Chapter 3 Delaney
CHAPTER THREE
Delaney
Any confidence I built up walking into Sunridge Ranch evaporates the second Boone Taylor turns and looks at me.
I’ve met stoic people before. I’ve met calm people. I’ve met men who don’t waste words.
Boone is… all of those things, plus a silent wall made of muscle and judgment-resistant stone.
Not cold or unkind.
Just… unreadable.
Exactly what I need.
A boss who isn’t charming.
A boss who isn’t magnetic.
A boss who doesn’t make me feel like I need to perform to keep my job.
But that doesn’t stop the anxious flutter in my stomach as he leads me through the house, his footsteps heavy and sure on the hardwood floors.
Sadie sticks close, chattering enough for all three of us.
“This is Daddy’s office. It smells of paper. And horses. And stress.”
“Sadie,” Boone warns, but she just giggles and keeps going.
“And this is the living room! You can sit there if you want. Or here. Or here. Daddy sits here. Caleb sits here. Silas sits everywhere.”
My breath hitches for half a second at the name. Silas.
But… no. It has to be a coincidence. Plenty of towns have more than one Silas, right?
And the Silas I met at The Hollow was trouble wrapped in charm. The kind of man who definitely did not live in a quiet family ranch house with a kid’s artwork on the fridge.
Boone gives me a look. A wryness flickers in his eyes before he covers it up again, as if the expression escaped without his permission.
The house is beautiful. Wood paneled walls, big windows looking out over pastureland, cozy furniture, photos of Sadie everywhere. It feels lived in. Warm. The kind of home where people actually curl up on the couch instead of using it as decoration.
Nothing like the apartment I lost when Marcus detonated my life.
“This is the kitchen,” Boone says, stopping in the doorway.
I stop breathing for a second.
It’s… lovely.
A big farmhouse sink. Wide counters. A gas stove with real history, not the shiny chrome monstrosities of the fine dining world, but something curated and cared for.
I can breathe in here.
He watches me take it in, arms crossed over his chest, expression barely shifting. “You’ll have full run of the kitchen. Make whatever you think works for the week. We’re flexible.”
Flexible.
What a foreign concept.
I nod. “I can work with this.”
Sadie beams at me.
“Your room’s down the hall,” Boone says.
I follow him, trying not to feel overly aware of how much space he seems to take up just by existing. Sadie rushes ahead, pointing at things like:
“That’s the squeaky floorboard, it goes reeeek.”
“And that nail looks like a unicorn horn if you squint.”
“And that’s where Daddy dropped a jar of salsa and said a bad word!”
“Sadie,” Boone warns again, more tired this time.
We stop at a door, and he gestures inside. “Here.”
I step into the room, and everything inside me settles.
It’s simple, but nice—the kind of nice that surprises you. There’s a quilt someone actually made, not bought. Soft blue walls. A freshly made bed. A dresser. A lamp. A window that looks out over endless green and sky.
It’s a place someone could stay long enough to heal without realizing they were healing.
“I… thank you.”
Boone nods once. “You can settle in tonight. We’ll go over your schedule tomorrow. Start around six.”
Six.
Hell. But at least it will be my kitchen.
“Sounds good,” I tell him.
He studies me for a moment, as if he’s making sure I won’t panic if he leaves the room. Once he’s satisfied, he taps his knuckles twice on the doorframe, probably an unconscious habit, and steps back.
“You need anything, let me know.”
Sadie waves like we’re old friends. “See you later, Miss Delaney!”
I wave back. “See ya, sweetheart.”
Then they’re gone.
And I’m alone.
Really alone.
I close the door and let out a slow breath, listening to the wind outside, the low of cattle, even birds.
It’s quiet here. Not city quiet—real quiet.
No honking taxis.
No slamming kitchen doors.
No Marcus yelling.
No whispering coworkers.
No reporters waiting behind dumpsters for a soundbite.
Just… space.
I sit on the edge of the bed, letting myself feel the strangeness of it all.
I can make this work.
I have to.
It’s strange, being here after a full week in Coyote Glen. Seven days of trying to pretend I’m not shaken. Seven days of sleeping in Wild Reverie’s creaky guest room. Seven days of avoiding The Hollow because of one blindingly stupid choice.
Silas.
Even thinking about that night sends a flush up my neck. One perfect, reckless lapse in judgment that I absolutely cannot repeat.
Not here. Not with my job on the line. Not with a man like Boone in the next room and a child asleep down the hall.
I need stability. Discipline. A fresh start that doesn’t involve anyone’s hands on my skin or mouth on mine, no matter how good it felt in the moment.
My phone buzzes.
Roman: Are you alive?!
Creed: Do we need to send out a rescue team?
Sloane: Are the ranch guys being nice to you, or do I need to come punch someone?
Ezra: We’re proud of you.
Warmth floods my chest. I hit video call.
It rings once before chaos erupts.
“Laneeeyyy!” Sloane shouts.
“She lives!” Roman crows.
“Blink twice if the cowboy is weird,” Ezra demands. “Or if he’s hot. Preferably if he’s hot.”
Creed sighs. “Give her a moment, you feral wolves.”
I laugh. Really laugh. The sound untangles me.
“It’s good,” I tell them. “The kitchen’s great. The room is great. The whole place is… actually really beautiful. I think I can do this.”
“We know you can,” Roman says. “They’re lucky to have you.”
“Also,” Ezra adds, full of mischief, “if your new boss is attractive in a grumpy, broad-shouldered cowboy way, just know—”
“No,” Sloane interrupts. “She needs stability, not another romantic disaster. Or any man with a jawline sharp enough to slice her self-esteem.”
Creed: “She’s here to work, not to acquire cowboys.”
Ezra: “I’m just saying, if one of them has big hands…”
“Ezra,” Sloane snaps.
I laugh harder, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. The teasing fills the quiet ranch house with a warm and familiar sound.
When I catch my breath, I wipe my eyes. “How’s the tour going? You guys surviving?”
There’s a chorus of dramatic groans.
“Barely,” Roman moans. “Creed tried to make toast and set off the hotel fire alarm.”
“I didn’t know the setting went that high,” Creed mutters defensively.
“And Ezra keeps forgetting to sleep,” Sloane adds. “He looks like an emotionally tortured ghost. More than usual.”
Ezra sighs loudly into the phone. “I’m being bullied.”
“You’re being managed,” Roman corrects.
Despite all the teasing, the affection in their voices bleeds through. They’re exhausted, unruly, barely holding themselves together on the road, and still checking in on me.
It squeezes my chest.
Sloane softens. “We’ll be back in town soon. Then we’re taking you out. We’ll celebrate your new life properly.”
“I miss you guys,” I whisper.
“We miss you too,” Roman declares. “And we’re proud of you.”
“Don’t forget to eat,” Ezra adds.
The call ends eventually, and when the room goes quiet again, it no longer feels lonely.
It’s full of their love and their belief in me.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the wooden ceiling, letting the truth settle in.
Sunridge Ranch is strange.
New.
Huge.
Uncertain.
But I’m here.
And I’m not running anymore.