Chapter 6
The next time I wake, it’s still dark. But it feels different this time. Not storm-dark, but night-dark. The kind that seeps into everything.
I roll onto my side and inhale instinctively. The pillow smells like cedar and something clean and masculine and undeniably him .
What the hell am I doing here?
This was a mistake.
All of it.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes before I can blink them back. I should’ve kept my distance. Should’ve stayed a stranger. Should’ve been smarter than this.
I press the blanket over my mouth and exhale, hard.
I need to avoid Sam. And Phern. Just stay in this room, stay quiet, wait until the roads are clear.
Then I’m gone. Gone from the ranch. Gone from this town. Gone from whatever this is trying to grow between me and a man I was never supposed to meet like this. I groan and bury my face in the pillow.
But then it hits me .
My purse. My phone. My wallet.
All of it was in the stupid Prius.
And the Prius?
Somewhere downstream, floating its way toward Montana by now.
I sit up, hair sticking to the back of my neck, heart pounding like a drumline.
I have no money.
No ID.
No phone.
No way to call for help.
No one to call, really.
“F. M. L.,” I mutter into the dark, the words echoing softly in the room that suddenly feels too big.
I sink back into the mattress, blinking up at the ceiling, trapped in every possible way.
I’m going to have to ask for help. Sam, maybe.
But that feels complicated. And Phern? She doesn’t like me.
That much is obvious. She’ll probably be thrilled to see me go.
But will she actually help me get out of here?
Or will she tell me to figure it out myself and shove me into the snow with a granola bar and a map?
Still, I can’t stay holed up in this room forever. I’ve already lost too much time and too much dignity.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand, muscles still sore but functioning. I cross to the door, brace myself, and open it.
The lights above flicker once.
And then?—
Total darkness.
From somewhere down the hall, I hear a sharp, indignant shout from Phern.
“No! I was right in the middle of a paper!”
I lean my forehead against the doorframe and sigh .
Perfect.
Now I get to ask for help and do it during a blackout.
I sigh, still standing in the doorway, squinting into the pitch black.
“Figures,” I mutter. “Of course the power would go out. Why not? Let’s add that to the list.”
I hear a soft shuffle of footsteps sounds down the hall. And then see a beam of light. Sam’s got a flashlight in one hand and a thick wool blanket tossed over his shoulder, his silhouette carved in soft edges by the glow.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low, eyes finding mine like it’s easy even in the dark.
“Fine,” I say quickly. “Just got startled when the power went out.”
He stops a few feet away, angling the flashlight toward the floor so it doesn’t blind me. “Generator’ll kick on soon, but it won’t power everything. We lose it a few times a year out here.”
I nod, trying to ignore the way the light makes his features look even more sculpted and untouchable.
“Phern sounded thrilled,” I add dryly.
That earns a soft laugh. “She’s probably halfway through a thesis. She likes to suffer academically.”
I smile in spite of myself, but then my chest tightens again. “Actually I was coming to find her.”
Sam shifts slightly. “Everything alright?”
I hesitate.
“I need help,” I admit, voice quiet. “My purse and phone were in the Prius. I don’t have money, ID, or a way to call for a ride when the roads open.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another.
“I’ll go as soon as it’s safe,” I add quickly, filling the space. “I just need a phone. Or a ride. Or a miracle. ”
Sam doesn’t move at first.
Then he steps forward and lifts the blanket from his shoulder.
“Come to the living room,” he says gently. “We’ll figure it out.”
I want to argue. Say I don’t need anything, especially not from him.
But I nod. And when he gestures for me to walk beside him, I do.
The fire glows in the hearth, casting flickers of gold and orange across the walls. It’s the only light in the room, but it feels like enough. I step toward it, holding out my hands, letting the warmth soak into my fingers, my wrists, the space beneath my ribs that’s been cold for too long.
Sam joins me, standing close enough that I can feel the heat of him, too. His eyes are on me. I can feel it.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, the words coming out before I can filter them.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“I’m basically a prevaricator at this point,” I mutter, hating how small my voice sounds.
He shifts slightly, his body angling toward mine. “I don’t know what that means.”
I turn to face him. “It means I’m a liar. Prone to lying.”
He studies me for a moment. The light from the fire dances in his eyes, softening everything.
“Are you lying right now?”
“What? No.” My breath catches a little.
“Then I don’t think that’s what you are.”
His words hit harder than they should.
Simple. Direct. No judgment. No conditions.
I swallow. “You don’t even know me. ”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s trying not to fall apart.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. Quieter. The kind of quiet that holds weight.
And I don’t know whether to cry or lean closer.
So instead, I just whisper, “Thanks for saving me.”
He gives me that easy smile again. One that sneaks up on you and stays.
“You’re very welcome, darlin’.”
We stay by the fire until the heat becomes too much, pressing against our skin like a quiet demand to move. Without speaking, we drift to the couch. Him at one end, me at the other. A polite distance, but still close enough that the silence between us doesn’t feel empty.
I shiver once, tucking the blanket tighter around myself. Sam doesn’t have a blanket, but he doesn’t seem bothered by the cold. He leans back like he belongs there, arms draped over the back of the couch, the firelight flickering across the angles of his face.
“How long until the generator kicks on?” I ask, more to break the quiet than anything else.
“It’s on,” he says simply.
I blink. “It is? How can you tell?”
He tips his head slightly. “Listen.”
I do. And now that I’m paying attention, I hear the low, steady hum somewhere beneath the floorboards, soft and mechanical, like a heartbeat under the house.
“What all does it power?”
“Well pump, so we have water, and the appliances in the kitchen,” he says, then snorts. “Been meaning to upgrade to one that powers the whole house, but the tour kept me busy. ”
The tour. Right. The reason he was everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Must’ve been exhausting,” I say.
He shrugs. “Some nights felt like magic. Some nights, I didn’t know who I was when I walked off stage.”
I glance over at him, studying the way the shadows settle beneath his eyes, the way his voice dips just a little.
He’s not just resting out here. He’s recovering.
“I’m sure it’s tough being on the road for so long,” I say, watching the firelight shift across the wood-paneled wall.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice low, thoughtful. “I used to love it.”
I glance at him.
There’s something in the way he says used to . It’s like the shine wore off a long time ago, but he kept going out of habit. Or obligation.
“But not anymore,” I say softly.
He looks at me then, eyes meeting mine in the low light.
“Is that why you started canceling shows?” I ask.
“One reason,” he says, and there’s no defensiveness in it. Just honesty.
The silence that follows is thick, but not uncomfortable. It holds space for all the things he’s not saying.
“LA makes me feel like that sometimes,” I say, the words slipping out before I can second guess them.
“Like what?” he asks, eyes catching mine in the fire's glow.
“Like I want to just leave it all behind and never look back.” I smile, but there’s not much strength in it. “But it’s not like I have anywhere else to go. You’re lucky that you have this place.”
Sam doesn’t smile back. Instead, he studies me for a second, then shakes his head slowly .
“Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it,” he says.
“My great-great-grandfather, Elijah Stone, came here after he lost everything in Virginia. That was after the Civil War in 1886. He came west and built this ranch from nothing with former soldiers and hired Cheyenne cowhands.” He pauses, like he’s deciding how much to give me.
“Locals like to say he stole the land. Or paid for it in blood and silver.”
I blink. “That’s a lot of history.”
“It is.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But my point is luck didn’t build this place. It was hard work. And fighting.”
“Fighting?” I echo.
He nods, looking into the fire now. “Yeah. The elements. Men. Other ranches. Time. All of it. Every generation fought to keep it going. Some days, it feels like the land wants to take it all back.”
There’s a stillness in him when he says that. Not defeat—something older. Worn into him like the shape of the saddle.
“I guess I never thought of land like that,” I admit. “Like something you had to earn every day.”
“You do,” he says. “You earn it, or it eats you alive.”
I’m quiet after that, letting the weight of his words settle in my chest like stone. Maybe that’s what we’re both doing. Fighting different landscapes. His is land. Mine is people. Both are unforgiving.
The room falls quiet again, the fire crackling softly between us. The kind of silence that could stretch into something heavy if he lets it. But he doesn’t.
Sam leans back into the couch, his voice lighter when he speaks next. “You know, Elijah was supposedly terrified of chickens.”
I blink. “What? ”
He grins. “My grandfather said Elijah swore up and down they were ‘soulless.’ Wouldn’t go near ‘em. Made everyone else collect the eggs.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “A man who built an empire from the ground up was afraid of chickens?”