Chapter 4
Jane
A knock sounds at the front door.
Tex’s head lifts, and the shift of his body is subtle yet unmistakable. His shoulders square, and he moves to the balls of his feet. I’ve seen my brothers do that when they hear a noise outside at night or when someone drives up the ranch road unannounced. It’s the shift from man to protector.
“Expecting company?” I ask.
“Not really,” he replies, already moving.
He opens the door, and cold air rushes in. A woman stands on the porch, bundled in a red parka, her blonde hair stuffed into a knit beanie, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. She holds a covered dish in both hands like an offering.
“Well,” she says brightly, “I heard we had company up at the cabin.”
Tex steps aside. “Kitty.”
Her eyes flick past him and land on me, sparkling with curiosity. “You must be Jane.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Depends who’s asking.”
Kitty laughs as if I’m funny rather than a problem. “Kitty Sutton. Tom’s wife. And yes, before you ask, this is me being nosy.”
I relax a fraction without meaning to. “Jane Cutter.”
“I know,” Kitty says, stepping inside as if she belongs here. “This ranch runs on three things: cattle, goats, and gossip.”
Tex grunts something that might be agreement.
Kitty hands me the dish. “Huckleberry pie. Shay bakes like it’s a competitive sport, and I benefit.”
The dish is warm in my hands. I lift the corner of the towel covering it and—oh—golden crust. Butter and lemon waft up, and my mouth waters.
Behind me, Tex leans in, and I swear I see him trying to sneak a piece of crust off the edge.
“Did you just—”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
Kitty grins. “I see you’ve figured out his weakness.”
I return her smile. “Shay is...?”
“She’s married to Tom’s brother.” Kitty waves a hand. “There’s a whole family tree. You’ll figure it out eventually. Or you won’t. Either way, there’s pie.”
“Okay,” I say slowly.
Kitty glances around the cabin with the familiarity of someone who’s been here before. “You landed in Tex’s place. Interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
“He’s not exactly known for spontaneity.” She shoots him a look. “No offense.”
“Some taken,” Tex says mildly.
“He’s not always easy,” Kitty adds gently. “But he's solid. He shows up, even when he doesn’t know how to say the right thing.”
Tex lifts his head from where he’s hovering near the pie. “Standin’ right here.”
Kitty ignores him, tilting her head as she looks at me. “We need women like you out here. Keeps the men from turning into grumpy statues.”
Tex’s eyes narrow. “I’m not grumpy. That's Wyatt’s default mood.”
Kitty shakes her head. “No, his is brooding.”
I choke on a laugh.
Tex’s mouth twitches.
Kitty smiles. “Anyway, welcome to Havenridge. I live up the hill if you need anything—coffee, conversation, or someone to vent to about emotionally constipated cowboys.”
“Amen,” I mutter without thinking.
Tex raises an eyebrow.
“I have three brothers,” I explain. “I know the type.”
Kitty steps closer, lowering her voice like she’s telling me a secret. “And Jane?”
“Yeah?”
Her expression softens. “You don’t have to earn your place here.”
The words hit somewhere I wasn’t expecting. “What?”
“I see it,” she says quietly. “The way you’re already trying to figure out how to be useful. How to make this worth everyone’s time." She squeezes my arm gently. “You don’t have to. Just showing up is enough.”
My throat tightens. “Okay.”
Tex is watching from the kitchen doorway. When I glance at him, he looks away, but not before I catch something in his expression, as if Kitty just put words to something he’d already noticed.
Kitty takes that as her cue to go. “All right. I’ll let you two settle. Tex, don’t scare her off with your ‘I organize my thoughts alphabetically’ energy.”
“I don’t—”
But Kitty is already out the door, warm laughter trailing behind her.
The cabin settles again as the door shuts.
I look down at the pie dish in my hands. “She seems—”
“Kind and caring?” Tex finishes.
“Yes.”
He nods. “She is.”
I glance at him. “You like her.”
He pauses, then says carefully, “Tom’s my boss. Kitty is... family.”
Family.
The word makes my chest ache. I miss my brothers, even the well-intentioned, interfering parts of them. But I don’t miss feeling like I have to earn my place at the table. I don’t miss the constant worry that I’m too much or not enough or somehow both at once.
“Stew’s ready,” Tex says, turning back to the stove.
We eat at the small table near the fire. The stew is simple but good. The huckleberry pie is ridiculously sweet, warm, and buttery, and I make a sound that’s probably inappropriate for pie. Shay is one talented baker.
“Sorry,” I say, my face heating. “I’m... expressive about food.”
Tex is watching me with an expression I can't read. “I noticed.”
“My brothers tease me about it.” I shrug, trying for casual. “Apparently, when I like something, I eat like every bite is a religious experience.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that.”
I blink at him. “Some people think it’s...” I trail off, not sure how to finish.
“Too much?” he offers quietly.
I nod, my throat tight.
“I don’t.”
The simple, factual way he says it, like he's stating the weather, makes my eyes sting.
After dinner, Tex rinses the dishes immediately because, God forbid, there should be any sink clutter. No mess left behind.
I watch him for a moment. “I can help.”
“You’re tired.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “Go sit by the fire. I’ve got this.”
“But—”
“Jane.” His voice is gentle but firm. "You’ve had a long day. Let me do this.”
I want to argue. I always want to argue. But something in his expression stops me. He’s not dismissing me. He’s taking care of me.
I wander toward the living room and sink into the armchair by the fire, close enough that the heat warms my shins. My brain finally starts to slow, like it’s exhausted from being on high alert all day.
Tex steps up beside me, keeping a respectful distance. “You can take a shower. Bathroom’s stocked.”
“I already scoped it,” I admit.
He arches an eyebrow.
“What?” I say defensively. “It’s a new place. I had to.”
He nods as if that makes sense to him. “You know where your room is. If you need anythin’, ask.”
My heart does a stupid little stumble. “I really get my own room?”
“Yes.”
“Not even going to pretend you want to share?”
He turns his head to look at me fully. His eyes are darker in the firelight—a deep, steady green like the forest outside.
“You want honesty?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“I want you somewhere I can see you,” he says quietly. “So I know you’re safe.”
My pulse kicks up. I force a smirk because if I don’t, I might do something stupid, like lean into him and test what those broad shoulders feel like under my hands.
“So you want to keep me in your line of sight,” I tease. “Creepy.”
“Protective,” he corrects.
“Possessive,” I counter.
His gaze holds mine, unflinching. “Maybe.”
It shouldn’t be hot.
It is.
I clear my throat and step back. “I’m going to shower.”
“Good.” His voice is a low rumble. “Get warm.”
I retreat down the hall, my heart thudding too hard.
In my room, I shut the door and lean against it, eyes closed.
What am I doing? I’m supposed to be proving something. Finding myself. Feeling chosen.
Instead, I’m standing in a stranger’s cabin, feeling like the quiet might swallow me whole if I stop moving.
Except... the quiet doesn’t feel like drowning tonight. It feels like floating.
I shower quickly, letting the water pound heat into my skin until the tension eases out of my shoulders. I brush my teeth, staring at my reflection in the mirror—hair damp, cheeks pink, eyes too bright.
The woman staring back looks like she’s on the edge of something.
I pull on leggings and a flannel shirt I find in one of the drawers. It must be his flannel, from the size of it. The shirt hangs to mid-thigh, sleeves too long, and the collar loose around my throat. It smells of soap, musk, and a hint of smoke. Like him.
I freeze for a second; the shirt bunched in my fists. This is too intimate. My senses are overstimulated.
It’s just fabric, my mind says.
No, it’s not just fabric, my body argues.
I force myself out of the room. If I stay in here any longer, I’m going to spiral, and spiraling in a stranger’s cabin while wearing his shirt is a level of pathetic that I’m not ready to embrace.
Tex is in the living room, sitting in the chair by the fire, holding a book. He looks up when I enter, and his gaze lands on the flannel. Something shifts in his face—a flicker, a tightening in his jaw.
“Should’ve asked,” I say, tugging at the hem. “Sorry. It was in the drawer, and mine is—”
“It’s fine.”
“I can change.”
“Jane.” His voice is rougher than before. “It’s fine. Looks better on you anyway.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
The fire pops.
I hover in the doorway, suddenly unsure of where to put myself. The couch? Too close. The other chair? Too far. God, why is this so hard?
Tex closes the book and sets it aside. "You okay?"
No. I don’t want to be alone, but I’m terrified of needing anyone. And your cabin is too quiet, and my head is too loud.
“Yeah,” I say too fast. Then, more honestly, “I’m not ready to be alone yet. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t need things.” The words come out before I can stop them.
Tex watches me for a long moment. Then he nods toward the couch. “Sit.”
I sit.
“Blanket?” he asks.
“No,” I say automatically.
Then my teeth chatter.
He doesn’t comment. He just grabs the quilt from the chair and drapes it over me with careful hands, close enough that his knuckles brush my skin above my sleeve.
Electric.
My body lights up like a warning flare.
He steps back immediately, as if he felt it too.
“Night, Jane,” he says.
“Night, Tex,” I reply softly.
I lie there on the couch, staring at the fire until my eyes start to blur.
As I drift, I hear him move down the hall. The door to his room clicks across from mine.
Separate rooms.
Separate beds.
Safe.
My brain should relax.
Instead, my last coherent thought before sleep steals me is that Kitty said I didn’t have to earn my place here. And Tex said he didn’t mind that I’m too much.
Maybe I don’t have to earn it.
Maybe I just have to show up.
Maybe I’m enough. Not yet. But… maybe.