Chapter Five
Delta
We are halfway through breakfast when her phone buzzes on the counter. She wipes her hands on her apron and picks it up, squinting at the screen. Her brows knit together, and then she mutters something low under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a cuss word.
I look up. “What is it, Mama?”
She taps the screen and exhales sharply. “It’s a reminder about your daddy’s symphony gala.”
The words land heavier than they should. “The Casper Symphony Gala?”
She nods, eyes going soft and far away. “Every year on our anniversary, your daddy and I went.” Her smile flickers and fades. “Last year, I told them to cancel the tickets. I told them there would not be any more Whitmore anniversaries to celebrate. That should have been the end of it.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out automatically, glancing at the screen.
Unknown Caller
My stomach flips, fast and sharp. I decline the call instantly and shove the phone back into my pocket like it burned me.
I look up, hoping nobody noticed, but Trace is already watching me.
His eyebrows drawn just slightly, head tipped like he caught something I didn’t mean to expose.
I force a small shrug like it was nothing.
His eyes stay on me a second longer than they should…
then he looks away, giving me the privacy I didn’t ask for and clearly needed.
I breathe once, twice, trying to shake it off, and turn back to Mama as if nothing happened.
She swipes through her email, mouth tightening. “But here they are. The digital tickets, confirmation, the whole thing. They must not have processed the cancellation.”
Trace and I exchange a quick glance.
“Do you want me to call them?” I ask. “We can tell them again, Mama.”
She shakes her head and sets the phone down on the counter like it’s fragile. “I don’t want to go, Delta. I went last year without him, I can’t do that to myself again, not this year.”
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. “Then we won’t go. It’s okay. It’s just a gala.”
She turns then, and really looks at us, eyes moving from my face to Trace’s and back again.
Something shifts in her expression, like a light coming on behind her eyes.
I know that look. I’ve seen it my entire life.
It’s the look she gets right before she decides somebody needs help they didn’t ask for.
“Tickets can’t be refunded,” she says slowly. “But they can be transferred, it would be a shame to waste them.”
“Do you know anyone who wants them?” I ask, even though I already know where she’s going.
“Yes,” she says simply. “I do.”
Trace sets his fork down, already bracing. “Miss Evie…”
She holds up a hand. “Hush. Let me finish. Your daddy loved that gala. He loved the music and the excuse to put on a suit. If he knew those tickets were sitting there unused while my child and a good man with a good heart were right here under my roof, he would come back and haunt me himself.”
“Mama,” I say, warning in my voice.
She ignores it. “I want you two to go in our place. For me. For your daddy.”
There is a long stretch of silence. I look at Trace. He looks at me. I see the same flash of panic and curiosity in his eyes that is running wild in my chest.
“I don’t know, Mama,” I start. “I have the Cheyenne trip coming up, and things are hectic at the ranch, and…”
“It’s one evening,” she says. “You leave next week. The gala is this weekend, you can spare a few hours to dress up, listen to some beautiful music, and remember that life is not only livestock, fence lines, and paperwork.”
Trace clears his throat. “Miss Evie, I don’t want to take something that belonged to Mr. Whitmore.”
She softens at his use of the name. “Harlan is gone, baby. He no longer needs the seats. What he would want is to know that his girls are still living, not just surviving, but living.” The way she says girls and glances at him on the last word makes my cheeks heat.
“Mama,” I repeat.
She steps closer, drying her hands on her apron. “Delta Nicole, look at me.”
I look up because I always have when she uses my middle name.
“I am not ready to go,” she says quietly. “Maybe I will be next year, maybe not, but I know I can’t do it this time. You and Trace can go instead.”
The room feels very small for a second. I can feel Trace watching me, waiting to see what I’ll say. I sigh, already hearing my own surrender in it. “You really want this?”
She nods. “I really do, baby.”
I look at Trace again. His jaw is tight, like he’s trying not to show how unsure he is, but there’s something else there, too. Something that looks dangerously like hope.
“Well,” I say, feeling the decision click into place before I even finish the sentence, “I guess we can’t have Daddy haunting you over some unused tickets.”
A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Guess not.”
“So that is a yes?” Mama asks, even though she already knows.
I nod. “Yes, Mama. We’ll go.”
Trace gives a small nod of his own. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll go.”
Mama’s whole face lights up, grief and joy braided together. “Good. I’ll forward you the tickets. And Delta, you still have those dresses in the garment bags in your closet. You don’t need to buy anything new.”
“Of course, you already thought that far ahead,” I mutter.
She just smiles and goes back to the sink, humming louder now, her plan clearly in motion.
I look down at my empty skillet, then across the table at Trace.
He meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. The idea of seeing him in a suit, walking into that gala on my arm, sweeps through me in a slow, dizzy wave.
I came here this morning because Mama told me to.
I’m leaving with a date to the gala with the man I’ve been trying and failing not to fall for.
This is definitely more than I was prepared for today.
Trace and I step out onto Mama’s porch after she shoos us away from her kitchen. She’s humming and wiping the counter like she won a prize, and the sound follows us out the door.
We stand there for a second in the warm Wyoming morning, not saying anything.
“I really do have to buy a suit,” he says finally, voice low. “Didn’t exactly bring black-tie gear with me.”
“Cash will take you,” I say. “He knows where everything is.”
He nods, then looks at me like he’s trying to decide how honest to be. His hand brushes mine, just enough to make my pulse jump, but not enough to be anything anybody else could call a move.
“We’ve got a big night ahead,” he says quietly. “I’m… glad it’s with you.”
The words settle warm in my chest.
“I am too,” I admit, and that’s as far as I’m brave enough to go in broad daylight.
We peel off in opposite directions; him toward the pasture, me toward the barn.
I’m in bed with my bonnet on and my planner open like I’m really getting work done, but I’m not fooling anybody, least of all myself. I’ve written “feed store” three times, but all I’m actually thinking about is Trace.
I’m trying so hard to act unbothered about this gala situation, like my mama didn’t set us up on purpose, like I didn’t like the way he looked at me when she suggested it.
The man said, “I’d be honored to go with you,” and now I’m in here kicking my feet in spirit and pretending I’m planning my week.
I flip pages, make lists, circle nothing, all while replaying the sound of his voice, the way he stood there, the way it felt like he wanted to go with me just as much as I wanted to go with him.
And yes, I’m already thinking about what dress I’m going to wear.
I want to look good next to him. I want him to look at me twice.
I want to feel… chosen. Desired. I close the planner because at this point I’m lying to myself.
I’m not planning my week, I’m daydreaming about walking into that gala on his arm.
And I can’t even pretend I’m mad about it.