Chapter 3 #2
Caleb: You okay?
Weston: Blink twice if you're in danger.
Boone: She can't blink. It's a phone, dumbass.
Weston: Then blink spiritually.
Caleb: Jane.
That one word without punctuation or an emoji tightens something sharp and sudden in my chest.
I type back, my thumb hovering just long enough to feel the weight of it.
Jane: I'm okay. I promise.
Three dots appear, vanish, then reappear.
Weston: That’s exactly what someone in danger would say.
Boone: Where are you?
I hesitate, deciding not to overthink it.
Jane: Clover Canyon. Indoors. Warm. Alive.
Boone: Define “indoors.”
Jane: Walls. A roof. Zero wildlife encounters so far.
Weston: So far?
Another pause. Longer this time.
Caleb: Do you need us to come get you?
The question lands heavier than all the jokes combined.
I stare at the screen until the letters blur, then breathe out slowly.
Jane: No. I just need a little space. I’m safe. I swear.
A few seconds pass.
Weston: Okay.
Just that. No argument. No follow-up interrogation.
Boone: But you check in. Or I’m driving to Clover Canyon to find you.
Jane: Please don’t.
Boone: No promises.
Caleb: Call if you need anything. Any time. We’re not going anywhere.
My throat tightens. I swallow hard because crying five minutes after arriving feels inappropriate.
Jane: I know. Love you.
The replies come in fast.
Boone: Miss you already. Kitchen’s too quiet.
Weston: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, which leaves a lot of options.
Caleb: Love you. Proud of you.
I stare at Caleb’s message for a long moment: Proud of you. He's never said that before, not like that.
I set the phone face down on the dresser and sit on the edge of the bed, breathing through the ache until it dulls.
I didn’t run from them; I just needed to discover who I was without their support. Or perhaps I needed to understand who I am when I’m not holding them together.
Outside the window, snow drifts quietly across the field, untouched and endless.
For the first time since I left Tangle Creek, I allow myself to feel the possibility instead of fear or guilt. The terrifying, exhilarating possibility that I might be okay on my own, that I might be enough without having to earn it.
I stand, roll my shoulders, and start unpacking. Because whatever this is, I’m here now, and I’m not disappearing into it.
I leave the phone on the dresser and head out to explore. If I stay in this room too long, my mind will catch up with my body, and I’m not ready for that conversation yet.
The bathroom is between the bedrooms, clean and tidy, with neatly folded towels. A basket of extra toiletries sits under the sink, as if Tex is always prepared for company. His family? Brothers? Sisters?
The door to the second bedroom is shut, and I don’t open it. It feels wrong, like reading someone’s diary or touching a scar without permission.
Back in the living room, I find Tex in the kitchen, filling a pot with water.
He glances at me. “Hungry?”
“Starving, actually.”
His mouth twitches. “I’ve got stew. Frozen. Not fancy.”
“I only do fancy,” I reply with a grin. “Just kidding. Frozen stew sounds perfect.”
He nods as if that’s the right answer.
“Go sit by the fire,” he says. “You’re shivering.”
I hadn’t noticed, but now that he mentions it, I realize I am cold. My fingers are still numb from the walk from the truck to the cabin. “I can help—”
“You can help by stayin’ warm.”
It’s not a dismissal; it’s care. Practical, no-nonsense care.
I sink into the armchair by the hearth and let the heat soak into my bones.
From here, I can watch him work. He moves with precision, his knife strokes even, his steps measured, his shoulders loose but ready.
It’s not just cowboy competence; it’s the military ingrained in him, a preparedness for things most people never consider.
“What's your schedule?” I ask suddenly.
He looks at me, puzzled. “My... schedule?”
“You're clearly a schedule guy,” I say, gesturing around the cabin. “You probably have a spreadsheet for your socks.”
“I don’t have a spreadsheet for my socks—”
I raise an eyebrow.
“—anymore,” he adds.
I grin. “I knew it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and turns back to the pot. “I get up at five. Make the coffee, do the feed run, carry out the fence checks, then chores before working in the veteran’s program. Dinner around six, lights out by ten.”
I blink. “That sounds like prison.”
“It’s peaceful,” he replies simply.
The straightforward way he says it makes me pause.
Peace. Right. That’s what he's created here.
He hands me a mug of strong, black coffee, exactly how I didn’t specify I liked it.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I take it black.”
He shrugs. “You don’t seem like a milk-and-sugar person.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep in. “What kind of person do I seem like?”
He pauses to think. “The kind who wants things real, even when the truth is bitter.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I simply take a sip of my coffee.
The stew simmers on the stove, the fire crackles, and the quiet envelops me gently, no longer suffocating.
It should feel awkward. This is a stranger’s cabin, belonging to someone who bought me at an auction.
Yet it feels steady. For the first time in my life, I’m not bracing for someone to tell me to calm down.
Maybe that’s why I chose him. Not consciously, but because something in me recognized something in him.
A steadiness that doesn’t ask you to be less.