Chapter 5 - Rhett
By nine o'clock, Emma's falling asleep on Tucker's shoulder, and the evening is winding down. People start gathering their things, saying their goodnights, drifting back to their own cottages. I watch it all happen with a strange mix of relief and anxiety churning in my gut.
We made it through dinner. Claire made it through dinner. No one called us out on our bullshit, no one asked questions we couldn't answer. But sitting here next to her on the couch, I can feel the tension radiating off her body. She's been performing for hours, and she must be exhausted.
Hell, I'm exhausted, and I actually know these people.
"I should probably head back," Claire says quietly, setting down her mostly full mug of paint-thinner coffee. "It's been a long day."
"I'll walk you," I offer immediately, then worry that sounds too eager. Too desperate. "I mean, it's dark. And you don't know the ranch layout yet. Easy to trip over something."
"That would be nice," she says, and I can't tell if she actually wants my company or if she's just being polite.
We say our goodnights to everyone still in the living room. Wade and Sierra are cleaning up the kitchen, Mason's already headed out, and Boone gives me a long look that I deliberately ignore. He knows something's off. He always knows.
The night air hits us as we step outside, cold enough to make me wish I'd grabbed a jacket. Claire wraps her arms around herself, and I fight the urge to offer her my shirt. That would be weird. We barely know each other. Even if we're technically planning to get married.
Jesus, this is so fucked up.
We walk in silence toward her cottage, the only sounds the crunch of gravel under our feet and the distant sound of cattle settling for the night. The moon is nearly full, casting everything in silver light. It's beautiful, the kind of night that usually makes me appreciate living here.
Tonight, it just feels heavy with all the things we're not saying.
"Your family is really nice," Claire says finally, breaking the silence. "They made me feel welcome."
"They're good people," I agree. "The best, actually.”
She nods, staring at the ground as we walk. "I kept waiting for someone to ask a question I couldn't answer. To catch me in the lie. It was exhausting."
"I'm sorry." And I am. Sorry for putting her in this position, sorry for not having a better plan, sorry for being the kind of desperate that leads to hiring a mail order bride. "This wasn't fair to you."
"You didn't force me to come here," she says. "I made that choice. I'm just... I'm not good at lying. Never have been."
We reach her cottage, and I stop at the bottom of the porch steps.
This is where I should say goodnight and leave her alone.
Give her space to process everything that happened tonight.
But I don't want to leave. I want to know more about her, want to understand who she really is beyond the few facts I gleaned from her profile and our brief messages.
"Can I ask you something?" I say before I can stop myself.
Claire turns to face me, hugging herself against the cold. "Okay."
"Why did you really say yes? To my proposal, I mean. You could've kept looking, found someone closer to your age. Someone less... damaged." I gesture vaguely at myself, at all my invisible scars.
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face in the moonlight. "You want the honest answer?"
"Always."
"Because you were the only one who messaged me who seemed real," she says.
"Everyone else on that site, they had these polished profiles and perfect photos and messages that sounded like they'd been copied and pasted to twenty different women.
But you..." She pauses, choosing her words with care.
"You seemed like someone who was just as lost as I was.
Just as desperate for something real. And your photos showed the real you…
You looked tired. Lonely. Like you'd given up on finding someone the normal way. "
My throat tightens. "That's exactly what I was."
"I know. I could see it. And I thought... maybe someone who's been through shit would understand that I've been through shit too. Maybe we could figure it out together instead of pretending we're perfect people having a perfect romance."
"There's nothing perfect about me," I say roughly.
"You should know that before we go any further with this.
I have PTSD. Nightmares. Tinnitus that comes and goes.
I'm covered in scars that aren't pretty.
I work too much and feel too little and I'm so fucking bad at talking about emotions that I hired a wife instead of just asking someone on a date like a normal person. "
Claire looks at me steadily. "And I have a dead father, a mother who left when I was a baby, no money, no real job skills, and I'm so desperate for stability that I got on a bus to meet a stranger from the internet. We're both disasters, Rhett. That's kind of the point."
Something about the way she says it, so matter-of-fact, so devoid of self-pity, makes me want to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.
"You want to come in?" she asks, gesturing to the cottage. "I know it's late, but I'm too wired to sleep. And if we're going to make this work, we should probably actually talk to each other. Learn more than just the basic facts."
"You sure?" I ask, even though everything in me wants to say yes. "You must be exhausted."
"I am. But I'm also sitting in a strange place surrounded by people who think they know me, about to marry a man I've spent maybe three hours with total. I think exhaustion is the least of my problems right now."
She has a point.
I follow her into the cottage, and she flips on a lamp that casts warm light over the small living room.
The snack basket Sierra put together is half-empty.
Claire must've eaten some while she was getting ready for dinner.
The thought makes me irrationally happy. At least she wasn't too nervous to eat.
"You want tea or something?" she asks, moving toward the kitchenette. "I saw there's a kettle and some bags in the cabinet."
"Sure. Tea's good."
I settle on the couch while she fills the kettle and sets it to boil.
It's strange, watching her move around the space like she already belongs here.
She's curvy in a way that makes my hands itch to touch her, but more than that, there's something about her presence that feels.
.. right. Like maybe this insane plan isn't completely insane after all.
Or maybe I'm just really good at convincing myself of things I want to believe.
"So," Claire says, bringing over two mugs and sitting in the armchair across from me instead of next to me on the couch. Keeping distance. Smart. "What do you actually want to know about me? And I'll answer honestly if you do the same."
"Deal," I say, wrapping my hands around the mug for warmth. "Okay. Tell me about your father. You said he died two years ago?"
Pain flashes across her face, but she doesn't look away.
"Yeah. Heart attack. Sudden. He was only fifty-three.
One day he was fine, the next day he was gone.
" She takes a sip of tea. "He raised me by himself after my mother left.
Best man I ever knew. He worked construction, did everything he could to give me a good life.
But after he died, I found out he had more debt than I realized.
Medical bills from when I was a kid, credit cards he'd maxed out to keep me fed and clothed.
The bank took the house. I had nothing."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "That's fucking rough."
"Yeah. It was. Still is." She looks down at her mug.
"He used to make me watch old westerns with him.
John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, all those classic films. He'd point at the ranches and say that's what real America looked like.
Wide open spaces where you could breathe.
" She laughs softly. "I always thought he was being dramatic.
But then I got here, and I saw those hills, and I finally understood what he meant. "
"He sounds like a good man."
"He was. The best." She meets my eyes. "What about you? You said Frank took you in when you were sixteen?"
I take a breath, preparing to share things I don't usually talk about. But she was honest with me. I owe her the same.
"I was an orphan," I start. "Shuffled through foster homes from the time I was eight. I was... difficult. Angry. I didn’t trust anyone, didn't want to be part of anyone's family because I knew they'd just give me back eventually.
So, I acted out. Got into fights. Stole shit.
Made it impossible for anyone to want to keep me. "
Claire nods, not judging. Just listening.
"When I was sixteen, I ran away from my latest placement.
It was raining, miserable. I was sitting at a bus stop, drenched and angry and convinced the world was shit.
Then this old pickup truck pulls up, and Frank Delaney gets out.
He didn't ask me a bunch of questions or try to give me some speech about how running away doesn't solve anything.
He just said, 'You look cold. I've got hot food at my ranch if you want some. ' And I was hungry enough to say yes."
"And he kept you?"
"Eventually. I worked at the ranch that summer, met the other guys Frank had taken in.
Wade, Tucker, Mason, Boone, they were all misfits like me.
Frank gave us purpose, taught us what it meant to work hard and be part of something bigger than ourselves.
At the end of summer, when I tried to leave, he asked me to stay.
Said he'd start the adoption paperwork if I wanted.
Said I could be part of a real family." My voice cracks slightly.
"No one had ever wanted to adopt me before. "
"So, you stayed."