Chapter 5
Tex
The first thing I notice when I wake is the quiet.
Not the hollow quiet I used to chase when I first got out, when silence was the only thing that didn’t demand anything from me.
This is different. This quiet has weight. Warmth.
Jane is here.
Twelve years of waking up alone, and one night with her down the hall rewrites everything. I didn’t even hear her breathing, but I knew she was there. I felt it like a shift in the air pressure.
I can’t hear her. No footsteps. No voice. Just... nothing.
I sit up slowly and let my eyes adjust. The air in the bedroom is cool. The cabin is warm. Familiar. Safe.
Still, my chest feels tight.
I don’t do this—waking up oriented around someone else's presence.
But here I am, already listening for her. Already adjusting my morning around the possibility of her.
I pull on a t-shirt, jeans, and socks, then step into the hallway.
The guest room door is shut.
Good.
I head into the living room and stop.
The quilt I draped over her last night is folded neatly. Squared, like she tried to put it back the way it belonged. The couch cushions are fluffed. The pillow is straight.
But the faint dip in the seat tells the truth.
She slept here. Then at some point in the night, she must’ve moved. Quietly and carefully, as if she didn’t want to be caught needing warmth.
Something in my chest cracks. She’s already trying to make herself smaller. Tidier. More manageable. As if she thinks that’s what I want.
I rub my palm over my jaw and exhale through my nose.
She’s going to wreck my schedule.
And the strangest part is, I don’t mind. For the first time in twelve years, I don’t mind.
I head into the kitchen and put coffee on—grind, scoop, brew. The routine steadies me. I set out two mugs, then catch myself and freeze.
Two mugs.
I stare at them like they’re evidence of a crime. I don’t bring people here. Not since the service, when “bringing someone close” became the same thing as “giving the world a target.”
But Jane isn’t a target. She’s a storm. And maybe I’m tired of building shelters against weather that never comes.
I turn my attention back to the stove and start cooking bacon and eggs because feeding someone is practical. Easy. Something I know how to do without saying anything stupid.
The smell fills the cabin—salt, fat, warmth. I’m plating the eggs when the floorboard in the hallway creaks.
Jane appears in the doorway, her hair a riot of curls, her bare feet. She’s wearing leggings, and one of my flannels hangs off her shoulder. It does something sharp and possessive to my insides.
She squints at the kitchen as if she’s offended by how bright the morning is. Then her gaze lands on me, and her mouth curves.
“You always up at dawn?” she asks, voice husky with sleep.
“Earlier.”
“That’s illegal.”
“It's ranch life.”
“It’s serial-killer life,” she corrects, shuffling toward the island. “But bacon suggests you’re at least a serial killer with standards.”
I slide a mug of coffee toward her without comment.
She wraps both hands around it like it’s life support and takes a sip. Her eyes close, and a low sound escapes her, a half hum, half sigh.
My grip tightens on the plate in my hand. I’ve seen men break bones without flinching. That sound does more damage than a fist.
Jane opens one eye. "Don’t look so pleased. I’m still assessing whether you’re safe."
“I am safe.”
She snorts. “That’s exactly what unsafe people say.”
I set her plate down. “Eat.”
She looks at it like she’s surprised I’m capable of feeding another human being.
Then she eats. Not dainty. Not careful. She hums when the bacon hits her tongue, makes a little sound of satisfaction at the eggs, and licks butter off her thumb without thinking about it. She’s not performing, just... enjoying. Unapologetically.
It’s the most real thing I’ve seen in years.
Still, I can’t take my eyes off her—the way she leans forward, elbows tucked, eyes flicking around as if she’s absorbing the entire room while chewing. Hyper-aware. Wired even in calm.
I recognize that. The constant scanning. Different reasons. Same result.
She catches me looking and points her fork at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the intense cowboy stare.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she insists. “Like you’re deciding whether to kiss me or arrest me.”
My body reacts before my brain catches up. “Kiss.”
The word is out before I can stop it.
Jane freezes mid-bite, fork suspended. Her eyes widen. Not shocked. Caught. Like she didn’t expect me to admit anything out loud.
Neither did I.
Silence opens up between us, crackling and dangerous.
She clears her throat and recovers fast because she’s Jane. “Good to know.”
Which seems to be her default reply when she doesn’t know what else to say.
I take a slow breath and drag my focus back to the coffee, the eggs, the rules.
“You moved.”
She blinks. “What?”
“From the couch,” I clarify. “At some point.”
Her chin lifts. “You monitoring my sleep habits now?”
“I noticed the quilt folded,” I say. “That’s all.”
Her mouth quirks. “I didn’t want you to think I was... messy.”
I stare at her, then at the neatness she tried to leave behind. “You don't have to tidy yourself for me.”
The words come out softer than I intended. Because I see what she did. She woke in the night, uncomfortable on the couch, and instead of just leaving it and going to bed, she made sure to leave no trace. No evidence of need. No proof she’d taken up space.
She drops her gaze to her plate and shovels another bite as if food is easier than feelings.
I let it go. For now.
“Plans today?”
“Plans,” she repeats, as if the concept is foreign. “Like... a schedule?”
“Yes.”
She laughs. “Of course you have a schedule.”
I ignore that. “I've got chores. Fence checks. Feed run. You can stay here if you want.”
Jane’s eyes narrow. “Is that a test?”
“It’s an option.”
I don’t tell her what to do. I give her choices. There’s a difference.
“I don’t do ‘stay here,’” she says immediately. “I’m coming.”
I should be annoyed. Instead, relief flickers—quick and unwelcome.
“Fine,” I say. “Boots. Coat. It’s cold.”
She grins like she’s won. “Yes, sir.”
Outside, the morning bites hard. The sky is a pale, washed-out winter blue. Snow lies thick in the field, glittering as if the earth had been dusted with sugar.
Jane steps onto the porch and pauses, looking out at the open space and inhaling deeply. “It’s... quiet.”
“It can be.”
“And nobody’s watching.”
“Plenty of people are watching,” I say. “Just not the kind you’re used to.”
She glances at me. “Meaning?”
“Meaning horses don’t care what you did last night. They care if you feed them.”
Jane smiles. “That sounds perfect.”
We walk toward the barn. Havenridge spreads out like a small village: the main ranch house in the distance, the big barn, smaller outbuildings, and several cabins tucked into the tree line. Men move through the morning, heads down, hands busy.
Most of them are vets. Some are locals. All of them have their reasons for liking the quiet.
Jane takes it all in. Her eyes dart as her attention splits in a dozen directions. “You live out here full-time?”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s... just you in that cabin?”
“Yes.”
“That’s wild,” she mutters. “I’d go feral in twelve hours.”
“Some people like feral,” I say without thinking.
Jane’s head snaps to me. “You flirting, Tex?”
I keep my gaze on the path. “No.”
“Liar.”
I say nothing. That’s safer.
At the barn, I hand her a pair of work gloves from the shelf.
She takes them, then tosses them back at me. “These are too big.”
“They’re standard.”
“I’m not,” she replies, and her grin is all teeth.
I stare at her a second too long.
Then I find a smaller pair in the bin and hand them over without comment.
She slips them on as if she belongs here. Because she does. That part isn’t the surprise.
The surprise is how fast I like seeing her in this space, her boots in the straw, her hair wild, her eyes bright like the ranch is amplifying her instead of swallowing her.
A horse whinnies from his stall as we pass. Jane’s hand goes out instinctively, her fingers brushing his muzzle. The horse leans into her palm as if he recognizes her.
The men nearby glance up. One of them, a ranch hand in his mid-fifties, raises his eyebrows.
“Damn,” he mutters. “That one don’t like anyone.”
Jane doesn’t gloat. She just strokes the horse’s forehead, murmuring something low and nonsensical that makes the animal relax even more.
I watch her, my gaze intense.
She notices my stare and lifts her chin. “What?”
“You’re good with him.”
Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “I grew up on a ranch, cowboy. Horses make sense. People... not always.”
She says it like it’s a joke, but truth sits under her words, sharp enough to cut.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Animals don’t judge. They don’t expect you to be calmer, quieter, or less. They just want consistency and care. I understand why she’d prefer them.
We head to the tack area. I reach for the saddle I’d planned to use on one of the calmer geldings.
Jane eyes it and snorts. “That one’s going to rub the withers.”
I pause. “What?”
She steps closer, running her hand along the underside, her fingers quick and sure. “See? The padding’s worn thin here. He’ll get sore in ten minutes.”
My stomach tightens, not because she’s wrong, but because she’s so right so fast.
I’ve worked with horses my whole life. I know tack. I know equipment, but Jane reads it like instinct.
I switch saddles without arguing, pride and possessiveness curling low in my gut. Not the kind of possessiveness that wants to cage her, but the kind that wants the world to recognize what I saw the second she walked on stage: that she’s fire.
And anyone who tries to dim that fire will have to go through me.