Chapter 2 - Claire
"What happens now?" I ask and immediately want to kick myself.
What kind of stupid question is that? I know what happens now. I get in his truck, he takes me to his ranch, and we figure out if we can actually stand each other long enough to go through with this insane plan.
But standing here in front of him, I feel like an even bigger idiot than I did during the entire thirty-hour bus ride.
What the hell was I thinking? I just traveled halfway across the country to marry a complete stranger.
A man I've exchanged maybe two dozen messages with.
A man who could be anyone, could want anything, could be lying about everything.
Rhett clears his throat, and I force myself to actually look at him instead of spiraling into panic.
He's taller than I expected. At least six-two, maybe more.
The photos didn't quite capture the breadth of his shoulders or the way his brown eyes are studying me with the same uncertainty I'm feeling.
His hair is slightly messy, like he's been running his hands through it, and there's a tension in his jaw that suggests he's just as nervous as I am.
That should be comforting. It's not.
"I figured I'd take you to the ranch," he says, his voice rough. "Get you settled in the guest cottage. Let you rest from the trip. No pressure to... figure anything out right away."
"Okay," I say, because what else am I supposed to say? *Actually, I've changed my mind, this is crazy, can you just take me back to the bus station?*
Except I can't go back. There's nothing to go back to. No apartment, no job, no father waiting for me with his warm smile and terrible jokes. Just debt and empty rooms and the ghost of a life I used to have.
This has to work. It has to.
Rhett reaches for my duffel bag, and I instinctively pull it closer to my chest. It's literally everything I own in the world: three changes of clothes, my father's old watch, a photo album, and the kitchen knife I've kept since I was a kid. The one that gave me this scar.
"I can carry it," I say quickly.
He drops his hand immediately, taking a step back. "Sure. Sorry. Truck's right here."
I follow him to an old Ford that's seen better days but looks well-maintained. The kind of truck that's meant for actual work, not for showing off. He opens the passenger door for me, and I climb in, clutching my bag on my lap like a security blanket.
The interior smells like coffee and something earthy—hay, maybe, or soil. There's a thermos in the cup holder and what looks like ranch paperwork scattered on the dashboard. Evidence of a real life, real work. Maybe he wasn't lying about the ranch part, at least.
Rhett gets in the driver's side, and the truck dips slightly under his weight. He starts the engine without looking at me, his jaw still tight with tension.
We pull out of the station in silence.
I stare out the window at Blackwater Falls as we drive through it.
It's smaller than I imagined. One main street with a handful of businesses, a diner, a saloon, a general store.
The kind of town that probably looks charming in movies but feels suffocating in real life.
The kind of place where everyone knows everyone, where strangers stick out like sore thumbs.
Where I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb.
"Town's not much to look at," Rhett says, breaking the silence.
"But it's got what you need. Sarah's saloon is the social hub.
Murphy's Grill has the best burgers you'll ever eat, even if the place looks like a health code violation.
There's a library, if you like reading. And the people are decent, mostly. "
I nod, not trusting my voice. My hands are shaking slightly, so I press them flat against my thighs. What the hell am I doing here?
"The ranch is about fifteen minutes outside town," he continues, and I can tell he's trying to fill the awkward silence. "Two thousand acres. We run cattle, some horses. There are six of us who own it. Well, seven now with Sierra. She invested last year, helped us turn things around financially."
"That's a lot of people," I manage to say.
"Yeah." He glances at me quickly, then back at the road. "They're good guys. My brothers, basically. We all grew up together at the ranch. The previous owner, Frank, he took us in when we didn't have anywhere else to go."
There's something in his voice when he says Frank's name. Affection mixed with grief. I recognize it because it's the same tone I use when I talk about my father.
"He sounds like a good man," I say softly.
"He was the best." Rhett's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "He died two years ago. Left the ranch to all of us. It's been... we've been working hard to keep his legacy alive."
I want to ask more, but the way his jaw clenches tells me this isn't the time. Instead, I watch as we leave the town behind and the landscape opens up into rolling hills and endless sky. It's beautiful. My father would have loved this view.
He used to make me watch old westerns with him every Sunday. He'd point at the sweeping landscapes and say, "That's real America, Claire-bear. Wide open spaces where a person can breathe." I always thought he was being dramatic, stuck in his nostalgia for a time he'd never actually lived in.
But looking at this land, I think I finally understand what he meant.
"It's beautiful," I say, and I mean it.
Rhett's shoulders relax slightly. "Yeah. It is. Never gets old, no matter how many times I see it."
We lapse back into silence, but it feels slightly less suffocating than before. The truck eats up the miles, and I try to ignore the panic building in my chest. What if the other ranch owners hate me? What if they figure out I'm a mail order bride and judge Rhett for it? What if—
"They think you're a friend from my military days," Rhett says suddenly, as if reading my mind. "Going through a rough patch. I didn't... I didn't tell them the truth. About how we met."
"You lied to them?"
"I simplified." His voice is defensive now. "They don't need to know everything right away. Figured we'd get to know each other first, see if this is actually going to work before we tell people we met on a mail order bride website."
He's embarrassed. I can hear it in every word, see it in the way his shoulders hunch slightly. He's ashamed of me, of this situation, of the fact that he was desperate enough to hire a wife on the internet.
And honestly? I can't blame him. I'm ashamed too.
"Okay," I say quietly. "What's our story, then?"
He exhales slowly. "We served together. Kept in touch over the years. You hit a rough patch recently. Lost your job, lost your housing. I offered to help. That's it. Simple."
"I was never in the military."
"They don't know that. Just... if they ask about it, keep it vague. Say you did administrative work or something."
I should be angry. Should be offended that he's making me lie to his family before I've even met them. But mostly I'm just tired. Tired of pretending to be okay when everything is falling apart. Tired of putting on a brave face when I feel like I'm drowning.
"Fine," I say. "Whatever you want."
The truck slows, and I look up to see a wooden sign: *Promise Ranch*. The lettering is carved deep, weathered by time but still strong. There's something about it that makes my throat tight.
We turn onto a long gravel driveway, and suddenly I can see it—the ranch.
A large main house with a wraparound porch, several smaller cottages scattered around it, barns in the distance, and fields that stretch as far as I can see.
There are horses in one pasture, cattle in another.
It's like something out of those old westerns Dad loved, real and solid and absolutely terrifying.
"That's the main house," Rhett says, pointing. "Your cottage is the one on the far left. It's got the most privacy."
Mine. As if I already belong here. As if this is already home.
We park in front of a small cottage with blue shutters and a tiny porch. It's cute, almost too cute, like something from a fairytale. The kind of place where happy endings happen.
But I don't believe in happy endings anymore.
Rhett kills the engine, and we sit there for a moment in loaded silence. This is it. The point of no return. Once I get out of this truck, once I step into that cottage, I'm committed to this insane plan.
"Look," Rhett says, turning to face me fully for the first time since we left the station.
"I know this is weird. I know you don't know me, and you're probably scared shitless right now.
I get it. But I meant what I said in my messages.
I'm not a bad guy. I won't hurt you. I'm just..
. I'm just someone who got tired of being alone. "
His brown eyes are earnest, almost pleading. And I can see it now, the same desperation I feel reflected back at me. He's just as scared as I am. Just as uncertain. Just as desperate for this to work.
"I'm tired of being alone too," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods slowly. "Then let's see if we can figure this out together. No pressure. No expectations. Just... see where it goes."
"Okay," I say. "We can do that."
I reach for the door handle, but Rhett's voice stops me.
"Claire?"
I turn back to him.
"The scar," he says, and my hand automatically goes to my eyebrow. "It doesn't bother me. I just... I wanted you to know that."
My throat closes up. I've spent years having people look past me because of this scar, employers who wouldn't hire me, men who wouldn't date me. And here's this stranger saying it doesn't bother him, as if it's the easiest thing in the world.
"Okay," I manage to say. "Thanks."
I get out of the truck before I can start crying. The afternoon air is cooler here than it was at the station, carrying the scent of grass and animals and something wild I can't quite name. Rhett comes around with my duffel bag this time, and I let him carry it to the cottage door.
He produces a key and unlocks it, pushing the door open. "After you."
It's small but perfect: a living area with a couch and armchair, a kitchenette with a small table, a bedroom visible through an open door, and what looks like a bathroom beyond that.
Everything is clean and neat, with touches that suggest someone cared about making it welcoming.
There's a basket of snacks on the counter, fresh flowers in a vase on the table, and curtains that filter the sunlight into something soft and golden.
"I had some help getting it ready," Rhett says, sounding almost shy. "Sierra, that's Wade's girlfriend, she put together the snack basket. Said you might be hungry after the trip."
I set my bag down on the couch, trying to process this. He prepared for me. Made sure I'd have what I needed. These aren't the actions of a man who sees me as just some transaction.
"It's perfect," I say honestly. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He shifts his weight, clearly unsure what to do now.
"I'll let you get settled. My cottage is the one next door if you need anything.
Dinner's usually at six in the main house—casual, family style.
You're welcome to join us, or I can bring you something if you're not up for meeting everyone yet. "
The thought of meeting six strangers who think I'm someone I'm not makes my anxiety spike. But hiding in this cottage on my first night feels like giving up before I've even started.
"I'll come to dinner," I hear myself say. "Might as well rip the band-aid off."
Rhett's lips quirk in what might be the start of a smile. "Brave. I like that."
He heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. "Claire? I'm glad you came. I know that probably doesn't mean much right now, but... I'm glad."
He leaves before I can respond, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
I stand in the middle of my new temporary home, surrounded by borrowed furniture and artificial welcome, and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.
This man is a complete stranger. I don't know his favorite color, his childhood dreams, what makes him laugh or what keeps him up at night.
I don't know if he's kind or cruel, patient or quick to anger, someone I could actually build a life with or just another mistake in a long line of them.
But I know he's alone, like me. And I know he prepared this cottage with care, like someone who wanted me to feel safe. And I know that when he said my scar didn't bother him, there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes.
Maybe that's enough to start with.
Maybe.
I unzip my duffel bag and pull out my father's watch, running my thumb over the worn leather strap. "I hope I'm doing the right thing, Dad," I whisper to the empty room. "I hope you'd understand."
The watch doesn't answer, of course. But the afternoon light streaming through the curtains feels warm, and through the window I can see those endless rolling hills, and for the first time in two years, I feel something that might be hope.
It's terrifying.
But I'll take it.