Chapter 3
Josie
It has been eight days since I drove into Iron Ridge with my car packed too full and my future teetering on paperwork that feels too thin to hold something this big.
Eight days of appraisals and signatures and lawyers who fold their hands on polished desks and speak in soft, careful tones while columns of numbers slide across the table and send a nervous spark through my chest. Eight days of early mornings with frost on the pasture grass, dusty afternoons that leave grit on my palms, and evenings that stretch long and quiet once the engines stop and the wind takes over.
And eight days of Logan and Asher Ashford.
They slip into my days without asking permission, as steady as the sunrise over the barns.
Coffee and a Danish appear in front of me before I realize I have skipped breakfast again, the cup still warm when I wrap my hands around it.
Questions come next, low and thoughtful, about fencing and drainage and supply orders, questions that make me straighten instead of shrink.
They listen when I answer. Really listen.
Their eyes stay on my face like what I say matters.
Tools land beside me when I am struggling with a stubborn hinge.
Advice comes easy and unforced, offered while Logan braces a board or Asher studies a crooked fenceline, their shoulders brushing mine in passing like it is nothing and everything at once.
They never crowd close enough to trap me, never step so far back that I feel alone.
They just stay, solid and unhurried, until the job is done and the light fades and I realize I have gone hours without feeling small.
That is the part that leaves me unsteady.
Not because they are unkind. Not because they try to guide my choices or sand down my edges or mold me into something smaller and easier to hold.
Because when their eyes settle on me, my shoulders don’t curl in on instinct. My spine straightens. My breath deepens without my meaning it to.
They look at me, and I feel the shape of myself again.
A woman.
I had buried that part of me so deep I stopped looking for it. Let it go quiet. Let it fade into something I could pretend I didn’t miss.
But it isn’t gone.
It’s right there, tender and alive, stretching awake beneath their attention, and the realization steals my breath more surely than fear ever could.
I’m juggling a stack of feed store brochures against my chest when I spot them across Main Street.
Logan leans against a truck like the afternoon belongs to him, one boot hooked over the curb, sunglasses shoved up into his dark hair.
Asher stands beside him with his jacket slung over one shoulder, talking to a man outside the hardware store.
They look as much a part of Main Street as the faded signs hanging over the sidewalks.
Logan looks up first.
I know the exact moment he spots me. His posture shifts, one shoulder coming off the truck as his attention narrows.
Heat slides up my spine, slow and liquid, and I turn toward the storefront window beside me like I suddenly care about the display of seed packets.
My reflection stares back, traitor that she is.
My cheeks are flushed, eyes brighter than they have any right to be after a day of paperwork and dust. My mouth has softened, lips parted just enough to give me away.
I press them together and shift the brochures higher, as if that might steady me.
Logan pushes off the truck, movement unhurried but deliberate. Asher turns at the same moment, conversation breaking off mid-sentence. They fall into step toward me like they share a rhythm no one else hears.
“Josie.” Asher’s smile reaches me before he does, warm and familiar in a way that still startles me. “How’s our favorite future rescue director holding up?”
Our.
The word brushes over me, light but not meaningless.
I switch the ledgers to one arm, aware of the stretch across my chest, the way Logan’s eyes dip there for half a heartbeat before lifting again. My stomach tightens, then flutters.
“Busy,” I say, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere closer to breathless. “Slightly overwhelmed. Still standing.”
Logan’s gaze trails over me in a slow pass that makes me suddenly aware of the way my sweater clings to my chest. My pulse stumbles as blood surges to places I forgot existed. I fight the urge to smooth the fabric, to check my hair, to make myself smaller out of habit.
“You eat today?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. No one has asked me that in years.
I let out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That is a suspiciously personal question.”
His mouth curves at one corner, like he knows exactly how it landed.
“Dinner, then.” Asher steps back to let a pickup roll past before motioning us forward. “You need a break. We know a place.”
I should say no. I should remember long tables dressed in white linen and the careful way I used to hold my fork, waiting to see which one he picked up first. I should remember the way my words got trimmed in public, corrected in private, until speaking felt like stepping onto thin ice.
My fingers tighten on the brochures, glossy paper bending under my grip.
Instead, something light sparks under my ribs, quick and bright. Not dread. Not obligation. Something that feels dangerously close to excitement.
I lift my chin, meeting Asher’s eyes, then Logan’s.
“I could eat,” I admit.
A bell over the door jingles as we step inside, and the noise of voices and clinking silverware wraps around me.
The diner smells like coffee, grilled onions, and something sweet baking in the back, the scent thick and warm enough to sink into my clothes.
Booths line the walls, vinyl seats worn soft with years of use. Nothing matches. Nothing tries to.
A waitress with silver hair piled high on her head points a coffee pot at Asher. “You bringing me trouble tonight, Ashford?”
“Only the good kind, Loreen.” He flashes her the easy grin that probably got him out of trouble half his life, and his hand lands lightly at the small of my back as he guides me toward a booth.
The touch is brief, polite, and my skin still registers it like a spark.
She looks at me next, smile easy and curious. “Well don’t just stand there, honey. Sit before these two eat all the pie.”
Honey.
I slide into the booth across from them, knees brushing the edge of the table, heart beating a little too high in my chest. No one is assessing my clothes. No one is measuring my worth by the label on my bag or the ring on my finger.
I tug my sweater down anyway, habit moving before thought.
They talk easily while menus sit mostly ignored.
About the new lights going up at the high school field.
About who bought the old Miller place. About a horse rescue up north that might donate extra fencing.
Their voices weave together without stepping on each other, pauses falling naturally like they have been practicing this rhythm their whole lives.
I watch them more than I talk.
Logan leans back, one arm stretched along the top of the booth behind him, taking up space without apology, without challenge. Asher leans forward when someone speaks, forearms on the table, attention focused and steady. They are both solid, both strong, but the strength does not shove. It settles.
I laugh at something Asher says, and the sound comes out louder than I expect. My shoulders jump a little, bracing for the familiar correction, the subtle tightening of a mouth across the table.
Nothing comes.
Logan’s eyes crinkle instead, warmth sliding through them.
The tight band across my ribs loosens a notch. I breathe in deeper without meaning to, shoulders settling back against the booth.
“You’ve done this before,” I say before I can stop myself, my fingertip tracing the damp ring my glass leaves on the table.
Asher’s brow lifts. “Done what?”
I gesture lightly between them, heat creeping up my neck. “This. Sh-sharing dinner with a woman.”
Logan’s mouth curves slowly at one corner, and he leans forward just enough that the table edge presses into my middle.
His voice drops, quiet and rough around the edges.
“Sharing, hmm.” The lines beside his eyes crinkle as if he’s in on a joke as he draws out the last sound. “Interesting choice of words.”
My face heats. “I didn't mean...” I stop. I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
“No?” The amusement in his eyes deepens.
“Most brothers don't exactly date together.”
The silence that follows is brief. Then Asher leans back and glances at Logan. One look. That's all it takes.
“We know,” Asher says.
My pulse trips.
Logan's knee brushes mine beneath the table. This time, I'm not convinced it's accidental.
“We tend to do a lot of things together,” he says.
The air feels suddenly thinner. I look from one brother to the other. Neither of them looks uncomfortable, apologetic, or surprised by where the conversation has gone.
“Are you saying...” My voice catches. “You mean together?”
Logan doesn't answer immediately. He cocks his head.
Asher does. “If we were interested in a woman,” he says calmly, “neither of us would expect the other to step aside.”
The noise of the diner fades a little. My fingers tighten around my glass, and my throat feels thick. Two men, brothers, sharing… women? Me?
Heat coils between my legs.
I look at Asher.
Then Logan.
Neither man looks away.
For the first time, I stop wondering which brother is interested in me.
What if I can have them both? The question makes me shift in my seat, and suddenly, I’m totally aware I’m a woman with working ovaries.
I take in a fortifying gulp of air, straighten my shoulders, and stop being in the background while someone else shines. “With me? I mean, you want me?”
“How incredulous she sounds.” Asher’s hand slides across the table, not touching me, just close enough that the warmth of him lingers in the space between us. “Yes. With you. Together. We don’t do halves.”