23-VINCENT #2
Grandpa sat at the table in a chair and turned to face us. Grandma leaned over the counter with a fresh cup of coffee and a stack of papers under her hand.
We stood there, boots thudding against the hardwood floor, waiting for an answer. “What did you say?”
“It was just an offer on all one hundred and eight acres.”
“Why?” Mom asked.
“Doesn’t matter. I told them no.”
“Your grandma and I fought off three offers over the last forty years. Same song, new singer.”
My gut was wrenched. Part of me was deeply rooted in the place and expected to live out my life here. There was still that doubting part that made me believe I could work as a hot-shot part-time and as a farrier for other ranches if I needed to.
“Well, it’s not a problem. I don’t think any of us want to sell. But they’ll circle us for a while.” Mark leaned back in his chair. The old wood snapped under the pressure. “Thought we should all be on the same page.”
My phone vibrated in my jeans. I could feel it before it started to audibly ring. Digging it out of my pocket, my insides twisted for a good reason. Reagan.
I stepped back to the mud room, giving myself a bit of privacy. “Hello?”
“Vincent?” My heart cracked. She wasn’t okay. I could hear the tremble in her voice.
“Yeah? What’s going on?”
“Tate’s here. He won’t leave.” She paused.
My pulse spiked, and my fist tightened. “He’s drunk, and the cops won’t do anything because his name is on the lease and he’s being orderly.
Could you—” the line went quiet. I pulled my phone away to see if I had lost her.
The call time flicked to the next second.
“Reagan? Do you need me to come to you?” My jaw tightened at the sniffle.
“Yes.” Her voice was small. Reminding me of how Tate made her shrink last week at the restaurant.
“Alright. Sit tight and make sure the doors are locked. I’m leaving now.”
“Thank you, Vincent.”
The problem with the ranch seemed to be resolved by Mark, as the air felt lighter the second time I entered. “Mom, I’ve got to go.”
“Is everything okay?”
I shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal about someone my family didn’t know. Someone my mom didn’t know I was seeing until ten minutes ago. “It’s Reagan. I’ll be back later tonight.”
I give her a kiss on her forehead and squeeze my grandma’s shoulder as I pass her.
The porch door slams behind me in the distance.
Jogging back to the house, the gravel crunches under my boots as each foot slams into the ground.
I have no need to go inside and stop at my truck to fish my keys out of my pocket before climbing in.
The road unspools under the tires, long and empty, giving me too much space to think. I hate it. Silence always dragged heavily behind me like a full trailer.
Jori came first. Because I needed to finish that chapter and hammer out any feelings or emotions I had—Not because I wanted her.
I finally burned out whatever feelings were left behind years ago.
Jori was stitched into my past like a bad scar.
She’d seen me through everything. The worst of my temper, the quiet after a firefight that burned too much, and the death of my father.
She knew the man I was before I hardened.
With her, I didn’t have to explain myself, and I didn’t have to pretend. Jori already knew how to handle me.
I wanted her long after we ended. She was comfort, familiar, and I assumed I would eventually circle back to her one way or another until I met Reagan.
But Jori made herself clear when she gave the world my private information. Letting her go helped me admit we weren’t who we used to be. And I hate how often I still feel like I need her honesty, or gentleness, or closure I never received. Needing space was a lie. I was gone too much.
The truck hums steadily, and I adjust my grip on the wheel.
And then there’s Reagan.
Reagan is… different. Electric. Pulling at me in ways I don’t understand yet.
What I feel around her came too fast, too sharp.
It crawls under my skin in a way that scares me more than fire or death ever did.
I like the way her eyes fall over me—like she sees something worth choosing—but I have a hard time trusting that feeling.
Not yet. Not when she’s still escaping from Tate.
Not when I could just be the warm body that fills the space Tate left behind.
I feel protective of her, and I hate it.
It feels like stepping into a fight that isn’t mine. But I can’t look at her without wanting her to feel safe. To feel wanted. To feel chosen in a way Tate never managed.
I’m drawn to her like a magnet, gravity, whatever. And then the part of me that remembers how badly things can break whispers I’m a fool for it. But I kept driving to her anyway.
My future sits uneasily in the back of my mind, a weight heavier than gear.
The developer. My steady career. The horses.
The house I started building but wasn’t finished.
The place was supposed to be my proof of stability, roots, and my foothold into the next version of my life.
If I lost that? It would feel like the ground gave way, and I would start over with nothing but calloused hands and a list of regrets.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to escape it all—the pressure, the noise, the constant demand to be the steady one. To just take off, vanish into the mountains or another state, build something for myself instead of for everyone else. Almost like Vanessa.
But I won’t.
I keep my foot steady on the gas with Reagan waiting.
I don’t know what I’m pulling up to, and repeating the same problems that occupied my mind recently made the drive seem longer than it needed to be. There’s a truck in her driveway already, and a man on her porch stands up as my tires stop along the curb.