3. Wynonna
three
Wynonna
I wake up wrapped in the smell of pine and cedar, sunlight streaming through curtains I didn't close properly. For one disorienting second, I can't remember where I am. Then it all crashes back. Josiah, the cabin, my crazy cross-country journey to get here.
I'm really in Josiah Stone's house. In his spare room. Under his roof.
The thought sends this giddy little flutter through my chest that makes me feel fifteen all over again, which is exactly what I'm trying to prove I'm not. Smooth, Wynonna.
I stretch and listen to the sounds of the cabin—the distant chopping of wood, birds calling outside, the creaking that old log buildings do when they're settling. It feels weirdly familiar and brand new all at once, like putting on a favorite sweater that somehow fits differently than before.
Last night, Josiah made it crystal clear he plans to ship me back to Manitoba today. No way that's happening. I didn't sell everything I own and travel across half the country just to turn around and go back.
There's nothing left for me in Manitoba anyway.
Just an empty apartment and a dead-end diner job where guys either ignored me or tried pickup lines that made me cringe.
The few dates I went on all ended the same way: disappointment.
No one measured up to the mountain man who'd been living in my head for a decade.
I pull on a pair of denim shorts and a simple tank top because it's already warm, and the forecast said Silver Ridge was having an unusually hot spring. Might as well get comfortable if I'm fighting for my future.
When I pad barefoot into the kitchen, Josiah's not there, but a coffee mug sits by the pot with a note: "Help yourself. Outside."
Just like Josiah to be a man of few words, straight to the point.
The first sip of coffee nearly makes me moan. Strong and black, exactly how I like it. I take my mug and head to the porch, curious what he's up to.
I spot him immediately, working in the large vegetable garden beside the cabin. He's on his knees, pulling weeds from between rows of early tomato plants. His shoulders flex with each movement, shirt already darkened with sweat down the spine. The sight makes my mouth go dry.
Taking a deep breath, I head toward him. Operation Don't-Get-Sent-Back-to-Manitoba is officially underway.
"Morning," I call, approaching the garden's edge.
Josiah looks up, and for a brief second, his eyes darken as they travel from my bare feet, up my exposed legs, to my face. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard before his expression returns to neutral. "Morning. Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in years," I answer honestly. Falling asleep to the sounds of the mountain felt like coming home.
He makes a non-committal sound, turning back to his weeding, but I notice how his shoulders remain tense, aware of my presence.
"Need help?" I ask, setting my coffee on a nearby stump.
"Not necessary."
"Didn't ask if it was necessary. Asked if you wanted help." I step into the garden without waiting for an answer.
The soil feels amazing between my toes, cool and damp from yesterday's rain.
I kneel beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost brush when we reach for neighboring weeds.
I begin working the next row over, carefully extracting each weed from the root and shaking soil back into the garden bed before placing the plant in his bucket.
"You don't have shoes," he observes, his voice gruff, eyes fixed pointedly on my hands rather than my bare legs.
I shrug. "Don't need them. Used to help Dad in our garden barefoot all the time."
"Remember that," he says quietly, almost to himself.
I hide my smile and continue working, appreciating the way he suddenly finds the tomato plants so fascinating when I lean forward to reach a distant weed, the position stretching my tank top across my chest.
We work in comfortable silence. I extract each weed completely, gently loosen the soil around the young plants with practiced movements. Each time our hands come close to touching, I feel him tense, then deliberately shift away, the dance of our bodies working in silent coordination.
"Bus still leaves at noon," he says after a while, his voice betraying no emotion.
"Not going back," I reply, my tone light but resolute. "Nothing for me there now."
"What about your job? Friends?"
I pause my weeding, sitting back on my heels. "Mom's gone, and the apartment was hers. Waitressing doesn't pay enough for my own place anyway." I shrug, keeping it simple. "As for friends...let's just say I wasn't exactly thriving socially."
I can feel his eyes on me, measuring, considering.
"Because of me?" His voice is carefully neutral, but curiosity bleeds through.
Heat creeps up my neck. "You left an impression."
"You were fifteen," he says, that edge returning to his voice.
"And now I'm twenty-five," I counter, turning to meet his gaze directly. "A whole decade of growing up happened in between, Josiah."
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us. His gaze drops to my lips for just a heartbeat before sliding lower, taking in my dirt-smudged legs. When he forces his attention back to the tomato plants, his movements are stiffer, more deliberate.
"Still planning to send me away?" I ask softly.
His jaw works as he yanks a particularly stubborn weed, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. "It's not that simple."
"It could be." I move closer, reaching for the same weed bed.
Our fingers brush in the soil, and neither of us pulls away for a long, charged moment.
His hand is warm, calloused, so much larger than mine.
"I'm exactly what your ad asked for. Practical.
Hardworking. Someone who understands mountain living. "
"You don't know anything about who I am now," he argues, but the words lack conviction.
"I think I do." I smile slightly, staying close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I know you still take your coffee black and strong.
Know you still garden with the same methods.
Know you still split wood every morning.
" I pause, then add quietly, "Some things don't change, Josiah. Core things."
The sun climbs higher, and sweat beads along my hairline. When a droplet slides down my neck and into the hollow of my throat, Josiah's gaze follows its path, his pupils dilating before he jerks his attention back to the garden.
When we finally break, I rinse my dirt-covered feet with the garden hose.
The cool water feels amazing against my heated skin.
I glance up to find Josiah watching me, his expression intense.
His eyes track a water droplet as it trails down my calf, and the naked want in his gaze before he catches himself makes my breath catch.
Inside, I pour us both fresh coffee, knowing exactly how he takes it. When I hand him his mug, our fingers brush. This time, he doesn't pull away immediately, instead letting the contact linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"How do you know so much about me?" he asks, voice rougher than before. "You’ve been gone for a decade."
I meet his gaze steadily. "I pay attention to things that matter to me."
"You've been searching for me specifically, haven't you? It wasn't random, finding me on that service."
I don't look away, refusing to be ashamed. "What if I was?"
He shakes his head slowly and chuckles. "Most wouldn't go to such lengths."
"I'm not most people," I say simply. "And you're not most men."
The noon bus to Manitoba comes and goes.
Josiah doesn't mention it, and I don't remind him.
Instead, we spend the afternoon canning early strawberry preserves.
I move confidently around his kitchen, reaching for equipment before he can tell me where it is.
Each time we pass each other in the confined space, there's a moment of awareness, our bodies gravitating toward one another even as we maintain a careful distance.
As the sun sets, bringing in a cool breeze and purple skies, I stand on his porch and watch him stack firewood. Each time he bends to lift another log, the muscles in his back and arms shift beneath his sweat-dampened shirt, and I make no effort to hide my appreciation.
When he catches me watching, something flashes in his eyes. A hunger he's trying desperately to control.
I belong here. With him. The certainty of it runs bone-deep, as much a part of me as my own heartbeat. He might not know it yet, but I'm home. And I'm not going anywhere.