chest tighten. “You’ve got me figured out, huh?”
“Not yet,” I say, grinning. “But I’m getting there.”
As I finish rewrapping his bandage, we settle into an easy rhythm of conversation. Mike surprises me by opening up, sharing stories from his time as a firefighter and the challenges of running the ranch.
“Have you ever thought about leaving?” I ask, curious.
He shakes his head. “This place is home. It’s not perfect, but it’s where I’m meant to be.”
I nod. “I feel the same about the shop. It’s not just a business—it’s a part of me. When it burned, it felt like losing a piece of myself.”
Mike’s expression softens, and for a moment, the silence between us is filled with an unspoken connection.
“What about you?” he asks. “What got you into flowers?”
I smile, the memory both warm and bittersweet. “My aunt. She taught me the language of flowers—how each bloom has its own meaning. She said flowers can say the things we can’t.”
“She sounds like she was a special person,” Mike says, his tone gentle.
“She was,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “I try to honor her every day in what I do.”
Later that afternoon, Pete stops by to go over the day's tasks with Mike. He's sharp, confident and has an easy way of talking that makes people trust him.
“You’re in good hands with me,” Pete says with a grin as he sits across from Mike. “I’ve got everything under control.”
Mike leans back against the couch, looking more at ease than I’ve ever seen him. “I know. That’s why I hired you.”
The two of them talk shop, going over everything from grazing rotations to equipment maintenance. I listen from the kitchen, impressed by the quiet respect between them.
“You’ve done a lot for this ranch,” Mike says, his tone serious. “I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time to make it official.”
Pete raises an eyebrow. “Official how?”
“Offering you a stake,” Mike replies. “You’ve earned it.”
The surprise on Pete’s face quickly turns to gratitude. “I don’t know what to say. That means a lot, Mike. Thank you.”
Their handshake seals the deal. For the first time since his injury, I see Mike completely relax.
“Tea to celebrate?” I ask, beaming.
They both laugh.
***
The next morning, I head to the newly rebuilt shop to start organizing the space for the grand reopening.
The renovations are beautiful, and the community's support has been overwhelming. Donations of furniture, supplies and even a stunning new storefront sign have poured in.
As I walk through the shop, picturing it fully restored, my heart swells with gratitude. This place is more than a business—it’s a symbol of resilience and love.
But my happiness is short-lived.
A sharp crack echoes through the shop.
I spin around, my heart pounding. A brick lies on the floor near the front window, surrounded by shattered glass.
Dread curls in my stomach.
Tied to the brick is a piece of paper, the words scrawled in angry, uneven letters:
This isn’t over.
I stare at the note, my pulse hammering in my ears. The words blur as fear creeps in, cold and paralyzing. My hands tremble as I untie the crumpled paper, half-hoping I imagined it. But the words glare back at me, sharp and real:
This isn’t over.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay calm. My first instinct is to call the police, but my fingers hover over my phone. Instead, I take a deep breath and dial the only person I can think of.
Mike picks up on the first ring. “Becky?”
I can barely get the words out. “Mike, someone threw a brick through the shop window.”
Silence. Then a sharp inhale.
“Are you okay?” His voice is suddenly hard, focused.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “It happened while I was in the back. But there’s… there’s a note.”
“I’m coming,” he says immediately, then the line goes dead.
It feels like an eternity before his truck screeches to a halt outside. He strides toward me, his expression a mix of anger and concern. His sharp gaze sweeps the shop, landing on the shattered window, the brick, the crumpled note.
“Let me see it,” he says, his voice low and controlled.
I hand it to him. His jaw tightens as he reads the words. When he looks back at me, his dark eyes are stormy—his protective instincts blazing.
“This has to be Paul,” he mutters.
“Who else could it be?” I whisper.
Mike runs a hand through his hair, pacing the small space like a caged lion. “He’s escalating,” he mutters. “This isn’t just him being a nuisance anymore—it’s dangerous.”
A shiver runs through me.
Mike notices and immediately softens, stepping closer. His good hand rests lightly on my shoulder.
“Becky, listen to me,” he says, his voice steady. “You’re not dealing with this alone. I’ll make sure you’re safe. No matter what.”
The sincerity in his eyes makes my breath hitch.
For the first time since seeing that note, I feel like I can breathe again.
“We should call the police,” I manage to say, my voice small.
Mike nods. “I’ll handle it.”
As he steps away to make the call, I glance around the shop, the fear still gnawing at the edges of my mind. This place was supposed to be a fresh start, a symbol of hope. But now, it feels like it’s under siege.
I turn back to Mike, his strong, steady presence filling the room. Whatever happens next, I know I’m not facing it alone.