Chapter 9 Tanner
TANNER
She’d ended it and everything in my life felt wrong without her.
I was still busy. The horses still needed feeding, fences still needed checking, and the work kept piling up the way it always did.
But something sat off-center now, like I'd pulled a load-bearing post and everything else hadn't settled back into place yet.
I tried to ignore it. Threw myself into the kind of work that left me too tired to think.
Spent long hours in the arena with Juniper, running drills until my shoulders burned and the mare's coat gleamed with sweat.
I fixed the gate on the south pasture that had been hanging crooked for months.
I cleaned out the tack room, made lists of supplies I didn't really need, and even tilled the raised garden beds my mom wanted to plant.
I kept moving the way I always did when something was bothering me.
Staying busy didn’t fix a damn thing. I'd feed the horses at dawn then drive through town hoping I might see her sitting by the window at the café.
I'd work Juniper through barrel patterns and notice the empty space where Waverly had stood that first morning, her arms crossed, watching with those green eyes that didn’t miss a damn thing.
I'd stop in at the Merc then take the long way back without meaning to, avoiding the turnoff that led toward Kincaid land.
Torin noticed. He didn't say much about it, just watched me with that knowing look that made my jaw clench too tight.
Ruby had stopped asking questions after I'd picked up supplies at the mercantile and walked out before she could start.
Even Ethan had the sense to keep his mouth shut when we'd crossed paths at the feed store.
The whole valley knew. Probably had opinions about it too, the way small towns always did. But nobody pushed, and I didn't offer explanations I couldn't give.
I avoided the cabin. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first. I just found reasons not to go that direction when I rode fence lines.
Took different routes when I needed to check water troughs in the high pastures.
Avoided the old logging road that cut through the trees toward the place where everything between us had lived.
Distance would make it easier. Avoiding it would keep everything contained, the way I'd always kept things contained. Control meant boundaries. Boundaries meant nothing if they fell apart.
Except distance didn't help. And not going just made the pull stronger, like trying to hold back a horse that had already decided to run.
A week passed. Then another. The work continued.
Seasons didn't care about personal complications.
I had a two-year-old colt to start, clients coming to look at horses I had in training, and a reputation to maintain.
The Hollister legacy didn't take a break because I’d met a Kincaid woman that made me want too much.
But the pain didn't fade. It settled in, working its way into the spaces between things like the gap between jobs, the quiet after the horses were fed, and the long, lonely nights when there was nothing left to do but sit with the decision I’d made.
Finally, on a Thursday afternoon when I couldn’t take it anymore, I saddled Juniper and rode out toward the cabin. Not because I wanted to. But because I thought if I could step inside and say goodbye to everything we’d shared, that the pain might finally start to fade.
The trail wound through pines and aspen, familiar terrain I could ride blind.
Juniper moved steady underneath me, her gait even and relaxed now that her hip had healed.
The mare had always liked this route. With open ground and good footing, it was the kind of ride that let her stretch out when I asked.
I didn't ask today. Just kept her to a walk, putting off our arrival even as I headed toward it.
The cabin appeared through the trees exactly like I'd left it.
Small, weathered, the kind of structure that had stood for decades and would probably stand for decades more.
Nothing looked different from the outside.
It had the same worn steps, the same door with the handle that stuck slightly, and the same window reflecting the afternoon light.
I dismounted and tied Juniper to the hitching post that didn't get much use anymore.
She lowered her head, content to stand in the shade while I did whatever I'd come here to do.
I stepped inside and stopped. The air felt thicker.
Like something had been decided here, and the weight of it hadn't lifted yet.
Everything looked the same on the surface. The bed was still unmade from the last time we'd been here together. The coffee mugs still sat on the counter. But the stillness wasn't neutral anymore. It pressed against my chest and made it difficult to pull in a breath.
I walked further in, my boots loud on the old wood floor. Then I scanned the room without knowing what I expected to find. Evidence of her leaving, maybe. Some sign that she'd been here after our last time, that she'd come back to—
A box sat on the table, right in the middle where I couldn't miss it.
I crossed the room and opened the lid. There were dozens of letters. They were tied in a bundle with a faded ribbon. The paper had yellowed with age, the ink still legible but slightly faded. I pulled one free and carefully slid the paper out of the envelope.
Dearest—
The ranch keeps me longer than expected. Father wants the new fence line completed before winter, and the work goes slower than planned. I won't make it to the canyon this week. Can you meet next Thursday instead? Same time, same place where no one asks questions we can't answer.
All my love,
—H.M. Kincaid
I stared at the initials. H.M. Kincaid.
I set the first letter down and reached for another bundle. Then another. The dates spanned years—1908 through 1912. Some were short and just held meeting times or small details about horses or weather. Others ran longer, the formality slipping into something closer. I kept reading.
The valley looks different when I ride with you. Like it belongs to both of us instead of being split down the middle by names we didn't choose.
Father asked where I've been spending my afternoons. I told him I was riding fence lines. Not entirely a lie—I just didn't mention whose land I was crossing.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like if we didn't have to meet in places where no one could see us. If we could just ride into town together and let people think what they'd think. But that's not the world we live in, is it?
The last one sat at the bottom of the box. The paper felt thinner than the others, like it had been handled more. The ink had faded in places, but the words still came through clear.
Dearest—
I have not known a moment’s peace since your last letter reached me. There is not a word in it I have not turned over more times than I care to admit, yet I find myself no closer to an answer that would do either of us any good.
What has passed between us was never meant to bear the weight we have placed upon it.
I do not say that lightly, nor without understanding what you have entrusted to me.
The knowledge that there is now a life depending upon decisions we cannot undo has not been absent from my thoughts, and I cannot be the man who brings further harm to your name or mine.
You must think carefully on the path before you. The offer that has been made to you is a sound one, and I would see you settled where you are protected from talk and from consequence.
I will not pretend this is easy, nor that I have come to this conclusion without struggle. But I believe it to be the right course, however little comfort that provides.
What we shared will remain with me, though it must remain unspoken.
—H.M.
I sat down hard in the chair, the letter still in my hand. I read it again. Then a third time, because the words didn’t make sense the first two passes through.
The knowledge that there is now a life depending upon decisions we cannot undo has not been absent from my thoughts, and I cannot be the man who brings further harm to your name or mine.
The memory of Waverly's voice washed over me immediately. I’d been standing by the fence, watching her cool down after her winning run. I'm done letting you decide I'm worth having in private but not in public.
I’d done the same thing to her. Different century, but the same pattern.
I looked at the letters spread across the table. They were evidence of something that had existed only in hidden spaces. Meetings no one knew about. Feelings that couldn't be acknowledged. A relationship that lived entirely in the gaps between what was expected and what was real.
The same way I'd treated Waverly.
I’d confined everything between us to the cabin.
Made excuses about evaluating horses while I drove her to places where nobody would ask questions.
Every time I'd kissed her it had been somewhere no one could see, then I’d turned away from her when we were around others.
I’d watched her dance with another man, let him put his hands on her, while I’d stood there, then let her walk away rather than say a single damn word that mattered in front of people who'd remember it.
I'd told myself it was about the feud. About protecting the Hollister name, maintaining boundaries, keeping things from getting complicated in ways I couldn't control.
But sitting here with these letters—with proof that someone else had made the same choice a lifetime ago—the excuses felt more fragile than the yellowed paper in my hands.
H.M. Kincaid had chosen the feud over the woman he loved. He’d chosen his reputation over truth, safety over risk, the known weight of family expectations over the uncertain future of standing with someone people said he shouldn't want. And he'd lost her.
I didn't know how their story ended. Whether Eleanor had married someone else or moved away. The letters didn't say. But the last one told me enough. She'd asked him to choose, and he hadn't. Not in the way that mattered.
I'd done the same fucking thing. Stood at the community center and said nothing while Winslow had run his mouth. I’d offered professional small talk when Waverly had given me the chance to claim what we were in front of the whole town.
I’d shown up at her competition but only to evaluate her horse, keeping everything hidden behind the excuse of work.
Every time it counted, I'd stepped back.
Chosen silence over risk. Protected something that was already breaking under the weight of staying secret.
You want me—I know you do—but only in ways that don't challenge the lines you've drawn.
Waverly’s words burned now, sitting in this cabin that had held nothing but secrets.
Everything between us had existed only because no one else knew about it.
I'd brought her here because it was safe…
private… controllable. That was the same reason H.M.
had met Eleanor in canyons and back trails where their families wouldn't find them.
And Waverly had left these letters here for me to find. Not to punish me. That wasn't her style. But to show me what I was doing. What I'd been doing from the start, dressing it up as protecting her when really, I'd been protecting myself from having to choose.
The chair scraped loudly on the wooden planks as I stood.
I gathered the letters carefully, placed them back in the box, and closed the lid.
Then I left it on the table where she'd put it.
This wasn't my history to keep. It belonged to both families and hiding it would just be one more thing kept secret because it was easier than facing it.
I walked outside. Juniper raised her head as I approached, patient as always. I untied her reins and swung into the saddle, turning her back toward the main trail.
Movement caught my eye before we reached the trees.
Hades stood on the ridge above the cabin, his dark coat standing out against the golden aspen behind him.
And next to him, close enough their shoulders nearly touched, stood Persephone, Mack's sled dog, the one Hades had chosen despite every practical reason he shouldn't have.
They didn't hide. Didn't slink around in shadows or meet in places where no one would see them. Hades had walked right into town with her, laid down outside the mercantile with Persephone at his side, let the whole town see exactly what he'd chosen. Even the damn wolf had more courage than I did.
I watched them for a long moment. Neither moved. They just stood there together, visible to anyone who looked, and didn't apologize for it.
I turned Juniper toward home. But the route I took didn't lead back to the barn. It led toward town.