Chapter Fifteen
Amara rolled open the barn doors, boots crunching over the frost-bitten grit.
The chill clung to the steel hinges and the back of her neck.
Her breath misted once, then vanished into the hay-dust light.
Dew silvered the grass down by the drainage ditch, and the soybeans bowed under the weight of it—pods brittle, stems starting to yellow, ready for the combine.
Another week. Maybe less.
She slapped the gate latch open and started the routine.
Feed. Water. Strip stalls. Hay net refills.
Bucket handles dug into her palms like a punishment. The horses tossed their heads, steam curling from their nostrils, eager and oblivious. She murmured to each of them like always—Marigold, Clementine, old Roper—but her voice felt off in her throat. Hollow. Wrong.
The barn cat meowed once, winding around her ankle, and she nearly tripped over him. “Pick a side, Buckley,” she muttered, setting the last flake of hay down hard enough to rattle the rail.
The smell of molasses and old cedar warmed the rafters. Dust caught in the sun shafts. Everything looked like it always had.
But nothing felt like it did yesterday.
Because yesterday he was here.
Ethan fucking Kane.
Amara gritted her teeth as she slung the water hose over the stall rail. The hiss of water hitting metal echoed like judgment. She’d let him in. Into the barn. Into the house. Into her room. Into her body. Into her goddamn chest, where he’d curled up like something ancient and mean and warm.
And now?
Gone. Just like always.
He didn’t ask. Asking would’ve meant waiting.
He did what he always did. Decided. Moved.
6:17 a.m. A missed call from him. And a few messages she refused to open, short and useless, meant to mark that he’d tried without actually slowing himself down to see her.
The watch he’d given her still ticked on her wrist. She hadn’t taken it off. Just proof he’d been there, proof he’d made a choice and left her holding the echo of it.
She hated him for that.
She hated herself more.
Out past the paddock, the fog was lifting off the pasture in long, low coils. A hawk wheeled once overhead, then disappeared beyond the tree line.
She slung the feed buckets upside-down to dry. The clang rang sharp and final.
“Never again,” she muttered.
But the ache in her thighs still reminded her. The ache in her chest still hummed.
By the time she finished the stalls, her braid had come half loose and her flannel was damp under the arms. She shrugged into her jacket and walked the length of the barn, boots echoing, the weight of memory pressing harder with every step.
And then—the south line.
She took the long way to check the fence on foot. No four-wheeler this time. Needed the walk. Needed the rhythm. Needed the clarity.
But the closer she got to the southern edge of the property, the more the air changed.
The tree line felt…still. Too still. No wind. No birdcall. Just the steady crush of boots on last year’s leaves and the ragged inhale of her own breath.
The survey flags were still there. Pink and smug, like bruises against the gold grass.
She stood at the edge of her land and stared past the fence like it had personally betrayed her.
This was the line her father had died to protect.
This was the line Ethan had pressed her into last night—his hand on her hip, his mouth at her throat, saying things like stay, mine, here.
Now he was God knows where.
Now she was alone with the same damn fence line, the same pressure building behind her ribs, the same fear that everything was slipping out from under her while she stood here pretending to be strong.
She picked up a broken stake and hurled it hard into the tree line. It snapped clean against a cedar.
“Fuck,” she spat. “Fuck you. All of you.”
The watch ticked steady. The wind finally rose.
She turned back toward the barn, jaw tight, fists tighter. Today wasn’t about him. Today was harvest. The horses. The line. The next thing. And the next.
But she still felt the imprint of his hands on her hips, dragging her underneath him.
Still felt his mouth when she closed her eyes.
Still wore his goddamn time like it meant something.
And that was the part that pissed her off most.
Because maybe—just maybe—it did.
* * * *
The barn was warmer now, sun slanting through the high windows, lifting steam from the hay like the place was exhaling.
Amara ran a brush over the stallion’s shoulder in slow, methodical strokes—wrist steady, rhythm exact.
The old boy shifted under her hand, huffing through his nose, head tossing once in agreement. He knew the drill.
“Easy, handsome,” she murmured, dragging the brush down his flank, the smell of leather and cedar and horse sweat grounding her like gospel. “You’re the only man in this county I can count on.”
She moved to saddle him. Chestnut hide gleamed under her palm, a little dust kicking up as she shifted the blanket into place. The stallion stomped once, impatient.
And then—
Tires on gravel.
Her spine went tight. A muscle behind her knee twitched. Every nerve jumped like it knew how this story might go.
She didn’t turn. Not yet.
Let the suspense burn for a beat.
But it wasn’t Ethan’s truck. Not the low purr. Not the heavy rumble. This one was older. Familiar. Safe.
Disappointment still flickered sharp in her chest like a match scraped the wrong way.
“Of course,” she muttered.
Brock’s boots hit the dirt like always—heavy, square-heeled, no hurry. He appeared at the edge of the barn doorway, baseball cap shoved back, clipboard in one hand, a grin in the other.
“Morning, Red.”
She smiled despite herself. “Morning, Brock.”
“Got your invoice,” he said, lifting the clipboard like an offering. “Framed out the bathroom yesterday. Should be ready for plumbing next week. Assuming the county inspector pulls his head out of his ass.”
“I’ll add it to my prayer list,” she said dryly, reaching for the girth strap.
He leaned against the stall rail, eyes tracking her hands. Not in a leering way—just noticing, like always. Like someone who saw her.
“I mean it, Ama. It’s starting to look like a real house out there. Good bones. Good light. You’ll be proud.”
“I already am.”
He handed her the clipboard. She didn’t look at the numbers. Not yet.
“Your stallion looks good,” he said, nodding to the horse. “Shiny. Strong.”
“Unlike the rest of this operation.”
He chuckled. “You’re doing better than you think.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just patted the saddle and checked the cinch again, too hard. Her voice came quieter when she finally spoke.
“I married a man at twenty because he had a roof,” she said. “That’s the truth. Didn’t matter what came with it. Just needed a roof. A bed. A name on a deed.”
Brock was still. “He hurt you.”
“Yeah.” She wiped her hand on her jeans. “But what hurt worse was realizing I traded myself in for safety and still ended up cold. Still ended up alone.”
“You’re not alone now.”
“I am.” She smiled tight. “Just not lonely.”
Brock didn’t argue. Didn’t offer a hug or a lie. He just said, “That house is life or death for you, ain’t it?”
“It’s everything,” she said, stepping around to face him. “I can’t give up on it, Brock. I’ve given up on men. On family. On forgiveness, maybe. But not that house. Not something I built from my back. My money. My name.”
He nodded once. “I’ll get it done.”
“I know you will.”
They stood in the barn, two people who could’ve maybe been something in another lifetime, if she hadn’t been broken different. If she wanted gentle. If she could accept gentle.
But that wasn’t the shape of her.
She wanted the storm.
Even if it left her bleeding.
Even if it looked like Ethan Kane.
“Coffee?” Brock asked.
She shook her head. “Can’t. Gotta ride fence.”
His gaze flicked south. “You need me to check anything down there?”
“No,” she said too fast. “I’ve got it.”
He tipped his cap. “Let me know if something feels off.”
She nodded.
He turned to go.
And she watched him walk back to his truck, steady and good and not what she wanted. Not ever.