Chapter 15 #2
She cocks her head. “Care to elaborate? I promise I won’t judge you too much.”
I huff a soft laugh, but it dies quickly. My eyes drift back to the tractor, to the path Sam’s cutting. It’s clean, wide, opening the way forward.
A literal metaphor for our situation.
“I think we were both pretending this wouldn’t end,” I admit quietly. “Like the snow would trap us forever and we could just stay in this little bubble. But the sun came out. And now I can’t stop thinking about what comes next.”
Phern doesn’t say anything, just waits.
“I like him,” I add, my voice cracking around the edges. “ A lot. But we’ve only known each other for a few days, and it’s been this intense, chaotic storm of lust and intimacy and—God—it’s been amazing, but…”
“But it feels like it can’t last,” she finishes for me.
I nod.
The tractor turns at the end of the drive, Sam shifting gears like he’s part of the machine, totally unaware that I’m here cracking like thin ice.
“Do you think he feels it too?” Phern asks.
I glance at her. “The pressure?”
“No. The realness . ”
I swallow. “I think so.”
She nods slowly, then offers something I didn’t expect.
“When Gwen left, he didn’t talk to anyone for months. He stayed out here, buried himself in work and music and horses. Didn’t let anyone in. You’re the first person I’ve seen him look at like that since…”
Her voice trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish.
I already feel the weight of it in my chest.
“You’re not some fling to him, Charlotte. If you were, you’d already be gone.” She gives me a long look. “Has he told you about our family’s history?”
“He told me about Elijah Stone founding the ranch.”
“Did he tell you about Elijah’s wife, Mary?”
I shake my head.
“Elijah met Mary in town at a Sunday social. Two weeks later they were married. Same thing happened when my grandpa met my grandma.” Phern smiles. “Supposedly, they hardly left their bedroom during that first month. Sounds familiar, if you ask me.”
“That’s sweet, but that was a long time ago.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just scared.”
The tractor swings back around again, and Sam catches my gaze from across the snow. Just one look. But it’s enough to make my breath catch.
Phern bumps my arm gently. “Don’t go breaking my brother’s heart unless you’re absolutely sure he deserves it.”
“I’m not planning on it,” I whisper. “But I’m scared he’s going to break mine.”
She shrugs. “Yeah. That’s kind of how you know it’s real.”
I blink fast, trying to clear the sudden sting behind my eyes. But it’s no use. The tears come anyway. Not the ugly kind. Just quiet. Hot. Honest. Because somewhere between a snowy bridge and Sam Stone's hands on my skin, I let something real take root.
And now it’s terrifying.
Phern doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t fuss. She just steps a little closer, nudges my arm with hers, and says, “You don’t have to decide everything right now, Charlotte. You just have to be honest. With him. With yourself.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I’m trying.”
“I know.” She glances toward the drive, where Sam’s just slowing the tractor to a stop. “He’s not perfect. Lord knows he’s stubborn. But if you’re looking for a man who’ll stand beside you when shit hits the fan? You’ve found him.”
I follow her gaze, watching Sam hop down from the cab. He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his flannel, sun cutting across his face, his eyes already scanning for me. When he finds me, he gives a half smile—small, crooked, pure Sam.
And it hits me.
He’s not the fantasy.
He’s the man.
And he might just be mine.
Phern clears her throat beside me. “I’ll go check the barn. Let y’all talk.”
She walks away without waiting for a reply, boots crunching over the snow.
Sam starts toward me, shovel in hand, brow furrowed like he knows something’s shifted. My hands fist inside my borrowed sleeves as I wait.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Phern was just telling me about Elijah Stone’s wife, Mary.”
“Ah.”
I move closer to him, holding onto his coat. “I guess what I’m saying is that everything got real this morning, but I’m not running.”
His face lights up like I just handed him the sun.
“Glad to hear it, darlin’,” he says, voice low, full of that slow Wyoming drawl that turns my insides to honey.
I’m still holding the front of his coat, the thick fabric bunched in my fists like I need something to anchor me. And maybe I do. Maybe he is.
One hand comes up to cup the side of my neck, his thumb brushing just under my jaw. “I know it’s been fast. I know it’s been a lot. But I haven’t questioned a damn thing since the moment I saw you drive into that flood like a goddamn tornado in city boots.”
That makes me laugh. “You make it sound romantic and not clearly idiotic.”
He grins. “It is romantic. You crashed into my life in the middle of a storm, Charlie. And I haven’t wanted to let you go since.”
My chest tightens, eyes burning again. But this time, the tears aren’t fear. They’re relief.
“Good,” I whisper. “Because I don’t want to go.”
He leans in, forehead touching mine, breath warm and steady. “Then don’t.”
And just like that, the ice inside me cracks. Melts. Flows.
His mouth brushes mine soft and sure. Not claiming. Just there. Like a promise.
Behind us, the wind rattles a few loose icicles from the eaves, and the sun glints off the fresh path he carved through the snow. A way forward.
And suddenly, I can see it.
A life not built in fear or escape.
But in choice.
Our choice.
And I choose him.