Chapter 5
Liam
I watched my new life pull up the driveway in a dented sedan that had seen better days.
The dust rose behind Riley's car like a veil, catching the afternoon light, swirling gold and amber before settling back onto the dirt road.
I stood on the porch with my hands shoved in my pockets, trying to see this place the way they would see it.
The white farmhouse that needed a fresh coat of paint.
The barn, solid but weathered, its red faded to something closer to rust. Pastures stretching toward the foothills, green and gold, dotted with horses who'd lifted their heads at the sound of the approaching engine.
This was everything I had. Everything I was.
I hoped it would be enough.
Riley stepped out first, shading her eyes against the sun.
She was back in her usual clothes now—cargo pants, a worn T-shirt, steel-toed boots planted like she expected the ground to argue with her.
The blue dress from the courthouse was gone, and with it that strange, fleeting softness I’d caught on the steps.
This was the Riley I knew from the station.
She was small but solid—five-foot-four of compact muscle built from hauling hose and forcing doors. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, olive skin catching the light, dark eyes sweeping the property the way she scanned fire scenes. Quick. Thorough. Looking for what could go wrong before it did.
She wasn't admiring the view. She was assessing it. Counting exits. Already deciding where she and her sister would fit in a place that had been mine long before it ever thought about being ours.
Then the passenger door opened, and Mia emerged.
She moved slowly, reluctantly, a worn backpack slung over one shoulder.
She was small for twelve, shorter than she should have been, with a thin frame that made the straps of the backpack look oversized against her shoulders.
Dark hair hung limp around her face, straight and uneven like it hadn’t been cut in a while, and her clothes—jeans a size too big, sneakers scuffed at the toes—looked chosen for practicality, not comfort.
Her arms crossed tight against her chest, shoulders hunched forward like she was bracing for a blow.
She didn’t look at the house. Didn’t look at the mountains or the horses or any of the things I’d hoped might impress her. She kept her eyes on the ground, on her shoes, anywhere that wasn’t me.
Something in my chest cracked at the sight.
She was so small. So closed off. I’d met her a handful of times at the station, whenever she came by after school to wait for Riley during the long shifts.
Each time, I'd tried to make friends with her, cracking jokes the way I did with everyone, trying to coax even a small smile out of her.
She never laughed. Not once. Just watched me with those serious dark eyes, the same guarded expression her sister wore, like she was waiting for the punchline to turn into something worse.
I walked down the porch steps to meet them.
"Welcome to Murphy Ranch," I said, sweeping a hand toward the property, then letting it fall back to my side. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”
The words felt smaller once they were out, like I was apologizing for something I’d spent my whole life building.
Riley nodded without looking at me, her gaze already moving—barn to fence line, house to pasture—like she was cataloging what mattered and what could go wrong. "It's beautiful."
“The barn needs some work. The south fence has been giving me trouble.” The words came faster than I meant them to, my hand lifting to gesture at problems she hadn’t asked about yet. “But the house is solid.”
I hesitated, then went on anyway. “My grandfather built it in 1952. Added onto it twice.” A small pause. “My grandmother always said it had good bones.”
Mia stayed where she was, arms crossed tight, weight shifted back on her heels like she was ready to bolt. Her eyes never left me, sharp and measuring—not curious, careful.
"Should I show you around?"
Riley’s attention flicked to her sister, a quick check-in, then came back to me. “That would be good.”
We headed toward the house together, the three of us moving in loose formation—close enough to look unified, far enough apart to feel it.
Our steps didn’t quite match. No one knew where to walk or who should go first. I kept talking just enough to fill the gaps and tried not to think about how stiff it all felt—like we were stepping into roles we hadn’t practiced.
The farmhouse smelled like lemon polish and old wood, the particular scent of a home that had been loved for generations.
I'd spent the last three days cleaning, scrubbing, preparing rooms that hadn't been used in years.
Trying to make this place feel welcoming for people I didn't know how to welcome.
"Kitchen's through here," I said as I turned down the narrow hallway, one hand brushing the wall out of habit, slowing my pace so they could follow.
The kitchen was my grandmother’s pride. A big window overlooking the pasture, hand-embroidered curtains she’d made herself, the cast-iron pot still hanging by the stove exactly where she’d left it.
I remembered standing at that counter as a kid, watching her roll out pie dough, her hands dusted with flour, humming songs I didn’t recognize but somehow knew by heart.
I ran my hand along the counter, the wood worn smooth by decades of meals and quiet conversations. She'd been gone for two years, but the space she left behind still felt occupied. Some days I still half-expected to hear her at the stove, asking if I'd eaten, like food could fix anything that hurt.
I wanted Riley and Mia to see what I saw here. Not just a room, but proof that people had loved each other in this house. That they'd stayed. And maybe, if I was lucky, that love hadn't used itself up yet.
"You okay?"
I looked up. Riley was watching me closely now, her attention no longer on the room but on me. She’d caught it—the pause, the way my hand lingered on the counter, the fact that I hadn’t moved on right away. There was something careful in her expression. Not pity. Recognition.
"Yeah." I pulled my hand back from the counter. "Just remembering."
She nodded and didn’t push. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, my shoulders easing as the tightness in my chest loosened a notch. Riley noticed that too. Her gaze lingered just long enough to tell me she’d clocked the shift, the way my body settled once the pressure was off.
I appreciated that about her. She understood that some memories needed space.
"Living room's through there," I said, pushing past it. "Stone fireplace. Gets cold up here in winter, but that thing throws heat like nothing else."
We moved through the house, room by room. I pointed out the bathroom, the laundry, the back door that stuck when the humidity climbed. Riley nodded at everything, her expression giving nothing away. Mia trailed behind us, touching nothing, saying nothing, a ghost in her own future home.
Then we climbed the stairs.
"There are three bedrooms up here," I said. "Mine's at the end of the hall. Riley, you're in the guest room on the left."
I stopped in front of a door painted pale yellow, the color softened by time, the paint chipped around the edges where small hands had once pushed it open and shut. My grandmother had chosen it. Said it was cheerful. Said it would be perfect for grandchildren someday.
“Mia—” I shifted my weight, glanced at the door, then back to her. “This is your room.”
She went still in the doorway, like the words had hit something fragile. Her backpack slid a fraction lower on her shoulder, forgotten. For a second, she didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Just stared at the door like it might disappear if she trusted it too much.
The quiet stretched, thick and uncertain.
And suddenly I was afraid of what that might mean to her—promise, or expectation, or one more thing she didn’t believe was meant to last.
The room was small but complete. A sturdy wooden bed frame with a quilt my grandmother had made for the grandchildren she never got to meet.
The stitches were still tight and even after all these years.
I'd dragged down the dresser from the attic and polished it until it shone.
The window looked out over the pasture, where the horses were grazing in the late afternoon light.
I'd spent an entire day getting this room ready. Wasn't sure why it mattered so much. It had just felt right.
"Now I have my own room?" Mia's voice was barely a whisper. She sounded like she was afraid to touch the words, like saying them too loud might make them disappear.
"Yours," I confirmed. "For as long as you want it."
She took a step inside, then stopped. Her hand reached toward the quilt, hesitated, pulled back. I couldn't read what was happening behind her eyes, but I recognized the hesitation. The fear of wanting something you might lose.
“The window sticks sometimes,” I spoke into the quiet before it could harden into something worse. “But if you jiggle the latch, it opens.” I nodded toward the glass. “Best view on the property. You can see the sunrise from here.”
Mia didn't respond. But she moved further into the room, her fingers finally brushing the quilt, tracing the pattern my grandmother had stitched by hand.
Riley crossed the room to stand beside her sister, one hand coming to rest on Mia's shoulder. Neither of them moved for a long moment. Neither of them spoke.
Something in that silence felt important. Like a door cracking open, just barely, just enough to let a sliver of light through.
I stepped back into the hallway, giving them space.
Some moments weren't meant for witnesses.
Dinner was awkward.