Chapter Eleven – Rowan
I was seventeen. It was the end of summer, hot and humid, and we’d just finished rodeo practice. The sky was streaked with orange. I remember the way she looked under the bleachers—nervous, excited, like the whole world was balanced on the edge of her words.
“I got in,” she said. “Early program. Music school in Nashville.”
I was stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She smiled, a tight little thing. “Because I want you to come with me.”
The air had gone still. My heart jumped into my throat.
“Marissa…”
“I’m serious, Rowan. We’ll figure it out. I can sing. You can work anywhere. We’ll make it. Just say yes.”
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
“My whole life’s here.”
“You mean your dad’s life. Your siblings’. You don’t owe them forever.”
I remember how angry she looked. Like I’d betrayed her just by wanting to stay. When I didn’t say anything, she nodded like she already knew the answer. And then she walked away, straight into someone else’s arms.
Two months later, she was pregnant. And the town whispered my name first. Too bad it was the furthest thing from the truth.
I still remember the look in my best friend, Brady’s, eyes the first time he saw me after the facts came out. I wanted to deck him. Wanted to burn everything down.
But I didn’t. Because, by then, the damage was done. Because the baby wasn’t mine—but the shame still was.
People assumed. Small towns do that. Marissa never corrected them, not at first. She said she needed time. That she was confused.
By the time anyone knew the truth, I’d already buried myself in guilt and isolation. I pulled away. From her. From Brady. From everyone.
I stayed here. Fixed fences. Worked cattle. Harvested crops. Shut down any part of me that remembered what it was like to believe in more.
And now Ivy’s here, and I’m doing my damnedest not to repeat it. But the past has a crazy way of holding you back when you want nothing more but to move forward.
I sink beside the tree, knees digging into the dirt. I let my head fall back against the bark and close my eyes. Her face flashes behind my eyelids. Ivy in the bath. Voice trembling. Eyes wide.
When I least expect it, flashes of my past with Marissa meld themselves with the photos I’ve seen of Ivy and Crew.
So much so that I spent the entire night lying on my hard floor, unable to tell the two apart.
By the time I wake, I’m in a completely different state of mind than the one I had gone to bed with.
And I fucking hate it.
I press the heel of my hand against my chest. This ache—I thought it was anger. I thought I was trying to protect myself. But it’s grief, and it’s mine.
I’m punishing Ivy for a past she had nothing to do with. And the worst part? I feel more for her than I ever let myself feel for Marissa. More than I want to admit.
Back at the house, I scrub my hands at the kitchen sink. My shirt’s damp, stained from hours of walking and chopping wood to burn off the adrenaline.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I snatch it up without thinking, pulse racing like a fool, hoping—Crew.
I almost don’t answer. But something in my gut twists, so I pick up.
“You alright?” he asks without preamble.
I lean onto the counter, knowing he’s figured I’ve seen the newest set of images. Jealousy flickers—a mean little match—but I kill it with a breath. “Yeah.”
A beat. I can hear film on turf in the background, and somebody laughing too loudly. Then quieter, he asks, “Is she?”
“That’s not my place to answer.”
Crew doesn’t fill the space with noise. He never has. “Okay,” he says. “Then I’ll ask it this way. Do I need to be worried about her?”
I rub the bridge of my nose and look down the hall where the bedroom lamp glows low. “You don’t need to be worried about her safety,” I say, careful. “She’s… wrung out. I’m handling what I can handle.”
He exhales. “Good. The newest photos—” His voice hardens. “They aren’t from the other day. They’re old. From a charity dinner. PR tossed them back in circulation because someone saw her ‘off the grid’ and wanted to control the narrative. I told them to pull it.”
The tight band around my ribs loosens a notch. I let my jaw unclench. “Copy.”
“And before you turn that into me staking a claim—don’t.” He pauses. “I care about her. Not like that. But I do care. You hearing me?”
“I hear you.” The words are gravel and truth. “I didn’t love seeing them.”
“I know,” he says, gentler. “You’re not built for that game. She isn’t either, not really. She plays it because people like me told her it keeps the wheels on.”
I steady my voice. “You calling to clear your name or check on her?”
“Both,” he says, honest as a whistle. “And to say—if you’re in this, be in it for real. She doesn’t need more half-truths. She needs steady.”
My throat works. I stare at the condensation ring my jar left on the counter, at my own hand braced in the circle like I’m swearing to something. “I’m trying.”
“Trying is good,” he says, “but you’ve got that Wright talent for holding the door open and standing in the doorway so no one can tell whether they’re welcome or not.”
That lands.
He goes quiet, then adds, “I can tell you one more thing without crossing a line. She’s been fighting to breathe for a long time. If she’s breathing easier there, don’t make her feel dumb for it.”
I look at the hallway again, at the curl of lamplight on the floorboards, at the edge of a blanket I carried from the dryer to the bed. “I won’t.”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “And, Ro?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not your competition. If it ever looked like that, I’m sorry. I won’t let my name be used to mess with her head. Or yours.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been rationing. “Appreciate it.”
“Always,” he says, warmth under the word. “One last thing, then I’ll get out of your hair. You don’t have to say much but say the part that matters.”
“The part that matters,” I repeat, tasting the shape of it.
“You know it,” he says. “You’re just stubborn. Must run in the family.”
“Must.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “She’s sleeping,” I add before I can talk myself out of giving him anything. “Fever broke. That’s all I’m saying.”
“That’s enough,” he says, relief bleeding through. “Thanks.”
We sit in the soft crackle of the line like kids on the porch steps after lights-out.
“You going to be around tomorrow?” he asks.
“Here,” I say. “Same as always.”
“Then be here,” he says. “On purpose.”
I nod even though he can’t see it. “Night, Crew.”
“Night, Ro.”
I end the call and set the phone face down. The house settles around me.
Say the part that matters.
The sky is fully dark by the time I walk back to the guest cottage. The gravel crunches under my boots, each step heavier than the last.
After an unanswered knock, worry fills me, and I open the door to be met with a snoozing Ivy lying across her bed with a guitar resting beside her that she borrowed from Bailey when she stopped by this morning.
Ivy refused to rest in the main house, and before I could argue, she was waddling back to the cottage on her own.
Just the faint scent of peach lotion and the ghost of something that felt like home for a moment. I stand there, chest caving in slow breaths.
I want to carry her back to my bed, but I don’t want to press my luck like I did the night before.
Instead, I grip the quilt on the back of the couch and lay it across her body.
Gripping the guitar by the neck, I haul it over to the small table, resting it on top with more care than I usually give the musical instrument.
On the bed, Ivy squirms, gripping the blanket in her fist and tugging it closer to her chin. By instinct, I gently rest my palm against her forehead, testing her temperature, which is still warmer than I’d like, but I know sleep is the most important thing I can give her right now.
Gently closing the cottage door behind me, I take a steadying breath. Every part of me wants to be at her side, but she chose to spend it alone today. Something about me taking care of her last night shifted things between us.
The single-seater porch swing creaks in the wind.
I cross to it out of habit, dropping down hard enough that the chain groans. I stare out at the darkening pasture, elbows on my knees, hands laced together like I’m praying to the ghosts of all the mistakes I’ve made.
And I’ve made more than I want to count.
I never meant to be this man—the one who lets the best thing to happen to him wonder where they stand to the point they walk away. Unfortunately, that’s who I am.
The porch light flickers on beside me. I didn’t even realize I flipped the switch.
It illuminates the empty path to the main house.
I press my palms to my face.
Marissa was the first person I ever loved. The first person I trusted with the softer parts of me. And when she left… when she shattered everything we were with one choice, I learned not to offer those parts to anyone again.
Not without cost. Not without hesitation.
I learned that love didn’t mean forever. That sometimes people choose their dreams over you. That sometimes they gave up and never looked back.
Ivy wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a beautiful stranger in a ditch. A problem to fix. Yet somehow, she cracked me wide open.
Her laughter. Her bite. Her impossible softness. The way she looked at this broken-down life I built and made it feel like something worth keeping.
She never asked me to change, but God, she made me want to.
And I'm afraid I’m subconsciously punishing her for it.
I swing back and forth once, twice, the old wood moaning beneath the weight of everything I haven’t said.
I should have told her she mattered. That she’s more than a headline or a PR stunt or whatever the hell Celeste trained her to be.
I should’ve told her she made me feel again.
Instead, I’m afraid I’ll back her into the category I understand: temporary. Because permanent terrifies me. Because building something real takes guts I’m not sure I have.
Because if I build it, and it crumbles? That’s on me.
But maybe I’ve been looking at it wrong. Maybe the real mistake isn’t trusting people. Perhaps the mistake is refusing to try.
I push up from the swing, restless energy crawling under my skin. My boots hit the steps hard. I need to move. To do something. To stop sitting in this damn silence that only reminds me of what I lost.
I head toward the barn, my phone’s flashlight beam catching on the edges of fence posts and feed buckets, the horses tossing their heads restlessly in the dark. They sense it too. The shift. The unsettled air.
I lean against the stall door, brushing my palm down Maple’s nose.
“She’s good for us, isn’t she, girl?”
The mare huffs softly, nudging my shoulder.
“Yeah. I think so, too.”
It’s stupid, talking to a horse like this. But it feels safer than admitting it out loud to anyone else. Holt would listen. So would Lila. Hell, even Dad might surprise me.
But Ivy—she deserves to hear it from me. Before she decides I’m not enough.
I leave the barn, the wind sharper now, pulling at the edges of my shirt as I head back toward the main house.
Inside, I dive straight for the living room, dropping onto the couch and yanking the throw blanket over my lap even though I’m not cold.
The lamp near the window glows a soft yellow. I stare at the guesthouse through the glass, my reflection ghosting back at me.
It’s too quiet. Too still.
I think about the camp again.
I’ve been letting the idea die slowly, one unspoken fear at a time. What if it fails? What if I can’t give those kids what they need? What if I let them down?
What if I let Ivy down?
Is that it? Maybe I don’t want to build it without her. She saw something in me before I saw it in myself. And perhaps that’s what real love is—someone who believes in your best parts even when you’re terrified they don’t exist.
I lean back, one arm flung over my eyes. Marissa wrecked me. Now I’m just a man in the aftermath, trying to find his way back. Because I’m done letting the past decide who I get to love. And I think I’ve already made my choice.