Chapter 37
I need time
Cole
“So what’s your plan?” Maggie asks me, voice cutting through the rain drumming on the tin roof.
“I’m going to go out to the pasture and fix the fence. I’ll camp out tonight and get it done.” I say, packing my bag—sleeping roll, flashlight, water, a couple protein bars, the axe still warm from use.
“I’ll take Buttercup.”
Maggie grabs my arm—her grip firm, rain dripping from her hat brim onto my sleeve.
“Cole, that’s a lot of work and it’s far.”
“Just a 20-minute ride out, Maggie. I need the alone time and I can’t sleep. Please just don’t talk me out of it.”
“Just call her, Cole!”
“No. If she wanted to be here she would be here, Maggie.”
“Cole. She told you she loved you.”
“She did and she left, Maggie.”
“Because you let her.”
“Damnit, I know!” I yell—voice cracking louder than the thunder rolling in the distance.
Maggie looks at me with pity and sadness—eyes soft, mouth tight, rain streaking down her face.
“You know we’re all upset Layla is gone. She meant something to all of us.”
“I know she did.”
That’s why it hurts, because she hurt all of us.
Not just me. But it is my fault. I should’ve used my words.
Spoke up. Told her how I felt. Instead of the push and pull that I was doing.
I should’ve done a lot of things. I should’ve grabbed her after she said it, kissed her until she understood she was never temporary.
I should’ve said it back. I should’ve said everything.
It’s starting to get dark now—sky bruising purple, rain steady and cold.
I climb onto Buttercup—her coat damp, muscles shifting under me—and head out toward the pastures.
The ride is quiet except for the creak of leather, the soft thud of hooves in mud, rain tapping on my hat brim.
The fence line is a mess—posts leaning, wire sagging, burn scars black against the wet wood.
Once I reach the pasture, I start hammering and repairing the fence—each strike ringing sharp in the dark, rain dripping into my eyes, mud sucking at my boots.
I can’t get her off my mind. All the feelings hit me at once—regret, anger, longing, fear—and I start to sob.
Quiet at first, then harder. I fall to my knees in the wet grass, mud soaking through my jeans, cold seeping into my bones.
Lay down in the grass and just sob—face pressed to the earth, shoulders shaking, tears mixing with rain on my cheeks.
What kind of grown man falls to his knees and cries over a woman who’s gone?
Me, I guess. But this is what I needed—the quiet without them hovering, so I can just think of her.
Get it out of my system and return to normal tomorrow.
There’s so many things I would’ve done differently.
I would’ve answered her texts. I would’ve kissed her back the night she said she loved me.
I would’ve told her she was the best thing that ever happened to me.
I would’ve asked her to stay—not just the ranch, but with me. Forever.
The rain keeps falling—steady, cold, washing over me like it’s trying to wash away the hurt. It doesn’t. Nothing does.