Chapter 13
13
S tormy wandered the property annoyed, aggravated, and at a loss. She thought being there… staying hold up in the ladies sitting room, yet she hadn’t managed to pull a story out of the air. All that she’d accomplished since being at the ranch was throwing herself at Reeves at every opportunity. When had she become a woman who needed the approval of a man? That needed the attention to make her feel whole.
She stopped when she faced the stone building at the back of the gardens. The small chapel was a place of both happiness and heartache. Maybe she could find some answers inside.
Shoving open the ornate wooden door, she slipped inside and let it close behind her. The sound of the heavy door closing had her feeling trapped. Silliness, she could open and walk out as easy as she came in.
She came to this place of peace searching for clarity, trying to make sense of a love that was both elusive and incomplete. The solitude she found only added to her emotions. Away from the noise of the house—or the complications of the relationships within it. It felt like her heart was invested in someone who didn’t fully feel the same way. The feeling left her torn, unsure, and longing for something more.
Stormy stood there in the little chapel, wrestling with the question: What was it about Reeves that made her want to stay, even with him holding back? Picking up a match from the holder, then striking it, she watched the blue tip burst into a bright yellow. Holding it over a single candle, she watched the one tiny flame unite with the wick. The two flared to life becoming brighter, stronger, it flickered for a second almost going out, then in an instant steadied. She needed to decide whether to keep waiting on Reeves to make up his mind or let go for good.
He’d swept her away from the chaos and danger, brought her to his home, made her feel like she was finally safe . But safety didn’t feel like this… not when it was built on promises that could disappear in a blink of an eye.
Was it just another way for him to toy with her? To keep her guessing?
How much of it was her own insecurity? How much of it was her naivety? How much of it had been him playing her for a fool? Playing on her need for connection, her hunger for something real? Her desire to be his?
Don’t fall for it again, Stormy, she told herself firmly, her voice a whisper in her mind. Don’t let him do this to you. But she’d already fallen… already let him in.
What if she stayed open to the possibility of more? What if Reeves did care?
The emptiness left by Reeves’ distance had Stormy desperate to the point of screaming.
Disappointment hung on her like an old, worn-out shirt. She would leave. She’d find a way to stand on her own two feet again, no matter how long it took.
And when she finally did leave, Reeves Salvador—whatever his true intentions were—would be a distant memory. Deep down where it counted… where no one could see… she recognized it for the lie it was.
She’d have to let Whiskey down gently, so not to hurt her. Surely her best friend would understand. Would want the best for her. Sighing, Stormy stepped back from the small alter and sat down on the front pew.
Sitting there with her emotions weighing on her, she watched as the bright flame of the candle became a stark light of disappointment. The glow now dimmed, losing its luster. Maybe it was a sign her relationship, or whatever this thing between her and Reeves was, had lost its luster as well.
She couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that maybe it was all part of some well-rehearsed script—a dance of seduction with no real meaning. The thought made her stomach twist. As a romance author, hadn’t she written this exact scenario more times than she could count? The brooding hero who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, only in the end to reveal the heroine was nothing more than a fleeting distraction. A plot device to get from one chapter to the next?
This is exactly how it goes, she thought bitterly. The hero comes in, sweeps you off your feet, makes you feel safe. Makes you feel as if you’re the only person in the world. And then, when you start to believe it—when you start to trust it—he walks away without a word. Without a trace.
Her hand pressed over her eyes, trying to block out the sting of the truth. She should know better. As an author, she’d written this same damn plot in at least three of her books. She’d created characters who fell for the wrong person, characters who let themselves be swept away only to crash hard when the other person didn’t feel the same. She knew all the warning signs—had written them in perfect detail, had crafted a dialogue designed to make the reader ache as they recognized themselves in the words she’d written. Yet, here she was, getting caught in the same trap. The same damn trap.
Why am I surprised? she asked herself. I’ve written this. I know how it ends.
Still, despite the logic, despite the facts, her heart refused to listen. She wanted to believe Reeves had feelings for her. Feelings he needed to reconcile. Their connection was more than just a story. His kisses, his touch, his eyes—hadn’t been to prove he could tear down her walls. She wanted to believe it was real for him, as it was for her.
And yet, his body —his warmth, his scent—clung to her in a way that made it hard to think clearly. She could feel the tension in her muscles as he leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against the back of her neck, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around her like a trap.
She had no answers, no sense of clarity, only the overwhelming desire to make sense of it all.
Maybe... she thought, maybe this is what I get for being too much of a dreamer.
After all, wasn’t it always the dreamers who fell the hardest? The ones who believed the impossible could be real. That love, the way she’d written about it, could exist? Maybe that’s the biggest fool’s hope of all.
Her breath caught in her throat, and for the first time since she’d arrived, she allowed herself to feel it—truly feel it—the weight of sadness, of the hollow feeling inside her chest. The bitter, aching realization that maybe this wasn’t just another story. Maybe this was just life. Just real life. And maybe that was the biggest cliché of them all.
But as the minutes passed and the silence settled in like an uninvited guest, Stormy couldn’t help but wonder: Was it all just a matter of timing? Had she misread something? Or had she simply walked into the arms of a man who never intended to stay, no matter how sweet the words, no matter how much he made her believe?
The thought struck her like a bolt of lightning… sudden, brilliant, and just what she needed. Her relationship might go nowhere, but her writer’s block was now gone.
Maybe it was time to step away from the sweet, dreamy romance novels. Maybe it was time to write something darker, something where the women didn’t just get their happy endings after all the heartbreak. No, maybe they were the ones who had the power. Maybe they didn’t wait for the man to come around, and when they did, it wasn’t to forgive him.
Stormy glanced up at the ceiling, her mind racing as the idea took root. Murder and suspense. She let the words play in her mind, the sweet thrill of it building. In this new world, the women got to turn the tables. No more self-sacrificing heroines who bent over backward for men who didn’t deserve them. No more kissing frogs in the hope they turned into princes. In her stories, the women would take charge. They exacted their own revenge. They made their own fate.
She thought of Reeves—his charm, his smirk, that goddamn irresistible swagger. He’d be the first to go, she thought wickedly. Not a bullet to the head. No, that would be too easy. Maybe something more poetic. A slow burn. A set of consequences that started small and spiraled out of control until he didn’t even recognize the life he once had.
She could picture it—him, thinking he could just walk away and go back to whatever life he wanted. But no. Not in her new world. In this one, there was no happily ever-after. No forgiveness. Just retribution, sweet and calculated, until every piece of him that had once seemed so perfect was left in ashes.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Stormy smiled… a little bitterly. Maybe this is the kind of story I need to write. Maybe this is what would save me from the mess of my own life. Maybe I had had her story all along and refused to listen to the words in my head.
The sudden thrill of it made her pulse quicken. Maybe it wasn’t even about him anymore. Maybe it was about her reclaiming control. She had let herself fall into that old pattern, the one where Reeves being absent would send her spiraling into insecurity and disappointment. Since coming to Texas Creek and being at Devil’s Perch she’d let her feelings for Reeves be what defined her. But no more. Not anymore.
The page, she realized, could be her escape. Writing it all down—what happened to the women in her books, what she wished she could do to the men who hurt them, who hurt her—maybe that would be the way to getting over him.
Maybe the revenge, the thrill of their victory, could help her release the anger she had buried for so long. She’d stop writing about the women who always forgave, who always hoped, and start writing about the women who took back what was theirs.
Her fingers itched for the keyboard, for the feel of the words pouring out of her. She didn’t have to write about the fairytale anymore. She could write about the aftermath—the bitter, raw reality of heartbreak, and the satisfaction of seeing the ones who caused it pay the price.
The thought of creating the perfect, twisted revenge story sent a new fire through her veins, something that felt good, felt alive. Yeah, she thought, maybe that’s exactly what I need. A whole damn novel of vengeance.
And as for Reeves?
Well, she’d let the female lead of her new story deal with him. He could be charming, conniving, and absolutely certain he could get away with it all. But in her story, he wouldn’t. He’d meet his match. And when he did, he wouldn’t see it coming.
Her smile widened as the idea unfurled before her. It was perfect. And as she sat there, already thinking of the opening line, she couldn’t help but feel a tiny, satisfying flicker of power ignite in her chest. To her surprise, all it took to find a new story idea… a new direction to overcome her writer’s block was doing a deep dive into her own screwed up love life. And all of it, every last bit down to the tiniest of emotion would go into it.
It would be a beautiful, seductive story full of vengeance with no regret.
Rushing out of the chapel, she headed to tell Whiskey about her crazy story idea. She could hear her now saying, “ Stormy, you better change Reeves’ name where he doesn’t know you used him.”
Laughing, she quickened her pace… she was giddy with excitement. Maybe if Reeves was around later, she’d be nice to him for inspiring her next best seller.